The class had just turned in their copybooks with a Latin exercise prepared at home. Lector Booklund was standing at his desk with the whole pile in front of him. Keith's book happened to be on top. The teacher opened it. He sent a glance at Keith that made the boy squirm. Then, as his eyes ran down the page, his face turned almost purple. Suddenly he raised the book over his head and threw it on the floor with such force that the cover was torn off. A moment of ominous silence followed. Keith was red up to the roots of his hair. "Wellander," the teacher roared. Keith rose none too quickly from his seat without looking up. "Pick up that thing," Lector Booklund shouted at him with the full force of his powerful lungs. "I don't want to touch it again." Keith remained like a statue, feeling now as if he didn't have a drop of blood left in his whole body. "Pick it up, I tell you!" "No," Keith retorted in a strangely self-possessed voice, "you had better pick it up yourself. I didn't throw it on the floor." In another moment the teacher was beside Keith, burying his hand in the boy's hair. Then he pulled and shook, shook and pulled, until the hand came away with big tufts of hair showing between the fingers. Again absolute silence reigned for a moment. "Ugh," blew the teacher, his anger changed to a look of embarrassment. "I am not going to speak another word to you, Wellander, during the rest of the term. Sit down!" Instead of sitting down, Keith walked over to the torn copy book, picked it up and turned toward Lector Booklund. "I am going home," he announced almost triumphantly. "You have no right to hit me or pull my hair out by the roots." Before the teacher had recovered from his surprise Keith was outside the door and on his way home. He didn't know afterwards how he got there, but he could remember saying to himself over and over again: "I didn't cry and I didn't want to cry!"