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 clicked, the photographer waved his hands and the students flooded down the terrace steps.

Perry King was strutting a bit with his chest out. "Our pictures in the paper. That's class, I'll tell the world. I hope we'll be able to recognize the faces."

Praska was not thinking of photographs. He had come into contact with government in a free country and had found it all that he had dreamed it to be.

He came down to the dining room in the morning to find his father already at breakfast. Mr. Praska was reading a newspaper as he ate; now and then his eyeglasses came up over the top of the page and surveyed his son. There was, about his eyes, a shadow of perplexity and unaccustomed appraisement.

"Were you at the City Hall yesterday, George?"

"Yes, sir; the whole school. I wanted to tell you about it last night, but Mother said you would not be in until late. I guess I was asleep when you got home."

"There's a story in the Herald. Care to see it?"

The boy leaped from his chair. The report of the school's visit was on the first page, coupled with a three column cut of the delegation. He