weak. When he spoke, he hardly knew his own voice. But he struggled to
control it, and said,—

“Scarborough, please go to the board and demonstrate your theorem.”

There was no more disorder in class that day; in fact, after Westby’s
disappearance the boys were exceptionally well behaved. Slowly Irving
recovered his composure, yet the ordeal left him feeling as if he wanted
to shut himself up in his room and lie down. He knew that he had lost
command of his temper; he regretted the manner in which he had stormed
at Westby; but he thought nevertheless that the treatment had been
effective and therefore not entirely to be deplored. The boys had
thought him soft; he had shown them that he was not; and he determined
that from this time forth he would bear down upon them hard. If by
showing them amiability and kindliness he had failed to win their
respect, he would now compel it by ferocity. He would henceforth show no
quarter to any malefactor.

Walking up to his room, he fell in with Barclay, who was also returning
from a class.

“What is the extreme penalty one can inflict on a boy who misbehaves?”
he asked.

“For a single act?” asked Barclay.

“For one that’s a climax of others—insolence, disobedience, disorder—all
heaped into one.”

Irving spoke hotly, and Barclay glanced at him with a sympathetic