seems pretty clear: a chance word, and ungentle touch. Imagination. Home he comes crying. I am sorry, of course, but this thing is routine, routine; simple in the light of modern psychology--

What are they planning to do with him?

Who?

Mr. Gordon!

It was a strained moment before Mr. Kurkey could allow himself to think again. He stood, and she stood. Looks were glass that flashed in the shy sun; breathing was like splinters that stuck under the skin of good manners. Smiling, he screwed his hat in his hands; dry of mouth and dark of heart. She watched him, she felt his alarm, his discomfort; but she did not smile.

Well, Mrs. Beck, well-

What are they thinking of doing? It's my right to know. What, tell me? Needles stung his legs; ice shrank his heart like frozen fire; bewilderment darkened his mind. His eyes swam, his nerves rang. A wind died between them. What are they going to do?

Eternity passed in the time it takes to pat back a wisp of hair-

If she'd only ask me to come in. Mrs. Beck wouldn't he'd better not ask. Unhappiness crowded her house now; there was not any room for a fat man. A song nagged at his nerves. It was not a nice song, he remembered that; but then neither were either of her basilisk marbles, at this moment petrifying his guts to stone. Maybe a polite departure would be better? I am sure we can settle this without further constraint. The glass flared then. Mothers are really a nuisance, though; no tact. Courtesy yawned, and absence glinted hollow in the eye of time.

Mrs. Beck, let me pose you a problem? Here's a boy inclined to dreams, a boy with no father; lonely, living on the verge of his fantasy. He resents other boys with fathers, and builds up a great wall against all normal emotions. I don't mean to disparage the wonderful job you've done, rearing him, Mrs. Beck,

but

But Mrs. Beck was not even listening. She was thinking about the mirror; trying to unravel the tangle of her child's emotions. Mr. Kurkey talked warmly, feeling his advantage: the sun's in her eyes now. Mrs. Beck.

This barrier naturally attracts scorn from the other boys, the young do not understandIn time Joel is isolated, cut off, packaged in a world of his own making. The eternal HERO, himself. The eternal virgin, you, Mrs. Beck. The villian, of course, the father-who-is-not; all trite and triangular; routine; simple as psychology. Now enters. Mr. Gordon.

What about him? What's his due? Will you listen a minute?

He's got no right hitting my Joel.

Mr. Gordon appraises Joel, sees he is lonely, tries to become a brother, a friend; but becomes in actual fact an unwitting FATHER. The last act of all, Joel translates his own inferior feelings into a travesty of blame against Mr. Gordon. His imaginary father, the man he feels most to blame for his sense of loss of identity. But. But, we feel Joel should apologize to Mr. Gordon before the student body, and get back to his classes without further trouble or delay-

At this point Mrs. Beck did a very rude thing: Mrs. Beck said shit. Now, now. I'm sure Joel has told you an approximate story, but surely boys will lie-invent things more in passion than in truth. It is ever so with the young, their incredible minds can fabricate more easily than reason-

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