The Blackboard Jungle: A Novel

by Evan Hunter

Overview

The “shocking” and “suspense-packed” bestseller about one teacher’s stand against student violence, and the basis for the Academy Award–nominated film (The New York Times Book Review).

After serving his country in World War II, Richard Dadier decides to become an English teacher—and for the sin of wanting to make a difference, he’s hired at North Manual Trades High School. A tough vocational school in the East Bronx, Manual Trades is home to angry, unruly teenagers exiled from New York City’s regular public schools. On his first day, Dadier endures relentless mockery and ridicule and makes an enemy of the student body by rescuing a female colleague from a vicious attack.
 
His fellow educators are bitter, disillusioned, and too afraid of their pupils to risk turning their backs on them in the classroom. But Dadier refuses to give up without a fight. Over the course of the semester, he tries again and again to break through the wall of hatred and scorn and win his students’ respect. The more he learns about their difficult circumstances, the more convinced he becomes that a good teacher can make a difference in their lives. His idealism will be put to the ultimate test, however, when a long-simmering power struggle with his most intimidating student explodes into a violent schoolroom showdown.
 
The basis for the blockbuster film starring Glenn Ford and Sidney Poitier, Evan Hunter’s The Blackboard Jungle is a brutal, unflinching look at the dark side of American education and an early masterpiece from the author who went on to write the gritty 87th Precinct series as Ed McBain. Drawn from Hunter’s own experiences as a New York City schoolteacher, it is a “nightmarish but authentic” drama that packs a knockout punch (Time).
 
 

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781504044011
Publisher:	Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
Publication date:	06/13/2017
Edition description:	Reprint
Pages:	358
Sales rank:	498,879
Product dimensions:	5.25(w) x 8.00(h) x (d)
Age Range:	18 Years

About the Author

Evan Hunter (1926–2005) was one of the best-loved mystery novelists of the twentieth century. Born Salvatore Lambino in New York City, he served in the US Navy during World War II and briefly worked as a teacher after graduating from Hunter College. The experience provided the inspiration for his debut novel, The Blackboard Jungle (1954), which was published under his new legal name and adapted into an Academy Award–nominated film starring Glenn Ford and Sidney Poitier. Cop Hater (1956), the first entry in the 87th Precinct series, was written under the pen name Ed McBain. The long-running series, which followed an ensemble cast of police officers in the fictional city of Isola, is widely credited with inventing the police procedural genre. As a screenwriter, Hunter adapted a Daphne du Maurier short story into the screenplay for Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds and turned his own bestselling novel, Strangers When We Meet (1958), into the script for a film starring Kirk Douglas and Kim Novak. His other novels include the New York Times bestseller Mothers and Daughters (1961), Buddwing (1964), Last Summer (1968), and Come Winter (1973). Among his many honors, Hunter was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America and was the first American to receive the Cartier Diamond Dagger award from the Crime Writers Association of Great Britain.
 

Read an Excerpt

Chapter Three Rick was certainly not a goddamned hero at 8:30 on Monday morning when he walked into the auditorium together with the host of other teachers who sallied forth to meet the foe. Nor did he even suspect he would become a hero, if you looked at it from a certain viewpoint, by the end of that day.

He had entered the building at 8:15, punched the time clock with a curious sense of efficiency, and then gathered up his roll book and walked confidently toward the auditorium, smiling at several students he passed in the hallway. His confidence had momentarily wavered when he entered the high-ceilinged, student-filled room and heard what he considered an unruly murmur of many voices. He figured, however, that this was the customary fall exchange of summer experiences between the students, and he imagined the same murmur would be filling the auditoriums of every academic high school in the city on this first day of school.

He had walked to the left side of the large room, and then down the aisle there where the teachers seemed to be congregated up front, near the piano. He had found Josh Edwards sitting up front, his hands clenching and unclenching nervously on his roll book, had exchanged greetings with him, and had nodded pleasantly at the pretty young woman teacher whom Stanley had introduced yesterday, noting with amused satisfaction that she'd exchanged her sheer blouse for a severely tailored beige suit that still did not quite hide the obvious thrust of her breasts.

"When do we start?" Josh wanted to know.

Rick shrugged. Now that the moment was actually here, he felt no real excitement.

"Look, there's somebody now," Josh said.

Somebody, or something, had indeed climbed the steps to the stage and was now fiddling with the adjustment of the microphone there. Each time the Somebody twisted the adjustment, the microphone squeaked. And each time the microphone squeaked, Rick winced.

He studied the Somebody with interest. The Somebody was very tall. He owned a thatch of unruly hair that sprang up from his forehead like crab grass. His brows were thick patches of chickweed. His mouth was a ripe slice of watermelon, and his nose could have been a banana, though Rick shied away from the obvious metaphor.

Mr. How-You-Gonna-Keep-Them-Down-on-the-Farm, Rick labeled him. He watched the man as his long, disjointed arms struggled with the intricate mechanism of the microphone. The man thrust his long jaw closer to the head of the mike and then said, "All right, testing, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four."

A boy at the back of the auditorium shouted, "Five by five, Mr. Halloran," and this started a series of shouts, cries, laughter, and catcalls which Rick felt would soon get out of hand unless somebody took control of the situation.

Somebody did. It was Somebody himself who did. Somebody, or Mr. Halloran to be exact, picked up the mike in his beefy red hands and shouted, "shaddup!"

Rick himself was startled by the outburst, so it did not surprise him that the gathered students immediately quieted down.

"All right," Mr. Halloran said in a normal, gravelly, chipped-rock, wood-splinter voice. "All right, now dat's the end of any nonsense like dat anymore, you follow? Just can it 'cause we're here on business."

"Who is that?" Josh whispered behind his hand.

"Superintendent of Schools," Rick said, smiling.

"No," Josh said, "I think he teaches public speaking here."

"By dis time, you've all said hello to ever'body else, so le's calm down and get on wid the business before us," Halloran said. "We're here to get dis business over wit, and not t'dally aroun' all day, so le's get on wit it, and dat way get over wit it."

The students were very quiet now, and Rick wondered what power Halloran wielded over them.

"Dere'll be a assembly in the middle of da week for de extreme purpose of meetin' the new princ'pul, Mr. Small, so we'll dispense wit any conjecture as to wedder he'll be here now or not. He won't, and dat's dat, so put it out of yer minds. We're here for just two tings. The first ting is to wish you all a good welcome back to Manyul Trades..."

And here all the students groaned audibly.

"...and so I'm doin' dat right now. Welcome back, and I hope dis'll be one of de best terms we've ever had. So much for dat. Dat's over and done wit, and now we come to de second point as to why we're here t'day, and that's to start the school term. So, witout any further ado, le's start the school term. We will start it by havin' all the teachers call the rolls for dere official classes. When your name is called, you fall out in de center aisle wit the rest of the boys in your class, and your teacher will den lead you up to your official room. We don' want any monkey business now because we want to get dis term under way as soon as possible. And I can guarantee I know how to take care of any you guys who feel like a little monkey business, I'm sure you all know dat."

The students laughed at this, and Rick continued to stare at Halloran, wondering if his speech pattern was simply affected in order to establish rapport with the boys.

"We'll start wit de seniors," Halloran said, " 'cause the seniors got priority, and den we'll work our way down to de freshmen. Any complaints you should register wit your official teacher after you're up in your official room, so don't start talkin' it up now, we got business t'attend to. We'll start wit a teacher you all know well, and dat's Mr. Clancy from Carpentry and Woodworking. The floor is yours, Mr. Clancy."

Rick watched the red-thatched, rotund Mr. Clancy mount the steps to the stage, and he heard whisperings in the audience which he could only interpret as "Ironman Clancy." Then Clancy's voice, in comparatively brilliant English diction, rolled forth over the assembled throng, and the seniors he called began filing into the aisle, slapping each other on the back occasionally, clasping hands, all friendly classmate gestures. And then Clancy's voice ended as abruptly as it had begun, and he stepped down off the stage and walked back to join his class who immediately calmed down as he approached.

Halloran was back at the mike, and he shouted, "Shaddup, shaddup," and the students who had deigned to open their mouths quickly closed them. "De nex' teacher is a new one in d'school, and she'll be takin' care of the other senior boys. Miss Hammond, please."

Perhaps Halloran's choice of language was unintentional, or perhaps it was part of his pitch to the boys, the we're-all-brothers-under-the-skin pitch, and I-know-your-problems-well, fellows. Rick had to admit, however, that his choice had been an unfortunate one. For after having introduced the woman who would "be takin' care of the other senior boys," Halloran stepped back and the new English teacher started mounting the steps to the stage. Her skirt, even though it belonged to the severely-tailored suit, was straight and perhaps too tight. At any rate, it rode up over her calves and the flawlessly straight seams of her stockings as she climbed the steps, and a loud wolf call whistle arose from several thousand throats simultaneously.

She was a pretty woman, and Halloran's injudicious choice of words had put an anticipatory flush of excitement on her pale complexion. To make matters worse, she dropped her roll book, started to stoop down for it, and then seemingly realized what such a stoop might do to the riding-up-over-nylon-knees quality of her skirt. She pulled back her hand, looked to Halloran imploringly, and then was forced to stand by in embarrassment while Halloran retrieved the errant roll book for her.

Halloran grandstanded it all the way. He handed her the book, bowed from the waist, and then grinned out at the boys, who whistled and cheered in appreciation of Halloran's chivalry, and who were all too aware of Miss Hammond's reasons for not wanting to stoop down for the book.

Miss Hammond suddenly seemed to regain the composure she had all but lost. Like a follies queen whose breasts have been insulted by a drunken third-row heckler, she threw her shoulders back defiantly, tossed her black hair impatiently, and strode purposefully to the microphone.

She opened her roll book, and the kids packing the auditorium were dead silent as she prepared to speak. She opened her mouth, and her voice caught in her throat, and she succeeded in getting out only a mouselike squeak which positively convulsed the kids. Hell, this was better than Martin and Lewis. This was one of the best goddamn first-days-of-school ever.

Rick thought back to what Stanley had said about there being no discipline problem at Manual Trades. Perhaps this was so. And perhaps it was so because the people who were supposed to be looking for problems were casually ignoring them. When Miss Hammond, completely rattled now, the composure she had regained all gone again, hardly able to control her tongue, finally blurted the name of the first boy in her class, a cheer of congratulation went up from the assembled kids.

The senior who'd been called leaped into the aisle and shouted, "Lucky old me!" and this caused a fresh outburst of laughter. Man, this was terrific. This was grand! Let's just sit here all day and have laughs at this piecy new English twat.

Rick writhed in his seat, wondering when Halloran was going to step in and take over the ball again. He didn't have to wonder long.

A prolonged "SHADDDDUPPP!" burst from Halloran's watermelon lips, and the kids heard the rumble of impending doom and promptly shut up like obedient little clams. Halloran kept his lips pressed firmly together, casting an evil eye out over the crowd. He nodded his head once in emphasis, a nod which plainly told the muted kids they'd better keep shut up or it would be their asses. Miss Hammond smiled tremulously, and then began calling the roll in a very quiet voice while the kids listened in cowed respect.

When she'd called the two dozen or so seniors in her class, she stepped down from the stage, and every eye in the auditorium was on the nylon sleekness of her legs. She walked back to her class stiffly, trying to hide a walk that was very feminine, but succeeding only in emphasizing the emphatic swing of her well-padded hips. When she'd finally left the auditorium with her class, Rick breathed a sigh of relief, and he nodded his head in disgusted agreement when Josh said, "That was an exhibition, wasn't it?"

The party was over now, and the kids all settled down to listen to the droning voices of the less inspiring teachers as the rolls were called one after the other. Rick chatted quietly with Josh until it was Josh's turn to call up his class, a fourth-term group. When Josh had left, Rick sat impatiently in his seat, almost dozing. When he heard Halloran call out his name, mutilating it as only Halloran could, he picked up his roll book and his briefcase, walked quickly to the steps, and mounted them with his shoulders back and his head high. He paused dramatically for a moment, and then began calling the roll in his best Sir Laurence Olivier voice.

"Abrahms," and he saw movement out there in the seats, but he did not pause to focus the movement.

"Arretti," and another blur of movement.

"Bonneli," and "Casey," and "Diaz," and "Di Zeffolo," and "Donato," and "Dover," and "Estes," and on, and on, and on, until he flipped over the last card in the book. There had not been a murmur while he spoke, and he was satisfied that he had been accorded the respect due an English high-school teacher. He slapped the roll book shut, and walked down the steps and then into the center aisle, conscious of the curious eyes of the kids upon him.

When he reached his official class the same curiosity was reflected in their eyes.

"Follow me," he said, unsmiling. "No talking on the way up."

That, he figured, was the correct approach. Let them know who's boss right from the start, just the way Small had advised.

"Hey, teach," one of the boys said, "what did Mr. Halloran say your name was?"

Rick turned his head sharply. The boy who'd spoken was blond, and there was a vacuous smile on his face, and the smile did not quite reach his eyes.

"I said no talking, and I meant it," Rick snapped.

The boy was silent for a second, and then Rick heard him say, "Dig this cat. He's playin' it hard."

He chose to ignore the comment. He walked along ahead of his class, feeling excitement within him now, feeling the same excitement he'd felt when he got the job, only greater now, stronger, like the times at school when he'd waited in the wings for his cue. Like that, only without the curious butterflies in his stomach, and without the unconscious dread that he would forget all his lines the moment he stepped out onto the stage in front of all those people. He felt in complete control of the situation, and yet there was this raging excitement within him, as if there was something he had to do and he simply could not wait to get it done.

He could best compare it to the excitement he had felt a long, long while ago, when he'd first entered Hunter College and had planned the seduction of Fran Oresschi. Exactly like that night, that payoff night, when he would find out if his plans would succeed or not. Just like that, only without any of the slyness or the feeling of conspiracy.

He led the class to the stairwell, and aside from a few whispers here and there, they were very orderly, and he felt that everything was going well. He could hardly contain the excitement within him, and he wished that Anne were there to share it with him. And thinking of Anne, he thought of telling her about this, his first day, when he got home that night, and this made the excitement inside him flame.

When they reached the door to Room 206, he inserted the key expertly, twisted it, removed it, and then pushed the door back.

"Sit anywhere," he said brusquely. "We'll arrange seating later."

The boys filed in, still curious, still wondering what sort of a duck this new bird with the Butch haircut was. They seated themselves quickly and quietly, and Rick thought, This is going even better than I expected.

He walked rapidly to his desk, pulled out his chair, but did not sit. He looked out over the faces in the seats before him, and then sniffed the air authoritatively, like a blood hound after a quarry. He cocked one eyebrow and glanced at the windows. Then he turned and pointed to a Negro boy sitting up front near his desk.

"What's your name?" he asked.

The boy looked frightened, as if he had been accused of something he hadn't done. "Me?"

"Yes, what's your name?"

"Dover. I didn't do nothin', teach. Jeez..."

"Open some of the windows in here, Dover. It's a little stuffy."

Dover smiled, his lips pulling back over bright white teeth. He got up from his seat and crossed behind Rick's desk, and Rick congratulated himself on having handled that perfectly. He had not simply given an order which would have resulted in a mad scramble to the windows. He had first chosen one of the boys, and then given the order. All according to the book. All fine and dandy. Damn, if things weren't going fine.

He turned and walked to the blackboard, located a piece of chalk on the runner, and wrote his name in big letters on the black surface.

MR. DADIER.

"That's my name," he said. "In case you missed it in the auditorium." He paused. "Mr. Dad-ee-yay," he pronounced clearly.

"Is that French, teach?" one of the boys asked.

"Yes," Rick said. "When you have anything to say, raise your hand. We might as well get a few things straight right this minute. First, I want you to fill out Delaney cards. While you're doing that, I'll tell you what it's going to be like in my classroom." He swung his briefcase up onto the desk top, reaching inside for the stack of Delaney cards. He took them to the head of each row, giving a small bunch of the cards to the first boy in each row, and asking him to take one and pass the rest back.

"The official class is 27," he said, and then he walked to the blackboard and wrote "27" under his name. "Please fill the cards out in ink."

"I ain't got a pen," Dover said.

"Then use pencil."

"I ain't got a pencil, either."

"I have some," Rick said coldly. He walked back to his briefcase again, silently congratulating himself upon remembering to think of an emergency like this one. He pulled out eight sharpened pencils, handed one to Dover, and then asked, "Does anyone else need something to write with?"

A husky boy sitting near the back of the room said, "I do, teach."

"Let's knock off this 'teach' business right now," Rick said angrily, his sudden fury surprising the class. "My name is Mr. Dadier. You'll call me that, or you'll learn what extra homework is."

"Sure, Mr. Dadier," the boy at the back of the room said.

"Come get your pencil."

The boy rose nonchalantly. He was older than the other boys, and Rick spotted him immediately as a left-backer, a troublemaker, the kind Small had warned against. The boy wore a white tee shirt and tight dungaree trousers. He kept his hands in his back hip pockets, and he strode to the front of the room, taking the pencil gingerly from Rick's hand.

"Thanks, teach," he said, smiling.

"What's your name?" Rick asked.

"Sullivan," the boy said, smiling. His hair was red, and a spatter of freckles crossed the bridge of his nose. He had a pleasant smile, and pleasant green eyes.

"How would you like to visit me after school is out today, Sullivan?"

"I wouldn't," the boy answered, still smiling.

"Then learn how to use my name."

"Sure," Sullivan said.

He smiled again, a broad insolent smile, and then turned his back on Rick, walking lazily to his seat at the rear of the room.

"I want those pencils returned," Rick said gruffly, feeling he had lost some ground in the encounter with Sullivan. "Fill out the cards as quickly as you can."

He cleared his throat and walked over to one of the boys, looking over the boy's shoulder to see that he was filling the card out properly, and then turning away from him.

"To begin with, as I've already told you, there'll be none of this 'teach' stuff in my classroom. I'll call you by your names, and you'll call me by mine. Common courtesy." He paused to let the point sink in, remembering Bob Canning, who'd graduated from Hunter the semester before him, and who'd taught in a vocational school, only to leave the job after five months. Bob had allowed the boys to call him "Bob," a real nice friendly gesture. The boys had all just loved good old "Bob." The boys loved good old "Bob" so much that they waited for him on his way to the subway one night, and rolled him and stabbed him down the length of his left arm. Good old bleeding "Bob." Rick would not make the same mistake.

"I've also told you that there will be no calling out. If you have anything to say, you raise your hand. You will not speak until I call on you. Is that clear?"

The boys made no comment, and Rick took their silence for understanding. All of their heads were bent now as they busily filled out the Delaney cards.

"We'll be together in this room every day from 8:30 to 8:45. Then, as you probably know, you'll come back to this room during the second period for English, which I will teach."

The boys' heads bobbed up, and he read the puzzled looks in their eyes and realized he had not yet given them their programs. They did not know he would be teaching them English, and he had broken the news to them in perhaps the worst possible way.

In defense, he smiled graciously. "Yes," he said. "I'll be your English teacher, and I'm sure we'll get along fine." He paused. "I'll give you your programs now," he said, "while you're filling out the Delaney cards. I might add you've got a very good program this term." He had barely glanced at the individual programs, which were carbon copies of each other since the boys were second-termers who still traveled in a group during their exploratory adventures, and he truthfully didn't know if it was good, bad, or indifferent. But he felt it sounded fatherly for him to say the boys had a good program. He got the program cards from his briefcase and rapidly distributed them, calling the boys' names and taking the cards to their desks while they worked.

"You all know the rules about lateness," he said. "I won't tolerate lateness. If you come in one second after the late gong sounds, you go right down to the General Office for a late pass. And I won't listen to sob stories about absences. You can tell those to the General Office, too."

He glanced out at the class, whose interest was alternating between the Delaney and program cards. "You can look over the programs later," he said. "Let's finish the Delaney cards."

He paused and said, "When you come into this room, you put your coats, jackets, hats, or whatever you were wearing outside into the coat closet at the back of the room. I don't want anyone sitting in this room with a coat or jacket on. I don't want pneumonia in my class."

"Hey, what's our official class?" one boy asked.

"Twenty-seven," Rick said, "and no calling out." He turned his back to the boys and chalked the numerals 27 on the board again, remembering the vocational school adage which frankly warned, "Never turn your back on a class." But he obviously had the situation well under control, and he saw no reason for demonstrating distrust at this early stage of the game. He put the chalk back on the runner and said, "Dover, you will be in charge of seeing that the windows are adjusted every morning when you come in."

"Yes, sir," Dover said respectfully, and Rick was a little surprised, but immensely pleased. He remembered something he'd been told back in one of his education classes, something about giving the difficult boys in the class things to do, like raising windows and cleaning blackboards and erasers, or running errands. Dover did not seem to be a difficult boy, and perhaps he'd been wrong in giving him the window assignment. He remembered then that someone had to bring down the list of absentees each morning, and he decided Sullivan, his good friend in the rear of the room, was the ideal man for the job.

"And you, Sullivan," he said, looking directly at the boy, "will take down the roll book each morning."

"Sure," Sullivan said, smiling as if he'd won a major victory.

Sullivan's attitude puzzled Rick, but he decided not to let it bother him. He picked a blond boy in the third row and said, "Will you collect the Delaney cards, please?"

"Sure, teach," the boy said, and Rick realized he'd made a mistake. He should have had them pass the cards down to the first seat in each row, and then have the boy in the first row go across taking the cards from each row. Well, it was too late to correct that now. The blond boy was already making the rounds, picking up the cards dutifully.

"What's your name?" Rick asked him.

"Me?"

The answer irritated him a little, but that was because he did not yet know "Me?" was a standard answer at Manual Trades High School, where a boy always presupposed his own guilt even if he were completely innocent of any misdemeanor.

"Yes," Rick said. "You."

"Foster, teach."

"Mr. Dadier," Rick corrected.

"Oh, yeah. Sure."

"Hurry up with those cards, Foster."

"Sure, teach."

Rick stared at the boy incredulously. "I don't want to have to mention this again," he said. "The next boy who calls me 'teach' will find himself sitting here until four o'clock this afternoon. Now remember that."

The boys stared at him solemnly, a wall of hostility suddenly erected between Rick's desk and their seats. He sensed the wall, and he wished he could say something that would cause it to crumble immediately. But he would not back down on this "teach" informality, and so he stayed behind his side of the wall and stared back at the boys sternly.

The door opened suddenly, and a thin boy with brown hair matted against his forehead poked his head into the room.

"Mr. Dadier?" he asked.

"Yes?"

The boy moved his body into the room, walked briskly to Rick's desk, and handed him a mimeographed sheet of paper. "Notice from the office," the boy said.

"Thank you."

"Y'welcome," he answered, turning and heading for the door instantly. Rick was impressed with the boy's efficiency and apparent good manners. The boy walked to the open door, stepped out into the hallway, and then thrust his head back into the room. He grinned and addressed one of the boys near the front of the room.

"Hey, Charlie, how you like Mr. Daddy-oh?"

He slammed the door quickly, and was gone before Rick had fully reacted to what he'd said. Someone near the back of the room murmured, "Daddy-oh, oh Daddy-oh," and Rick turned toward the class hotly.

"That's enough of that!" he bellowed.

The boys' faces went blank. He looked at them sternly for another moment, and then turned his attention to the notice from the office.

It told him that the roll-calling had been accomplished much faster than they had expected, and that a gong would sound at ten-thirty summoning the start of the third period, rather than the fourth as anticipated. It advised him to instruct his class that they should proceed immediately to their third-period class, ignoring any instructions they may previously have received concerning the fourth period.

Luckily, Rick had not given any instructions concerning departmental as yet. He was aware of the sudden attentiveness in the classroom, and he realized the boys wanted to know what was in the notice from the office. He glanced at his wrist watch. It was ten-fifteen.

"A gong will sound in fifteen minutes," he said. "The gong will announce the start of the third period. When the gong sounds, you will leave this room and go directly to your third-period class, is that clear?"

The boys began talking it up, looking at the programs on their desks, which told them their third-period class was Civics.

A boy in the fourth row raised his hand.

"Yes?" Rick asked.

"Does that mean we won't have you for English today, Mr. Dadier?" he asked.

"Yes, that's what it means. You go directly to Civics when you leave here," Rick said, consulting his copy of the boys' program. He smiled, pleased because the boy had used his name and raised his hand. "Say," he said conversationally, "we'd better hurry if we want to get seated before it's time to go."

He opened his Delaney book, and then his roll book, and he began calling the boys' names alphabetically, seating them one behind the other. Several boys complained when they were separated from lifelong buddies, but he ignored the complaints and went on with his seating plan. Belatedly, he realized it would have been simpler to have the boys hold their Delaney cards until they were seated properly. Then he'd just collect them by rows, ready to slip into the Delaney book. This way, he had to alphabetize the Delaney cards, jotting down the name of the first boy in each row, and arranging the cards in the book on his own time later. Well, he would not make that mistake again.

He gave the boys an opportunity to discuss the program among themselves while he started to alphabetize the cards. He had alphabetized all of them and was beginning to put them into the Delaney book when the gong sounded. He rose swiftly.

"You go to your third-period class now," he said. "Remember that. Civics, Room 411." He paused and added, "Be sure to have all your subject teachers sign your program cards." He smiled. "I'll see you all tomorrow morning."

Some of the boys had already filed out into the corridor and were lingering outside near the open door. Rick heard someone shout, "Not if we see you first, Daddy-oh!" but when he turned to the door, the boys were gone. He let out a deep breath as the remaining boys filed out of the room, and then he consulted his own program.

Hall Patrol.

Quickly, he began packing his stuff in his briefcase. He had been a little Caesar, true, right from go, and in the best possible little Caesar manner. He had done it purposely, though, because the first day was the all-important day. If you started with a mailed fist, you could later open that fist to reveal a velvet palm. If you let them step all over you at the beginning, there was no gaining control later. So, whereas being a little Caesar was contrary to his usual somewhat easy-going manner, he recognized it as a necessity, and he felt no guilt. As Small had advised, he was showing the boys who was boss. He finished packing, locked the door, and then started for the General Office, where Stanley had said a Hall Patrol schedule would be posted.

He fought through the swarm of students in the hallway, abruptly remembering that Dover and Sullivan had not returned the pencils he'd loaned them. He cursed his own inefficiency, making his way toward the stairwell. He thought he heard several shouts of "Daddy-oh!" in the thronged hallway, but he could not be certain. When he found the Down staircase, he walked quickly to the main floor corridor, and then to the General Office. The schedule was posted near the time clock, and he studied it carefully, located the position of his Hall Patrol on the diagram beneath the schedule, and then started for his post.

The General Office was located approximately in the middle of the long side of the L of the building. He walked toward the intersecting short side of the L, turned right, and then headed for the end of the corridor. His Hall Patrol post was directly opposite the entrance doors there.

Two boys stood flanking the wide entrance doorways, and the yellow armbands on their biceps told Rick they were monitors. He walked directly to them and said pleasantly, "Hello, boys. My name is Mr. Dadier. We'll be working together on this post during the third period every day."

The two boys nodded obediently, and Rick knew he'd have no trouble with them. Monitors were selected from the cream, such as it was, of the school.

One of the boys, a fat kid with streaked dungarees and a striped tee shirt, kept staring at Rick, as if he were expecting further instructions. Rick said, "Would you get a chair for me in one of these rooms, please? Tell the teacher it's for Mr. Dadier."

"Sure," the fat boy said pleasantly.

Rick watched the boy go down the corridor, and then he turned his attention to the doors. There were four of them set side by side. On the other side of the doors a flight of marble steps led to the outside doors of the building. He looked through the glass panels on the inside doors, nodded his head briefly, and then said to the second monitor, a tall boy who stood with his hands behind his back, "You haven't been letting anyone in or out of these doors, have you?"

"No, sir," the boy said.

"Good. And no one is allowed in the corridor without a room pass."

"I know," the boy said.

"Good," Rick said again. He clapped the boy on the shoulder, the way a commanding officer will do to a particularly obedient enlisted man, and then he looked down the corridor to see if the fat boy was returning with his chair. The boy was not in sight. He bit his lip and then studied his end of the corridor, noticing the toilet there for the first time. He walked to the battered wooden door, read the gold-lettered students' lavatory, and then pulled the door open.

"Chiggee," someone shouted, and Rick heard the instant flush of a toilet. The room was smoke-filled, and his entrance started a mad scramble among the ten or twelve boys who'd been standing around smoking.

"All right," Rick bellowed, "let's just hold it!"

The kids stopped dead in their tracks, dropping their cigarettes and stepping on them. One made a rush for the door, but Rick blocked the boy and shoved him back into the white-tiled room.

"What's going on here?" he roared, squinting through the smoke. "What is this, the Officers' Club?"

One of the boys snickered, and Rick cut him short with a dead cold stare.

"Now clear out of here," he shouted. "I'm letting you all go this time, but if I catch anyone else smoking or loitering here, your name goes to the principal. Now just remember that."

The boys, thankful to be let off the hook so easily, filed out of the room swiftly. Rick watched them go, and then turned to face two boys who lounged near the sinks by the windows.

"What's the matter with you two?" he asked.

One of the boys was a husky Negro with an engaging grin. He had a wide nose, and thin lips, and clear, large brown eyes. He wore a white tee shirt and tight dungarees, and the rich brown of his skin glistened against the white of his shirt.

"We ony just got here, Chief," he said.

"Well, you can only just get right out of here," Rick mimicked.

The boy with the Negro was obviously Puerto Rican. He grinned and a gold-capped tooth in the front of his mouth gleamed.

"Sure," he said, "we jus' get here, Chief."

"Look," Rick told them, "I don't want a debate. Let's clear out."

The Negro boy continued to grin engagingly, continued to lean against the sink. "Can' a man take a leak, Chief?"

"Take it and get out," Rick said.

"Sure, Chief," the Negro boy answered, still grinning pleasantly. "You goan to watch me leak, man?"

"Listen," Rick said, "I don't go for wise guys. If you came here for trouble, you'll get it. If you came to urinate, do it fast and then get out."

"He come to ur-ee-nate," the Puerto Rican said, smiling.

Rick turned on the thin Puerto Rican. "What's your name?" he asked.

The boy blanched. His eyes got suddenly frightened, and he said, "Me?"

"Yes you. What's your name?"

"Emmanuel," he said.

"Emmanuel what?"

"Emmanuel Trades," the Negro boy said. "Man, don'choo know? This boy yere, he got the school named after him." Again he grinned engagingly, and Rick turned on him furiously.

"What's your name, wise guy?"

The boy lifted one eyebrow, and he continued to slouch against the sink. "Gregory," he said, defiantly. "Gregory Miller."

"I'll remember that name," Rick said.

"Sure, Chief. You do that."

"Or maybe you'd like to take a walk to the principal's office right this minute? Maybe you'd like that?"

Miller shrugged, and then smiled, showing those brilliant white teeth. He was a good-looking boy, with the build of a weight lifter and an easy, nonchalant charm. "You holin' all the cards, Chief," he said. "You wanna take me t'see Mistuh Small, that's your choice."

Rick reconsidered. Hell, there was no sense getting a boy into trouble on the first day of school. "Well," he said slowly, "I'll let it pass this time. Just get back to your classroom."

"This's my lunch hour, Chief," Miller said.

"Knock off that 'Chief' routine," Rick said. "If it's your lunch hour, what are you doing in the building?"

"Had to take a leak, man, like I tole you."

"Well then take it."

"Sure, Chief. Thass what I been dyin' to do all this time now."

Miller stepped over to one of the urinals, and the Puerto Rican boy followed him like a shadow. Rick turned away while they urinated, and then Miller, buttoning his fly, said, "Okay for us to drift now, Chief?"

"If you're on your lunch hour, you're supposed to leave the building by the exit near the auditorium. Isn't that right?"

"Yessir."

"Then head down that way. And don't let me catch you in this toilet again."

Miller smiled. "Suppose I got to crap, man?"

"That's different," Rick said instantly.

"I figured," Miller answered, smiling.

"All right, take off."

"Sure thing," Miller said. He walked to the door with the Puerto Rican behind him, and Rick followed them both into the corridor. He watched them walk slowly and naturally down the corridor, and then turn left into the long side of the L. When they were out of sight, he turned to find the fat boy with his chair.

He took the chair, placed it against the wall, and said, "Thanks a lot." The fat boy nodded, and then took his place on one side of the doors. Rick sat, unzipped his briefcase, and took out the Delaney book, hoping to arrange the cards in it for his official class. He was reaching for the Delaney cards when the outside doors were thrown open, and he heard several voices floating up the marble steps and approaching the inside doors. He got to his feet as three boys came through the inside doors, still talking and laughing. They spotted Rick and stopped, seemingly deciding whether to stick it out or run back toward the outside doors again.

"What's this?" Rick asked sternly.

The boy standing in the center of the trio, obviously the leader and spokesman of the group, opened his eyes innocently and asked, "What's what, teach?"

"Where are you boys coming from?"

"Outside, teach."

"You're not supposed to enter the building through this entrance," Rick said sternly.

"Oh no?" the boy asked, surprised.

"No," Rick said.

"We was just havin' lunch," the boy answered.

"Well clear out and go around to the auditorium entrance, the way you're supposed to."

"Sure, teach," the boy said. He smiled and made a slight movement with his head, which the other boys instantly obeyed. Together, the three went down the marble steps and out of the building.

"How'd they get in?" Rick asked the fat monitor.

"Through the doors, I guess," the boy answered.

"I know, but aren't the doors locked?"

"Gee, I guess not."

"Go down and lock them, would you? Just pull them tight against the door jamb."

The fat boy hesitated. Then he said, "I can't, Mr. Dadier. The locks are busted."

"What do you mean busted?"

"On all of the doors. That's how the kids get in."

"How long have they been broken?" Rick asked.

"Long as I can remember," the fat boy answered.

"Mmm," Rick said, making a mental note to tell the custodian about the broken locks. "We'll just have to be careful then, that's all."

"Yes, sir."

Rick sat down again and began slipping the Delaney cards into their slots in the Delaney book. Two boys sauntered down the corridor, passed him quietly, and went into the toilet. When he finished inserting the cards into the book, he sat back and relaxed, and then realized the boys had still not come out of the toilet. He rose and walked to the wooden door, pulling it open.

The two boys, as he'd suspected, were standing near the windows, smoking. He bawled them out heartily, sent them back to their classroom, and then went out into the corridor again. He was seated for about thirty seconds, when the outside doors flew open and a swarm of kids started up the marble steps. He dispatched them quickly, sat down for a full minute, and then rose again when a new gang started up the steps. By the time he'd sent them around to the auditorium entrance, the toilet had gathered five loiterers and smokers, and Rick flushed them out angrily, giving them all warnings. He didn't get a chance to sit down again because the third period was almost over, and the outside doors were opening and closing with rapid regularity now as the kids began returning in force to the building.

When the bell announcing the end of the period finally rang, Rick was exhausted. He promised himself he'd have to figure out a way to cope with those broken locks. Perhaps post one of the monitors outside the building to steer away any kids who tried to use those doors. He'd also have to do something about the smoking in that toilet. Maybe he'd ask some of the other teachers. He reached into his briefcase and consulted the program he'd Scotch-taped to the inside of his small black notebook.

Fourth period: LUNCH.

Allah be praised.

Of course, he had still not become a hero. Dashing into the toilet to put an end to the tobacco habit was not exactly an occupation of heroic proportions, even though it was fatiguing disciplinary work. Nor was charging up and down marble steps, even if he had done it on a splendid white stallion, a task that was heroic in its nature. He had simply behaved in a normal vocational schoolteacher manner, attending to the little tiresome details that sent vocational schoolteachers babbling incoherently to the nearest booby hatch. But he had done nothing heroic, and he was still not looking for trouble, and he was still resolved not to be a "goddamned hero."

As he walked up to the third floor, having lingered a while to avoid the student rush, he congratulated himself upon what he considered almost perfect behavior thus far. He had made a few mistakes, true, but on the whole he had done well. He had shown a tough exterior to the kids, and whereas tough teachers were not always loved, they were always respected. He was not particularly interested in being loved. Mr. Chips was a nice enough old man, but Rick was not ready to say good-by yet. He was interested in doing his job, and that job was teaching. In a vocational school you had to be tough in order to teach. You had to be tough, or you never got the chance to teach. It was like administering a shot of penicillin to a squirming, protesting three-year-old. The three-year-old didn't know the penicillin was good for him. The doctor simply had to ignore the squirming and the protesting and jab the needle directly into the quivering buttocks.

It was the same thing here. These kids didn't know education was good for them. There would be squirming and protesting, but if the teacher ignored all that and shot the needle of education directly into all those adolescent behinds, things would turn out all right.

To do that, you had to present a tough exterior, no matter how you felt inside. There was the danger of becoming so goddamned tough, of course, that you forgot you were also supposed to be a teacher. Rick would never carry it quite that far. He intended to lay down the law, and then to relax, never letting discipline establish itself as a problem. Once discipline became a habit, there would be time for joking, time for a few laughs while he injected the educational needle. But not until discipline was an ingrained response.

Stanley had explained how the teacher's lunchroom could be reached. You could go directly to a deserted staircase on the main floor, and take that up four flights. Or you could go to the gymnasium on the third floor, cut across and through that, and then climb one flight of steps to the lunchroom. Since Rick had not yet seen the gym, he chose the latter approach.

The gym was situated on the short side of the L, directly at the end of the corridor. Twin wooden doors were set side by side, and the inevitable gold lettering announced that they opened onto the GYMNASIUM.

Rick opened one of the doors and stepped into the high-ceilinged, wire-mesh-windowed room. The floor was highly polished, and Rick noticed that all the boys lined up before the teacher's platform were in their stocking feet. He imagined this was the teacher's method of preserving his polished floor on this first day of school when the boys would not be carrying sneakers. The teacher was a tall red-headed man with muscles bulging under and around his white tee shirt. A whistle hung from a lanyard around his neck, and he stood on the platform with his hands on his hips, talking out over the heads of the lined-up boys.

Rick crossed the gym, his shoes clicking noisily on the polished wood floor. He passed between the teacher's platform and the boys, smiling up at the teacher, who waved slightly and went on laying down the law to the kids. When he reached the door at the opposite end of the gym, he opened it and stepped onto a landing. He closed the door on the hollow, echoing voice of the gym teacher, and then started up the steps to the lunchroom.

He had formed no preconceived notion of what the teachers' lunchroom would be like, so he had no reason to be surprised by what he found. He was, nonetheless, surprised. The lunchroom consisted of two rooms, actually. At the top of the steps there was an open doorway, and Rick stepped through it into the first room.

One wall of the room was lined with windows. The opposite wall was bare. A long table ran the length of the room. The table was bare. A refrigerator and a sink occupied the wall facing Rick. An old gas stove was on the other side of the doorway that divided that wall in half. A tea kettle was on the stove, a blue flame curling around its metal sides.

Rick stepped through the doorway, walking between the sink and the stove, and into the second, smaller room.

This room was occupied. This room was the dining room, as differentiated -- he supposed -- from the other room which could be classed as the galley or the kitchen.

A table was in the center of the room, and there were chairs around the table, and there were men sitting in the chairs, and each man had a sandwich in his hands. There were windows on two walls of the room. The third wall held the door through which Rick entered, and the fourth wall boasted a bulletin board and a cupboard. Rick saw cups hanging on hooks inside the cupboard, and saucers stacked in neat piles. Looking through the glass doors, he also saw a small tray with silverware stacked in it. A couch was against one of the windowed walls, and a leather lounge rested beneath the bulletin board. The lounge was occupied at this moment by a man who lay face down on the leather, his shirt-tail sticking out of his trousers, a bald patch at the back of his head.

A short stout man with a flat nose was standing near the bulletin board, looking over some of the notices there. He turned when Rick came in, and he smiled and said, "Sit down anyplace. The waiter will take your order shortly."

"Thanks," Rick said. The other men at the table glanced up, smiled, and then went back to demolishing their sandwiches. Rick pulled out a chair, dipped into his briefcase for the sandwiches Anne had prepared, and spread them on the table before him. The man at the bulletin board continued looking at him.

"My name is Solly Klein," he said. "You're one of the new English teachers, aren't you?"

"Yes," Rick said. He wasn't sure whether he should offer his hand to Klein. He decided against it. The man was on the opposite side of the table, much too distant for a handshake. "My name is Rick Dadier."

"Welcome to the Forbidden City," Solly said. "How's it going so far?"

"Not too bad," Rick said.

"Give it time," Solly answered. "It'll get worse." He smiled, and then the smile vanished, and Rick wondered if he were joking or not. He slipped the rubber band from one of his sandwiches, and then began unwrapping the waxed paper. He spread the paper, and then lifted the top slice of bread, smiling at Anne's thoughtfulness when he saw she'd given him ham, his favorite cold cut.

"Can I get anything to drink?" Rick asked.

"You mean non-alcoholic, I take it," one of the men at the table said.

The man was small and wiry, with a curling crop of hair that hugged his head like a Navy watch cap. He had a long, hooked nose, and black-rimmed bop glasses behind which intense blue eyes sparkled. He held a sandwich in one hand, and an open history book in the other. Rick estimated his age at thirty-one or so.

Rick smiled. "I don't suppose there's beer available, is there?" he asked.

"You're lucky if you can get the water tap to run," Solly said, and the small, wiry man with the history book chuckled.

"This your first teaching job?" the small, wiry man asked.

"Yes," Rick said. He had somehow been put on the defensive, and he didn't like the position at all. And simply because he'd asked if he could get anything to drink, which seemed like a normal, civilized question.

"I'm George Katz," the small, wiry man said. "Social Studies. Taught at Christopher Columbus before I got appointed here."

"You should have stayed there," Solly said. "Even if they had you sweeping up the toilets."

"They didn't," Katz assured him, smiling.

"Well, not to change the subject," Rick said, "but can I get something to drink?"

"You get a choice," Solly said, walking to the table and looping his thumb through his suspender. "You can bring your own container of milk and stick it in the refrigerator. That's if you drink milk. If you drink coffee, you can bring instant coffee and use the hot water from the tea kettle outside. That's if you drink coffee. If you drink tea, you can pay Captain Schaefer a scant ten cents a month, and he'll let you use the tea balls he buys for us thirsty bastards. The hot water is still free."

"Well..." Rick started.

"In any case, you will have to pay Schaefer your dues. He'll pop in any minute and put the bite on you, as soon as he has his gymnasts climbing ropes or playing basketball or pulling their dummies."

"Is he the gym teacher?" Rick asked.

"You saw him downstairs?" Solly asked. "Captain Max Schaefer."

"What are the dues for?" Rick asked.

"The cups. The Captain buys the cups. Then he takes the dues we pay, and he replenishes his pocketbook. He also uses the dues to replace chipped, cracked, or broken cups. The Captain is a non-profit organization, or so he tells us."

"How much are the dues?"

"Ask the Captain," Solly said. "They change all the time."

"He charged me a quarter," one of the men at the table said.

Rick looked down the length of the table to the man who'd spoken. He was a tall, handsome boy, with midnight black hair that spilled onto his forehead in small ringlets. He had a perfect nose, high cheekbones, and sculptured, almost feminine lips. He was no older than twenty-five, and he was built like the statue of a Greek athlete. He did not introduce himself, so Rick didn't ask his name.

"A quarter sounds reasonable," Rick said. "Do you think I could use one of the tea balls before paying my dues?"

"Help yourself," Solly said, waving a short, wide hand. "The Captain makes his living on this concession anyway."

Rick rose and went to the cupboard, found the cardboard container of tea balls, and was reaching for a cup when a voice behind him said, "That's mine."

The voice was mild. Rick turned and saw that it belonged to a thin man in a gray, pencil-stripe, rumpled suit. The man wore rimless glasses, and his eyes were sad behind them. He had thin brown hair and shaggy brown eyebrows, and he repeated, "That's mine," almost apologetically.

"I didn't know..." Rick started.

"Everything belongs to Lou," Solly said. "He's got a proprietor's complex."

"We have our initials on the cups," the thin man said. "So we can tell them apart. See the L.S.? That's me. Lou Savoldi."

"He thinks he owns everything," Solly said, grinning. "You talk to Lou, you find out he owns Manual Trades. He just leases it to the city during the season. In the summer, he runs a whore house here."

"You're one of my best customers," Savoldi said, unsmiling, his eyes sad.

"Not since your wife left for one of those fancy East Side places," Solly countered.

"That's all right," Savoldi answered, his eyes still sad. "I get more calls for your wife anyway."

"That's natural. She's a prettier woman."

"The kettle's boiling," Savoldi said. "Anybody want tea?"

"I'll have some," George Katz said, looking up from his history book. "Would you bring me a tea ball, Dadier?"

"Sure," Rick said.

"My cup is in there, too," Katz went on. "G.K. Be careful, the initials may still be wet."

"I see it," Rick said. He took down Katz's cup as Savoldi left the room. "Can I use one of these without any initials on it?" Rick asked.

"Sure," Solly said. He walked to the cupboard and took down a cup marked with S.K. in bright blue letters. "Hell, we might as well all have some tea." He brought his cup to the table, putting it down next to Rick's sandwiches. "How about you, Manners?" he asked the Greek athlete at the end of the table.

"None for me," Manners replied. "I'm strictly a milk man. Two quarts a day."

"Sugar baby," Solly said. "I'll bet you don't drink, smoke, curse, or screw either."

"You've got me wrong," Manners said. "They call me Amoral Alan in my neighborhood."

"Where's that? In the Virgin Islands?"

"Bensonhurst," Manners said quickly, proudly.

"So why the hell did they give you a school in the Bronx?"

"I've got pull," Manners said dryly.

"Pull this a while," Solly said. He sat down abruptly, and Lou Savoldi came back into the room with the steaming tea kettle in his hand. Rick sat down with his cup, and Savoldi poured for himself, Solly, Rick, and Katz.

"I won't be here long, anyway," Manners said, smiling.

"How come?" Savoldi asked.

"I want an all-girls' school," Manners said honestly.

"They're worse than all-boys' schools," Savoldi told him.

"Yeah, but think of the pussy," Manners said honestly.

"Think of twenty-year jail sentences," Savoldi said sadly.

"I know a guy who's teaching science in a school in Harlem. All girls. He got propositioned six times his first day at the school. He was almost raped on the staircase."

"I'll stay here," Savoldi said sadly. "It's safer at my age." He finished pouring and left the room to put the kettle back on the stove.

"Well," Manners said, "that's for me. An all-girls' school."

"You're just a regular Lover Boy," Solly told him.

Savoldi came back into the room and said, "You're the original Lover Boy, Solly."

"Don't I know it?" Solly picked up his tea cup in both hands, sipped at it noisily, and then said, "This is too damn hot."

Rick bit into his ham sandwich and then sipped at his tea. The man lying on the couch had not moved a muscle since Rick had entered the room.

"You can go to an all-girls' school if you like, Lover Boy," Solly said, "but you won't find it any different than any other vocational school in the city."

"Girls are different from boys," Savoldi said. "Ain't you heard, Solly?"

"You always got your mind up some pussy," Solly said. "I'm telling you there's no difference. I know plenty of guys teaching in girls' vocational schools. It's no different. If anything, it's worse. You can't smack a girl around."

"You never smacked any boy around, either," Savoldi said.

"That's true. I don't want to get contaminated."

"What do you mean?" Rick asked, chewing on his sandwich.

"What do I mean?" Solly repeated. "I'll tell you something, Dadier. This is the garbage can of the educational system. Every vocational school in the city. You put them all together, and you got one big, fat, overflowing garbage can. And you want to know what our job is? Our job is to sit on the lid of the garbage can and see that none of the filth overflows into the streets. That's our job."

"You don't mean that," Rick said politely, incredulously.

"I don't, huh?" Solly shrugged. "You're new here, so you don't know. I'm telling you it's a garbage can, and you'll find out the minute you get a whiff of the stink. All the waste product, all the crap they can't fit into a general high school, all that stink goes into the garbage can that's the vocational high school system. That's why the system was invented.

"Sure, the books will tell you the vocational high school affords manual training for students who want to work with their hands. That's all so much horse manure. Believe me, there's only one thing these guys want to do with their hands. So some bright bastard figured a way to keep them off the streets. He thought of the vocational high school. Then he hired a bunch of guys with fat asses, a few with college degrees, to sit on the lid of the garbage can. That way, his wife and daughter can walk the streets without getting raped."

"No one would want to rape your wife, Solly," Savoldi said sadly.

"Except me," Solly said. "The point is, you got to keep them off the streets. And this is as good a place as any. We're just combinations of garbage men and cops, that's all."

"I don't think that's true," Rick said slowly. "I mean, there are surely boys here who really want to learn a trade."

"You find me one," Solly said. "Go ahead. Listen, I've been teaching here for twelve years, and only once did I find anything of worth in the garbage. People don't knowingly dump diamonds in with the garbage. They throw crap in the garbage, and that's what you'll find here."

"That's why I want an all-girls' school," Manners said.

"Yeah, sure," Solly said. "The only difference in an all-girls' school is that you'll find perfume along with the crap in the garbage."

"You're just bitter," Savoldi said.

"Sure," Solly said. "I should have been a teacher instead of a garbage man."

"Garbage men get good salaries," Savoldi put in.

"Which is more than teachers get," Solly answered.

"Me," Savoldi said sadly, "I'm very happy here."

"That's because you're stupid," Solly told him.

"No, I'm smart," Savoldi admitted. "I teach Electrical Wiring, and that gives me bread and butter. Outside, I do odd jobs, and that gives me little luxuries."

"I don't see you driving a Caddy."

"I don't want a Caddy. I'm not that ambitious."

"You're not ambitious at all," Solly told him.

"I have one ambition," Savoldi said, nodding his head. "Just one."

"What's that?"

"Someday I'm going to rig an electric chair and bring it to class with me. I'm going to tell the kids it's a circuit tester, and then I'm going to lead the little bastards in one by one and throw the switch on them. That's my ambition."

"And you're happy here," Solly said dryly.

"Sure. I'm happy. I'm like a man in a rainstorm. When the rain is coming down, I put on my raincoat. When I get home, I take off the coat and put it in the closet and forget all about it. That's what I do here. I become Mr. Savoldi the minute I step through the door to the school, and I'm Mr. Savoldi until 3:25 every day. Then I take off the Mr. Savoldi raincoat, and I go home, and I become Lou again until the next morning. No worries that way."

"Except one," Solly said.

"What's that?" Savoldi asked politely.

"That the kids will rig that goddamned electric chair before you do. Then they'll throw the switch and good-by Mr. Savoldi and Lou, too."

"These kids couldn't wire their way into a pay toilet, even if they had a nickel's head start," Savoldi said sadly. He sipped at his tea and added, "You made my tea get cold."

"Maybe the kids just need a chance," Rick said lamely. "Hell, they can't all be bad."

"All right," Solly said, "you give them their chance. But whatever you do, don't turn your back on them."

"I turned my back on them this morning," Rick said, a little proudly.

"And you didn't get stabbed?" Solly shrugged. "The first day of school. They probably left their hardware home."

"You're exaggerating," Rick said, smiling.

"I am, huh? All right, I'm exaggerating. Tell him how much I'm exaggerating, Lou."

"He's exaggerating," Savoldi said. "Solly is a big crap artist."

"I turned my back on a class just once," Solly said, "that's all, just once. I never turned my back again after that."

"What happened?" Rick asked.

"I was putting a diagram of a carburetor on the board. You have to illustrate things for these dumb bastards or they don't know what the hell you're talking about. I had my back turned for about forty seconds. I had hardly picked up the goddamned chalk and started the drawing."

"I heard this story already," Savoldi said sadly.

"Yeah, well it's true," Solly said defensively.

"What happened?" Rick prodded.

"A goddamn baseball came crashing into the blackboard about two inches away from my head. It knocked a piece of slate out of the board as big as a half dollar." Solly nodded, remembering the experience.

"What'd you do?" Rick asked.

"He wet his pants," Savoldi said.

"You would have, too," Solly said. "I did that, and then I got so goddamned mad I was ready to rip every one of those bastards into little pieces. I turned around, and they were all sitting there dead-panned, with that stupid, innocent look on their faces. And then I cooled down and played it smart. I picked up the baseball, dropped it in the wastebasket, smiled, and said, 'You'll never pitch for the Yanks, boy.' Just that. But I never turned my back again. Even writing on the board. I do it sideways."

"Like a Chink," Savoldi said. "Solly is part Mongolian."

"Thank God I'm not part wop."

"I'm all wop," Savoldi said.

"Solly's right," George Katz put in, laying down his history book for a moment. "You've got to realize what you're dealing with. You've got to understand the problem of most of these kids, and adjust your teaching accordingly."

"What teaching?" Solly wanted to know. "Who's kidding who? There's no teaching involved here, none at all. The sooner you realize that, the better off you'll be."

"Well," Katz said respectfully, "I think that's carrying it a little far."

"I'm understating it," Solly said flatly. "If you want to be a success at Manual Trades, or any other goddamn vocational high school, you've got to live by two simple rules. One: Forget any preconceived notions you may have had about adolescents wanting to learn. There's no truth in that when you apply it to the vocational high school. Two: Remember that self-preservation is the first law of life. Period. Amen."

"I told you," Savoldi said wistfully, "Solly's a philosopher."

"You didn't tell us," Solly said, "but who's paying attention anyway?"

"You should have been President of the United States," Savoldi said. "You're going to waste, Solly."

"Agh, who's the President?" Solly asked. "He sits when he goes to the can, doesn't he?"

George Katz laughed, and Manners said, "Anyway, I'm looking for an all-girls' school."

"All right, Lover Boy," Solly said. "Look. I hope you find it."

"Me too," Manners said, smiling.

"Me, I'm stuck in the Forbidden City. I tried to get out of it a long time ago. But once you're appointed here, it's like being made a guard on Devil's Island. There's no escape."

"I'm just a sub," Manners said. "I won't have any trouble."

"Mazoltov," Solly said, bowing his head.

There was the sound of loud laughter in the kitchen outside, and Solly said, "Here comes the Captain." The laughing got louder, and then the red-headed gym teacher whom Rick had seen earlier burst into the dining room, slapping his thighs, tears rolling down his face.

"You're late, Captain," Solly said. "What happened? Kids didn't feel like the parallel bars today?"

"Oh God," the Captain said, roaring with laughter. "Oh my God!"

"What's so funny?" Savoldi asked sadly.

"Oh great holy mother of Moses," the Captain said, slapping his thigh again. "I'll be goddamned to Samuel Gompers and back again. Oh my living ass!"

"What the hell is it?" Solly asked impatiently.

"I'll be a sonofabitch," the Captain said, the tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks. He shook his head, and the laughter subsided for a moment, and he said, "This beats it all. I'm standing there on the platform, you know, about fifteen minutes after the period started. Oh, my aching ass."

"You going to tell the story or you going to pee all over the floor?" Solly asked.

"I'm reading the kids the riot act, and the door pops open and who should walk in?"

"Governor Dewey," Solly said.

"Almost," the Captain said. "But not quite. Who walks in but Mr. Small, principal of North Manual Trades High School. Mr. Small, himself, the bastard. Inspecting my class on the first goddamned day of school. Oh, my bleeding piles."

"So?" Solly asked.

"I tell you, this is one for the books. I haven't seen anything like it since I was in the infantry." He began laughing again, and he continued laughing for a full minute before he was able to go on with his story. "He comes in, and the minute I see him, I shout, 'Boys! Mr. Small, the principal!' Like 'Gentlemen, the Queen!' you know? Well, he comes striding across the room, and the kids are standing there like limp rags, and he shouts in a commanding officer voice, 'All right, boys. At ease!'

"At ease!" the Captain shouted. "At ease, when half those kids had their asses dragging on the floor, anyway. Well, he comes up to the platform, and he climbs up there, and he puts his hands on his hips and then he looks out over all the kids, and he doesn't say a goddamn word. He just keeps looking out at them for about five minutes, with me standing right behind him. Then he climbs down from the platform, walks to the door, turns and says, 'CARRY ON, MR. SCHAEFER.' carry on, mr. schaefer! Carry on, mind you, carry on, and a pip-pip and a cheerio! I swear to God I thought he was General MacArthur. I couldn't stop laughing after he was gone. I picked up a towel and started wiping my face so the kids wouldn't see me.

"What the hell does he think this is, a military academy?"

"He's just showing them who's boss," Solly said, chuckling.

"Oh my back. I'm telling you, he convulsed me. That simple bastard. All he needed was a riding crop! Listen, I got to get back. I've got the idiots playing basketball, but the period's almost over."

He turned and left the dining room, striding across the kitchen, and laughing until he was out of earshot.

"He was a captain in the last war," Solly explained. "Hell of a nice guy."

"I didn't give him my dues," Rick said.

"Oh, he'll get you. The Captain never misses."

Lou Savoldi stood and began clearing the table before him. He took his cup out to the sink, washed it, and then hung it back on its hook. "I'm going down," he said.

"Back to the salt mines," Solly said. "You free the sixth?"

"No," Savoldi said sadly.

"I'll see you tomorrow then."

"I guess so," Savoldi said sadly.

Rick rose, cleared his place, and dumped the waxed paper and brown bag in the trash basket near the bulletin board. Then he washed the cup he'd used and put it back in the cupboard.

When the bell rang, he picked up his briefcase, and Solly said, "I'll walk down with you."

"Okay," Rick said.

"What've you got now?" Solly asked as they left the lunchroom.

"Fifth-termers," Rick said.

"Fifth-termers, you say?" Solly asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Yes."

"Mmm," Solly said. He didn't say another word as they walked down the steps and across the gymnasium.

Rick could have become a hero during that fifth period, fifth-term English class. He certainly had opportunity enough to become one if he'd wanted to. It's to his credit that he did not achieve heroic stature until later in the day.

The first thing he noticed when he entered the room was that the class was a small one, not more than twenty or so boys. He was happy about that because it's easier to teach a small group. He didn't know, of course, that there were thirty-five boys in 55-206, and that most of them had already begun cutting on this first day of the term.

The second thing he noticed was the well-built Negro boy with the white tee shirt and dungarees. The boy noticed him at the same moment, and the charming grin broke out on his handsome face.

"Well," he said, "hello, Chief."

"Gregory Miller," Rick said.

"You did remember the name, dintchoo, Chief?"

"Sit down, Miller," Rick said. "And my name is Mr. Dadier. I think you'd better start remembering that."

Miller took his seat, and Rick looked over to the other boys who were standing in clusters around the room, talking or laughing.

"All right," he said, "let's sit down. And let's make it fast."

The boys looked up at him, but they made no move toward their seats.

"You deaf back there? Let's break it up."

"Why?" one of the boys asked.

"What?" Rick said, surprised.

"I said, 'Why?'"

"I heard you, smart boy. Get to your seat before you find a seat in the principal's office."

"I'm petrified," the tall boy said. He had stringy blond hair, and the hair was matted against his forehead. His face was a field of ripe acne, and when he grinned his lips contorted crookedly in a smile that was boyishly innocent and mannishly sinister at the same time. He continued smiling as he walked to the middle of the room and took the seat alongside Miller. The other boys, taking his move as a cue, slowly drifted back to the seats and turned their attention to Rick.

"You may keep the seats you now have," Rick said, reaching into his briefcase for the Delaney cards. He distributed the cards as he'd done with his official class, and said, "I'm sure you know how to fill these out."

"We sure do," the blond boy said.

"I didn't get your name," Rick said pointedly.

"Maybe 'cause I didn't give it," the boy answered, the crooked smile on his mouth again.

"His name is Emmanuel, too," Miller said. He smiled at the private joke which only he and Rick shared.

"Is it?" Rick asked innocently.

"No," the blond boy said.

"Then what is it?"

"Guess," the blond boy said. "It begins with a W."

"I'd say 'Wiseguy' offhand, but I'm not good at guessing. What's your name, and make it snappy."

"West," the boy said. "Artie West."

Rick smiled, suddenly reversing his tactics, hoping to throw the boys off balance. They were expecting a hardman, so he'd wisecrack a little, show them that he could exchange a gag when there was time for gagging. "Any relation to Mae West?" he asked.

West answered so quickly that Rick was certain he'd heard the same question many times before. "Only between my eyes and her tits," he said, the crooked grin on his mouth.

His answer provided Rick with a choice. He could drop the banter immediately and clamp down with the mailed fist again, or he could show that he wasn't the kind of person who could be bested in a match of wits. For some obscure reason that probably had a smattering of pride attached to it, he chose to continue the match.

"Watch your language," he said, smiling. "My mother's picture is in my wallet."

"I didn't know you had one," West said.

Again there was the choice, only this time West had penetrated deeper. A warning buzzer sounded at the back of Rick's mind. He saw the grinning faces of the boys in 55-206, and he knew they wanted him to continue the battle of half-wits. He would have liked to continue it himself, despite the incessant warning that screamed inside his head now. The truth was, however, he could not think of a comeback, and rather than spout something inadequate, he fled behind the fortress of his desk and said, "All right, let's knock it off now, and fill out the Delaney cards."

West smiled knowingly, and winked at Miller. He was a sharp cookie, West, and Miller was just as sharp -- and if the two were friends, there'd probably be trouble in 55-206, Rick figured.

Rick looked out over the boys as they filled out the Delaney cards. There was a handful of Negroes in the class, and the rest of the boys were white, including a few Puerto Ricans. They all appeared to be between sixteen and seventeen, and most of them wore the tee shirt and dungarees which Rick assumed to be the unofficial uniform of the school.

"As you know," he said, "this is English 55-206, and we're here to learn English. I know a lot of you will be wondering why on earth you have to learn English. Will English help you get a job as a mechanic, or an electrician? The answer is yes, English will. Besides, no matter what you've thought of English up to now, I think you'll enjoy this class, and you might be surprised to find English one of your favorite subjects before the term is finished."

"I'll be s'prised, all right," Miller said.

"I don't want any calling out in this classroom," Rick said sternly. "If you have anything to say, you raise your hand. Is that understood? My name, incidentally, is Mr. Dadier."

"We heard of you, Daddy-oh," a boy at the back of the room said.

"Pronunciation is an important part of English," Rick said coldly. "I'd hate to fail any boy because he couldn't learn to pronounce my name. It's Mr. Dadier. Learn it, and learn it now. Believe me, it won't break my heart to fail all of you." A small Negro boy wearing a porkpie hat suddenly got to his feet. He put his hands on his hips, and a sneer curled his mouth. "You ever try to fight thirty-five guys at once, teach?" he asked.

Rick heard the question, and it set off a trigger response in his mind which told him, This is it, Dadier. This is it, my friend. He narrowed his eyes and walked slowly and purposefully around his desk. The boy was seated in the middle of the room, and Rick walked up the aisle nearest his desk, realizing as he did so that he was placing himself in a surrounded-by-boys position. He walked directly to the boy, pushed his face close to his, and said, "Sit down, son, and take off that hat before I knock it off."

He said it tightly, said it the way he'd spoken the lines for Duke Mantee when he'd played The Petrified Forest at Hunter. He did not know what the reaction would be, and he was vaguely aware of a persistent fear that crawled up his spine and into his cranium. He knew he could be jumped by all of them in this single instant, and the knowledge made him taut and tense, and in that short instant before the boy reacted, he found himself moving his toes inside his shoes to relieve the tension, to keep it from breaking out in the form of a trembling hand or a ticcing face.

The room was dead silent, and it seemed suddenly cold, despite the September sunshine streaming through the windows.

And even though the boy reacted almost instantly, it seemed forever to Rick.

The boy snatched the hat from his head, all his bravado gone, his eyes wide in what appeared to be fright. "I'm sorry, teach," he said, and then he instantly corrected it to "Mr. Dadier."

He sat immediately, and he avoided Rick's eyes, and Rick stood near his desk and continued to look down at the boy menacingly for a long while. Then he turned his back on the boy and walked back to the front of his room and his own desk. His face was set tightly, and he made his nostrils flare, the way he'd learned to do a long time ago in his first dramatics class.

He flipped open his Delaney book, stared down at it, and then raised his head slowly, the mock cold anger still in his eyes and the hard line of his mouth. "Pass the Delaney cards to the front of the room. Pass down your program cards, too, and I'll sign them. You there, in the first row, collect them all and bring them to my desk."

The boy in the first seat of the first row smiled at Rick vacuously, and he made no move to start collecting the cards which were already being passed down to the front of each row.

"Did you hear me?" Rick asked.

"Yes," the boy said, still smiling vacuously.

"Then let's move," Rick said tightly.

The boy rose, still smiling that stupid, empty smile. Another wise guy, Rick thought. The room is full of wise guys.

The stupidly smiling boy collected all the cards, and brought them to Rick. Rick inserted the Delaney cards into his book, and then began mechanically signing the program cards in the spaces provided, a system which made it impossible for a boy to miss being enrolled in the class to which he had been assigned. When the program cards were returned to the official teachers the next day, any delinquent would automatically be exposed. It was an effective system.

"We won't accomplish much today, other than getting acquainted. Tomorrow we'll get our books from the book room, and begin work."

He shifted his glance to the boy in the first seat of the first row. The boy was still smiling. The smile was plastered onto his thin face. He looked as if he were enjoying something immensely. Rick turned away from him, irritated, but not wanting another showdown so soon after his brush with the other boy.

"Our trip to the book room shouldn't take more than..."

"Is this trip necessary?" one of the boys called out.

Third seat, second row. Rick automatically tabulated the boy, and then fingered his card in the Delaney book. "What'd you say, Belazi?" he asked, reading the boy's name from the card.

"I said, is this trip necessary?"

"Yes, it is. Does that answer your question?"

"Yes, it does," the boy said.

"I'm glad it does, Belazi. Do you have any other important questions to ask?" He recalled something about sarcasm being a bad weapon to use against a class, but he shrugged the memory aside.

"Nope," Belazi answered.

"Well, good. May I go on with what I was saying then, with your kind permission?"

"Sure," Belazi said, smiling.

"Thank you. I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

"He the most thoughtful cat in this class," Miller said emphatically.

"Nobody asked you, Miller," Rick snapped.

"I ony just volunteerin' the information."

"I appreciate it," Rick said, unsmiling. "But I'll try to manage without your help."

"Think you'll make it, teach?" West asked.

"I'll tell you what, West," Rick said. "I'll be here until four this afternoon, planning tomorrow's lesson for this class. Since you're so worried, why don't you join me, and we'll plan it together."

"You can handle that case alone," West said.

"Aw, go on, help him," another boy called.

Rick located the card in the Delaney book. "Antoro? Is that your name?"

"Yeah," the boy said, proud to be in the act.

"Do you know what Toro means in Spanish?" Rick asked.

"My name ain't Toro," Antoro replied.

"Nonetheless, do you know what it means?"

"No. What?"

"Bull. Plain, old, ordinary, common BULL."

Antoro, plainly insulted, retreated behind a sullen visage. Rick turned away from him and looked directly at the boy in the first seat of the first row. The boy was still smiling that blank, stupid smile.

"What's so funny?" Rick asked.

The boy continued to smile.

"You," Rick snapped. He looked at the card in the Delaney book. "Santini. What's so funny?"

"Me?" Santini asked, smiling vacuously.

"Yes, you. What's so funny?"

"Nothin'," Santini said, smiling broadly.

"Then why are you..."

"He the smilinest cat in this whole school," Miller informed Rick. "He smile all the time. Thass 'cause he an idiot."

"What?" Rick asked, turning.

Miller tapped his temple with one brown forefinger. "Lotsa muscles," he said, "but no brains."

Rick looked at Santini. The boy was still smiling, and the smile was an idiotic one. There was no mirth behind it. It perched on his mouth like a plaster monkey. He felt suddenly embarrassed for having brought the smile to the attention of the class. Surely, the boy was not an idiot, but his intelligence was probably so low that...

"Well, try to pay attention here," Rick said awkwardly.

"I'm payin' attention," Santini said innocently, still smiling.

Rick cleared his throat and passed out the signed program cards. He hated these damned orientation classes. The beginning was bound to be difficult, and it was made doubly difficult by the fact that there was really nothing to do without books and without...without a plan, he reluctantly admitted, realizing he should have planned out these first, difficult, getting-acquainted periods.

"We'll cover a lot of interesting topics this term," he said. "We'll learn all about newspapers, and we'll read a lot of interesting short stories, and several good novels, and we'll cover some good plays, too, perhaps acting them out right here in class."

"Tha's for me," Miller said suddenly. Rick smiled, pleased because he thought he'd struck a responsive chord.

"The acting, you mean?" he asked.

"Man, man," Miller said. "I'm a real Ty-rone Power type. You watch me, Chief. I'll lay 'em in the aisles."

The boys all laughed suddenly, and for a moment Rick didn't know what the joke was. He understood suddenly and completely. Miller had used the word "lay" and that was always good for a yak. He wondered whether or not Miller had chosen the word purposely, or had simply blundered into the approving laughter of the boys. Whatever the case, Miller basked in his glory, soaking up the laughs like sunshine.

"Well, you'll get plenty of opportunity to act," Rick said, pretending he didn't understand what the laughter was about. "And we'll have all sorts of contests, too, for letter-writing, and for progress made. I'm thinking of awarding prizes to the boys who show me they're really working. Like tickets to football games and hockey games, things like that. Provided I get some co-operation from you."

"You ever hear of Juan Garza, teach?" one of the boys piped.

"No, I don't believe so," Rick said. "Who was Juan Garza?"

"He used to be in my class," the boy said. Rick had located his card now in the Delaney book. The boy's name was Maglin.

"What about Juan Garza, Maglin?" Rick asked.

Maglin smiled. "Nothing. He just used to be in my class, that's all."

"Why'd you ask if I knew him?"

"I just thought you might have heard about him. He used to be in my class."

"I gather he was a celebrity of some sort," Rick said dryly.

"He sure was," Maglin said, and all the boys laughed their approval.

"Well, it's a shame he's not in the class now," Rick said, and for some reason all the boys found this exceptionally funny. He was ready to pursue the subject further when the bell rang. He rose quickly and said, "I'll see you all tomorrow. Miller, I'd like to talk to you for a moment."

Miller's brow creased into a frown, and the frown vanished before a confident smile. He came to the front of the room, and while the rest of the boys sauntered out, he stood uneasily by the desk, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Rick waited until the other boys were all gone. He knew exactly what he was going to do, but he wanted to do it alone, with just him and Miller present. Its effectiveness would depend upon Miller's response, and he was sure the response would be a good one, once he separated Miller from the pack. When the other boys had all drifted out, he said, "Man-to-man talk, Miller. Okay?"

"Sure," Miller said uneasily, staring down at his shoelaces.

"I've checked your records," he lied. "You've got the makings of a leader, Miller. You're bright and quick, and the other boys like you."

"Me?" Miller asked, lifting his eyes, surprised. "Me?"

The flattery was beginning to work, and Rick pressed his advantage, smiling paternally now. "Yes, Miller, you. Come now, let's have no modesty here. You know you're head and shoulders above all of these boys."

Miller smiled shyly. "Well, I don't know. I mean..."

"Here's the point, Miller. We're going to have a damned fine class here." He used the word "damned" purposely, to show Miller he was not above swearing occasionally. "I can sense that. But I want it to be an outstanding class, and I can't make it that without your help."

"Me?" Miller asked again, really surprised now, and Rick wondered if he hadn't carried the flattery angle too far.

"Yes, you," he pushed on. "Come on, boy, let's lay our cards on the table."

"I don't know what you want, Ch...Mr. Dadier," Miller said.

"I want you to be the leader in this class, the way you're entitled to be. I want you to set the example for the rest of the boys. I want you to give me all your co-operation, and the other boys will automatically follow suit. That's what I want, Miller. If you help me, we can make this class the best one in the school."

"Well, I don't know," Miller said dubiously.

"I do know," Rick insisted. "What do you say, boy?"

"Well...sure, I'll help all I can. Sure, if you think so."

"That's my boy," Rick said, rising and clapping Miller on the shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow, Miller." He walked Miller to the doorway, his arm around the boy. "Now take it easy."

"Sure," Miller said, puzzled. His brow furrowed once, and then he smiled again. "Sure," he said. And then, almost arrogantly, "Sure!"

Rick watched him go down the corridor, and then he went back into the room and packed his briefcase. He had been smooth there, all right. Brother, he had pulled the wool clear down over Miller's eyes, clear down over his shoelaces, too. Once he put Miller in his pocket, he'd get West, too. And once he got the two troublemakers, the clowns, the class was his. He'd used flattery, the oldest of weapons, and Miller had taken the hook without once suspecting any trickery. A leader, indeed! Rickie, he told himself, you are a bloody goddamned genius! The class had been troublesome, true, but he'd put his finger on the trouble spot and immediately weeded it out. That was the way to do it, despite what Solly Klein preached. These kids were humans, and not animals to be penned up and ignored. All you had to do was hit the proper chord.

He zipped up his briefcase, and when he left the room for his Unassigned sixth period, he was pretty damned happy, unaware that he would be elevated to the pedestal marked Hero within a matter of ten minutes.

When he left the classroom, he had no idea where he was going. He knew he could go up to the teachers' lunchroom again, but he also knew Solly Klein was free during this sixth period, and he somehow did not feel like listening to more comments this day upon the imbecility of the students at Manual Trades. Especially after his coup with Miller. No, he was not anticipating any serious trouble with any of his classes, and Klein's bitter pronouncements would definitely clash with his present frame of mind.

Had he decided to go to the teachers' lunchroom, he'd have headed toward the short side of the L, and then climbed to the third floor where he would cut across the gymnasium. He might have avoided the laurel of Herohood had he done so. But he did not head for the teachers' lunchroom.

Instead, he decided to leave the building, take a brisk walk outside. He did not know that a teacher was not permitted to leave the building during an Unassigned period. A teacher could do what he wanted on his lunch hour, which was a God-given right, but he was expected to be around during an Unassigned period, should any emergency arise. Not knowing the technicality or legality involved, Rick decided to leave the building, returning in time for his seventh-period class. On a whim, and because he did not feel like walking, he stopped near the elevator and rang for it.

Had the elevator arrived when he summoned it, he might also have missed becoming a hero. Unfortunately, the elevator was parked on the fourth floor of the building, stacked with World History books. George Katz, the eager beaver that he was, was directing the unloading of those books, and he had thought far enough in advance to include books for his entire battery of classes. The elevator would be inactive on the fourth floor for the better part of the sixth period.

Rick pressed the button three more times, waiting patiently for the elevator. When he saw that the floor indicator refused to budge from the figure four set in its semicircular face, he shrugged and headed for the stairwell.

The stairwells at North Manual Trades High School were divided into Up and Down sections. He was ready to start down the open steps that confronted him when he stepped through the doors, and then he saw the Up sign. A strange sense of right and wrong suddenly possessed him, and he could not at that moment ever consider going down on a staircase plainly marked Up. He backed off, and began walking around the landing, toward the meshed window set in the wall, and toward the Down part of the stairwell.

It was then that he became a hero.

The sunshine streamed through the meshed window, blinding him for an instant. He saw a blur of movement to the right of the window, and he blinked his eyes against the sunlight, and then the blur became two figures.

He was still walking slowly, with his briefcase in one hand. He suddenly realized that the figures were struggling, and he instantly figured it for a fight between two of the boys. And then the figures took definite shape, and he dropped the briefcase, and started forward at a sprint.

One of the figures was a tall boy in tee shirt and dungarees, no more than seventeen years old. The other figure was Miss Hammond.

The boy had one hand clamped over Miss Hammond's mouth. The other hand was around her waist as he forced her backward against the wall.

"Hey!" Rick shouted.

The boy turned suddenly, moving to Miss Hammond's side. It was then that Rick saw the torn front of her suit jacket, and the ripped blouse and lingerie. My God, he thought wildly, that's her breast, and then he was clamping his hand on the boy's shoulder and spinning him around.

Fear and panic were mingled on the boy's face. He had gotten more than he'd bargained for, a hell of a lot more. He had planned on a quick piece on a deserted stairwell. He had planned it from the moment he'd caught a glimpse of Miss Hammond's legs in the auditorium that morning. He had also planned on scaring hell out of her, threatening her with violence if she told anyone what had happened. But this was different. He was caught, and there'd be no threats of violence now that this crew-cut bastard had stepped in and loused up the works.

Miss Hammond, her mouth free now, screamed. Rick probably wouldn't have hit the boy if Miss Hammond hadn't screamed, but the scream gave urgency to the situation, and he brought back his fist as he spun the boy around, and then he threw his arm forward, and when his fist collided with the boy's mouth, the shock rumbled all the way up to his shoulder socket.

The boy bounced back against the radiator, and Miss Hammond screamed again, holding her hand up to cover the purple nipple and roseate of her breast behind the torn slip and brassiere.

"You lousy bastard," the boy yelled, and Rick hit him again, and this time a smear of crimson spread on the boy's mouth, staining his teeth. Miss Hammond kept screaming, and the stairwell was suddenly flooded with teachers and monitors. Rick held the boy's arm tightly, twisting it up behind his back.

"What happened?" someone said, and Miss Hammond said, "A jacket, something, a jacket," blubbering incoherently. Another teacher grabbed the bleeding boy, and Rick stripped off his jacket, handing it to Miss Hammond. She slipped into it quickly, still sobbing, her hair disarranged, her hands trembling. The jacket was too large for her, but she clutched it to her exposed breast thankfully, her cheeks flushed with excitement. Rick looked at her again, at the delicate features, the full body thrusting against his jacket. He looked at her, and felt terribly embarrassed for her all at once. And feeling her embarrassment, he suddenly hated the boy who'd attacked her. He hated him intensely, and he thought of the innocent exposure of Miss Hammond's breast as he had seen it, full and rounded, the torn silk of her underwear framing it, providing a cushion for it. A youthful breast it had been, firm, with the nipple large and erect. He concentrated on the embarrassment he felt for her, and he concentrated on his hatred for the boy, and he seized the boy roughly and shouted, "Come on, mister. The principal wants to see you."

The quicker of the teachers had grasped the situation immediately, and they were shooing the monitors away from the scene of the attack. Martha Riley, whose math class happened to be on the second floor, arrived on the scene and began comforting Miss Hammond, putting her fat arm around her and clucking like a mother hen. She led her to the ladies' room, and Rick watched the pair depart, still feeling embarrassed for Miss Hammond.

The teachers began talking it up, and amid the babble of voices, Rick took the boy down to the principal's office. He listened to everything the principal said, listened to the principal say, "We're going to take care of you, smart guy. We're really going to take care of you." He filled out reports and signed them, and he told the story at least ten times before the bell sounded for the beginning of the seventh period.

It is accurate to say that Richard Dadier, even though he went through the paces of orientating his seventh- and eighth-period classes, did not really know what the hell was going on. He was excited now that it was all over. He had not had a chance for excitement while it was happening because it all happened too quickly. But the excitement bubbled inside him now, and as he spoke to the classes, he thought of the experience again and again, putting all the pieces in their proper order, reliving it again and again. He did not remember afterward what he had said to the classes. He was totally unaware of them throughout the last two periods of the day.

And he was certainly unaware of the fact that his heroism, tales of which had spread through the school like a brush fire, was regarded by the students of Manual Trades as nothing but the basest, most treacherous type of villainy.

Copyright © 1953, 1954 by Evan Hunter
Copyright renewed © 1982 by Evan Hunter

Editorial Reviews

"Shocking . . . Arresting . . . Suspense-packed . . . [The Blackboard Jungle] seems to have been torn raw and bleeding out of [Hunter’s] personal experience. . . . It frays the nerves like a scream for help in a dark alley. Like The Jungle and The Grapes of Wrath, this is a book which shouts that SOMETHING OUGHT TO BE DONE.” —The New York Times Book Review
 
“A nightmarish but authentic first novel.” —Time
 
“A raw, frightening commentary on a system for which there are no easy correctives . . . A highly dramatic if devastating demonstration of the unequal job of education.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review
 
Praise for Evan Hunter
“Under whichever name he writes, Hunter/McBain delivers the goods.” —People
 
“He is a flat-out master of his trade.” —Larry King, USA Today
 

From the Publisher