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 There was a scraping of chairs as the Congress settled into its seats. Ott, one of the members, a commercial student, took a stenographer's notebook from his pocket, opened it, and held it ready on his knee. Still the same silence that had been with the Congress as it came down the stairs! Praska stood up at his place.

"James Fry," he said, "arise and hear the sentence of the Northfield Congress."

Big Jim remained in his seat.

"Stand!" Praska cried. His lips were set in a thin line. The indignant flame of an outraged loyalty burned in his eyes. He was very stiff, very straight, the very figure of Justice inexorably dealing out its decrees.

Slowly—slowly—Big Jim came to his feet. A force he could not comprehend compelled him to obey. He was witnessing a moral victory, and did not know it.

"James Fry," Praska began, "you have been duly found guilty of the charges brought against you. Judging by the way you have behaved yourself to-day, you are either unaware of the seriousness of what you have done or else you are totally unable to realize the Northfield spirit. In either case you are to be pitied.

"But pity cannot blind us to the fact that conduct such as yours is dangerous. You deserted