There was some ground for the general protest that arose from the high school. Ted was a favorite with every one. The crude principal had struck one but he had wounded all. His untactfulness had made him abhorrent to all, even to those who had not hitherto drawn upon themselves his specific disapproval and useless punishments. Mr. Bradley, perhaps, never knew that he had undermined his own usefulness as much by this treatment of a school favorite as by any single deed that transpired during his whole stay in Newcastle. He had his own method of handling the problem of whispering. He made it a rule that every pupil in high school must answer at roll call at the end of the day on the matter of whispering. If a pupil had whispered he must answer “Present,” and specify the number of times during the day he had whispered. If he had a clear record on whispering he was privileged to answer “Perfect.” Now, in fact, the pupils formed cliques and agreements to such an extent that they made almost a complete farce of this attempt at discipline. They lied with the greatest liberty and seemed to feel no restraint from their principal. He appeared not to know that they were guilty of deception and insubordination, and of course he became the butt of ridicule because of these and many other unwise acts. The girls would be found by him crying over the low grades they received. Through their hands they joyously watched him as he marched back to his desk and silently changed the numerals. Occasionally he returned and reported, “After thinking over your work further I have decided to give you a better grade.” He was more than paid for his trouble as the smiles drove back the tears and the eyes of the poor, grieved ones hung for a moment on his. He suffered from note-writing. Jim was a source of anxiety on this score. The unvarying procedure was the following: “Where is the paper you had a moment ago?” “It’s in my desk.” “Is there any writing on it?” “Yes, I think so.” “Hand it to me.” Silence on Jim’s part. “Jim, aren’t you going to give me that note?” “No, sir.” “Jim, you go at once to Mr. Evans’ room,” or, “Take your books and go home.” Not once, nor twice, but scores and scores of times this same routine was followed. Jim never handed him a note in the whole two years. Mr. Bradley never discovered the intense satisfaction that Jim had in drawing attention to himself, in defeating the principal and in thus creating a general sensation. Mr. Bradley’s temper was easily aroused. At first his face would turn white; the pupils quickly noted his pallor and laughed at him; his anger then drove him to a few tears, which one by one trickled down his careworn cheeks. In these moments of ill-temper he was more helpless than ever. He did not attempt to do much teaching for a short period, but marked time until he could recollect himself and get his pedagogical machine back on track again.