A moment of ominous silence followed.  Keith was red up to the roots of his hair.

“Wellander,” the teacher roared.

Keith rose none too quickly from his seat without looking up.

“Pick up that thing,” Lector Booklund shouted at him with the full force of his powerful lungs.  “I don’t want to touch it again.”

Keith remained like a statue, feeling now as if he didn’t have a drop of blood left in his whole body.

“Pick it up, I tell you!”

“No,” Keith retorted in a strangely self-possessed voice, “you had better pick it up yourself.  I didn’t throw it on the floor.”

In another moment the teacher was beside Keith, burying his hand in the boy’s hair.  Then he pulled and shook, shook and pulled, until the hand came away with big tufts of hair showing between the fingers.

Again absolute silence reigned for a moment.

“Ugh,” blew the teacher, his anger changed to a look of embarrassment.  “I am not going to speak another word to you, Wellander, during the rest of the term.  Sit down!”

Instead of sitting down, Keith walked over to the torn copy book, picked it up and turned toward Lector Booklund.

“I am going home,” he announced almost triumphantly.  “You have no right to hit me or pull my hair out by the roots.”

Before the teacher had recovered from his surprise Keith was outside the door and on his way home.

He didn’t know afterwards how he got there, but he could remember saying to himself over and over again: 

“I didn’t cry and I didn’t want to cry!”

XX

He told his mother truthfully what had happened and declared in conclusion that he would never go back to school again.

She was furious with the teacher and thought that on the whole, it would be safer for Keith to stay away during the few weeks remaining of the term.

“That man should be punished,” she cried repeatedly.  “You did just right.”

But the father spoke in another tone when he, in his turn, had heard the tale of that eventful day.

“You will go to school tomorrow as usual,” he said in his sternest voice.  “You had no right to refuse to pick up the book, and you had no right to leave the school without permission.”

“I can’t go back after being treated like that, papa,” Keith remonstrated, trying vainly to make his tone sound firm.

“You will,” the father reiterated, “or I’ll....”

He stopped and thought for a minute.

“Or you’ll begin to learn a trade tomorrow.  Take your choice.”

Father and son looked long at each other.

“Carl ...” the mother began pleadingly.

“Please, Anna,” the father checked her.  “This is too serious.  The boy’s future is at stake.”

Then he turned to Keith and said more kindly:  “I ask you to go for my sake.”