Page:The spirit of the leader (IA spiritofleader00heyl).pdf/224

 Big Jim bought a copy on the outdoor steps of the school, saw the story, and began to grin. But the grin faded as he read. Back there in the trial room, Praska's denunciation had been momentarily disturbing—that and nothing more. Reading the verdict now in cold type seemed to make it deadly effective. Phrases that had glanced off his callousness began to sear him. He had been able to walk out of the trial room and forget what Praska had said, but this could not be forgotten. Praska's voice had been of the moment; this thing, printed from type, had a solid and enduring quality. It would be read by eight hundred students, to-day, to-morrow, all through the week. A copy of it would be preserved in the bound file in the library.

That day was the most uncomfortable that Big Jim had ever lived. Every time he saw students reading the paper he thought they were reading the verdict in his case. If he saw three or four talking, he was sure they were talking about him,—and in many cases they were. Every eye that met his seemed to reflect the question that Praska had asked: "How could you do it?"

No one flung him a cordial or casual word; some cut him dead; two or three—Hammond, the football captain, among them—parked scathing disapproval into a short sentence.