McGraw©Hill/Focus/The Pod Of A Weed p. 436////R7N25/ ***** The interview with the principal had taken only five

minutes, but when Mt. Jackson came across the junior high school

yard to the isolated bungalow at the far end, the lace was a

bedlam as usual. The boys seemed to be milling and scrambling,

and the softball shot across the window. Mr. Jackson lumbered

like an ungainly Newfoundland up the stairs, took the rolled

newspaper he always carried in his pocket, and belabored the open

door with it like a drum. "Silence! Silence!" he shouted at the top of his voice. Yacob was standing in the rear aisle with his cap on. Mr.

Jackson whacked it off like a golfball on a tee. Gibby the Goon

shot up an arm, fielded the cap neatly, and sailed it out the

door. Yacob, without paying any attention to his cap, leaped

headlong for Gibby. The two boys rolled pummeling in the aisle. "Swats! Swats!" chorused the boys gleefully. Mr. Jackson reached down and got Gibby by the belt©©he had

long since learned that a hold by the collar merely ripped the

poor stuff of their shirts©©and heaved him like a bale of hay

toward the front of the room. "Get in the printing room," he said. The printing room was a cubicle off the front of the

bungalow which contained a broken chair, a hand press, and a

quantity of hopelessly mixed type. It had been the original

intention to occupy these special disciplinary cases with

constructive hand work,