Then Tom saw other people walking—marching—toward the lawn. They were carrying placards, some pierced by sticks, others more hastily thrown together. He got out his notebook, flipped back the cover, readied a pencil, and tried to read the signs.

Most were marked: GO HOME NIGGERS!!!

Others were slightly more elaborate: THIS IS A SCHOOL FOR WHITE PEOPLE WE DON’T WANT NIGRAS!!!

Fifteen people, in all, with placards: some of them recognizable to Tom, others not. Six were women. He could pick out Mabel Dodge and Edna Callendar. They brandished their signs with a determination which was obviously necessary to cover their embarrassment. They were sure of their cause, but not of their strength.

Some of the sign holders were youngsters, high school freshmen. They all grinned self-consciously, as though they were not quite aware of what they were doing or why.

Tom wrote, hurriedly: . . . picket line formed. Orderly. Taunts from crowd led by Abner West.

“They don’t look so goddamn uppity now,” someone said to Tom. He turned to face Gilly Davenport, the town barber. Gilly was smiling happily. “Bet they’re kinda pale underneath that tan,” he said.

Tom walked away. He wondered where the signs had come from: the lettering was identical on each—a crude scrawl, but in dark ink, probably India ink. Only one store in Caxton sold India ink.

He made another note.

The Negroes were standing still as dark statues; then, Joey Green moved his head, turned, and started to walk toward the school again. The people moved in closer, but allowed room for passage.

The spell was broken; the white students who had not filed inside sprang again into motion; they went up the steps.

When Harley Paton appeared at the door, the placard carriers stopped.

The crowd quieted.

They saw the look in the principal’s eyes—which was neither condemnatory nor angry but was clearly disapproving—and paused, also.

Joey Green led the eleven other children up the stairs and into the hall. Principal Paton stood quietly until all the students were in, then he went inside and closed the door.

In measured tones he said: “My name is Harley Paton; you’ve spoken with me before, I believe. I am the principal of this high school.” He did not put out his hand. “Things are going to be a little hectic today, so you’ll have to be patient. You’ll all be assigned to your classes as soon as we can get around to it.”

Joey felt some of the tension draining away. The gauntlet had been run, and it hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected; still, he could see the signs and the looks on the faces of the people. . . .

He threw a glance of confidence to the children clustered loosely around him, and they lined up at the principal’s office.