papers escaped and sailed
off the platform, nearly to the front row. Nearly every one in the
room snickered. Frazer flushed. A girl student in the front row
nervously bounded out of her seat, picked up the paper, and handed it
up to Frazer. They both fumbled it, and their heads nearly touched.
Most of the crowd laughed audibly.

Professor Frazer sat down in his low chair, took out his watch with a
twitching hand, and compared his time with the clock at the back of
the room--and so closely were the amateur executioners observing their
victim that every eye went back to the clock as well. Even Carl was
guilty of that imitation. Consequently he saw the editor, standing at
the back, make notes on his copy-paper and smirk like an ill-bred
hound stealing a bone. And the Greek professor stared at Frazer's
gauche movements with a grim smugness that indicated, "Quite the sort
of thing I expected." The Greek's elbows were on the arm of the seat,
and he held up before his breast a small red-leather-covered note-book
which he superciliously tapped with a thin pencil. He was waiting.
Like a judge of the Inquisition....

"Old Greek 's going to take notes and make a report to the faculty
about what Frazer says," reflected Carl. "If I could only get hold of
his notes and destroy them!"

Carl turned again. It was just three. Professor Frazer had risen.
Usually he sat while lecturing. Fifty whispers commented on that fact;
fifty regular members of the course became self-important through
knowing it. Frazer was leaning slightly against the table. It moved an
inch or two with his weight, but by this time every one was too
high-strung to laugh. He was pale. He re-arranged his papers. He had
to clear his throat twice before he could speak, in the now silent,
vulturishly attentive room, smelling of wet second-rate clothes.

The gusty rain could be heard. They all hitched in their seats.

"Oh, Frazer _can't_ be going to retract," groaned Carl; "but he's
scared."

Carl suddenly wished himself away from all this useless conflict; out
tramping the wet roads with the Turk, or slashing through the puddles
at thirty-five miles an hour in the banker's car. He noted stupidly
that Genie Linderbeck's hair was scarcely combed. He found he was
saying, "Frazer 'll flunk, flunk, flunk; he's going to flunk, flunk,
flunk."

Then Frazer spoke. His voice sounded harsh and un-rhythmical, but soon
swung into the natural periods of a public speaker as he