He told them first, as soon as they were quiet in their seats, that there would be no Friday afternoon half-holiday. He said that perfect attendance was expected unless illness prevented it, and that no reward would be given for it. After a full explanation of his reasons he said that afternoon classes would begin in five minutes. The effect was electrical. Sam Poultney, a bully of nineteen, who led the high school boys, sprang to his feet. He was a boy not without ability, a boy of undisciplined will and great physical courage. He faced Mr. Frank now, fearlessly, perhaps sincerely feeling that he defended a real right. “No, they won’t!” he exclaimed. “You made us come to school this afternoon by a dirty trick, and we’re not going to stay. You can’t take our holiday away from us that we earned by being here all week and not tardy once. Come on, all of you!” and he started for the door. Mr. Frank saw a quick and vivid example of the working of mob impulse. As the great, confident leader of the high school boys made for the door, the whole school rose and followed him, until a stream of angry pupils surged toward him as he stood staunchly before the only exit. Just as Sam reached the platform near which he stood, Mr. Frank’s quick wit saved the day. He knew that the action of a mob is largely unconscious and wholly emotional and instinctive, and he appealed to instinct skillfully—the instinct of self-preservation. “Stop! Oh, stop!” he called, his white face set sternly. “Don’t you see what you’re doing?” He looked with wild eyes to the back of the room, as though he saw a fearful spectre there. The crowd of excited pupils, wholly under the control of whatever leader might show himself strongest, followed his eyes, turned around, and looked where he looked. Sam turned with the rest, and in the second of his hesitating inquiry, Mr. Frank gained the upper hand. His voice was raised in authority; his anger—for he was righteously angry—gave a threat to his words that the pupils felt and heeded. “Turn around and go to your seats this instant!” he commanded. “Sam, walk to your seat! Turn around, all of you. If I hear one word—” He stood like an avenging angel, a slight man, facing a mob of angry pupils, and the dignity and confidence of his attitude won the day. Sam started to mutter threats and objections, but stopped when Mr. Frank took one step toward him. Two or three girls began to cry; then first one pupil and then another took his books out slowly. The assistant, a girl fresh from college, stood at one side of the room, bravely stifling a temptation to indulge in hysterics. When he could trust his voice, Mr. Frank said: “The senior English class may pass.” The class passed very meekly into their recitation room, and Miss Spangler closed the door after her as she went in with them. It was a sullen group of boys and girls, however, that stayed with her that afternoon. CONSTRUCTIVE TREATMENT