The Honor System: The professors have the honor, and the students have the system

In the final analysis of what went through his mind on that occasion, Garven gave the whole matter almost no thought. He did not, for example, anguish for even a second about the school’s honor code or about the question of common Judeo-Christian right and wrong. He scarcely had foresight enough to look out the windows and outside the office door to make sure that the old battle-ax was not going to pop in on him at any minute. Instead, he was galvanized into a flurry of action. He was no longer dazed by panic as he had been before he found the unguarded papers. His mind was clear, organized, and calculating.

First, he mentally memorized the exact position of the papers on the desk. Then, he extracted his spiral-bound notebook and sat at Frau Mueller’s desk and began to write as fast as he could and still have any legibility. He invented a sort of shorthand as he worked and was able to get the main stems of the words down very rapidly. He could compare them to his own list later. His pen flew along copying “sich anschliessen, das Auge, augenblichlich....” The text for translation was a simple one from Kinder und Hausm?rchen, Jacob and Wilhelm Grimms’ Fairy Tales, one of several that was abstracted in his textbook.

“Once upon a time...” Garven began to copy. Then, he recognized that it was not necessary to copy the passage, just to remember which story the teacher had chosen. His task on the test was to translate from English to German; he wrote down the grammar section of the test as rapidly as his fingers could move and his eyes could delineate the print in the dimming twilight and his brain could assimilate the foreign words. Given the infinitive; drehen, falten, gehen, he was to supply the present, past, and imperfect and reflexive verbs. Given the nominative noun, he was to supply the definite article correct as to gender; Arm, Bank, Buch, Hand, Feder, Zimmer, and so on.

After what seemed like a half a day of frantic writing, but that was no more than twenty minutes by the clock, Garven finished and woke up from his absolute absorption in his copying task to realize within himself a nearly palpable sense of impending discovery. It struck him as if his chest had been squeezed by an unseen hand when the surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins at the realization of his compromising position at that moment. He silently padded to the windows and to the door again, looked out and satisfied himself that he was in no imminent danger of being discovered. He had broken into a sweat but felt cold and shaky. He stuffed the papers of salvation under his baseball shirt and left the room after taking excruciating pains to ensure that Frau Mueller’s papers were back in the exact position on her desk where she had left them and was sure that they did not look disturbed from his riffling through them.

He missed the evening meal and was too excited to attend vespers that night. He was sure his deeds would be as evident on his face as Hester’s famous letter. No one noted his absence, and his roommates were oblivious to his emotional state, wrapped up as they were in their own concerns. Garven was up almost the entire night doggedly memorizing the results of his great windfall. He knew he had manna from heaven, and he could not afford to waste time on such a puny need as sleep when salvation from the Jeopardy List was at hand. By morning he was still so keyed up that he was not at all sleepy. He forced himself to eat although he had no appetite. He would not talk to anyone for fear that he would jiggle loose one of the precious nuggets of knowledge he had crammed onto the surface of his brain through the arduous night. His fingers were cold and trembling, his pupils dilated, and his skin dry and shiny when he took his place in Frau Mueller’s classroom for the midterm exam.

Garven was full of unquenchable nervous energy as the test papers were distributed to the students. He was still unsure that the test he had seen would appear before his eyes this morning, and almost cried out when it did. He made himself be the very picture of control. He had a problem of not going too fast, of getting done so early that he would cast suspicion on himself.

It never occurred to him to make a few discrete mistakes. He had memorized the material so thoroughly that it was unthinkable to make a mistake; it never crossed his mind. Garven was not deeply or broadly intelligent, but he did have a remarkable ability to memorize and to hold in his mind the memorized material. He need not have worried about someone jarring him and disturbing the memory centers; so, he would lose some of the retained German. The material was there to stay, almost as if it were on a page printed before him as he concentrated. If he had wanted to, he would have been able to dredge the same pictures up a year or ten years from that day. He could not have confidence in that element of his cognitive function as he sat and wrote with a disciplined effort that day in Frau Mueller’s German class.

Teenagers ordinarily avoided direct physical activity as a matter of deep principle, and baseball players are particularly skeptical of running and wind sprinting. Not so with Garven Carmichael that afternoon. He ran from his room to the diamond, ran circles around his teammates, and at batting practice ran around the bases when he hit the ball even when he did not have to. He did not deflate until eight o’clock that night; then he was so exhausted that he could not talk to his roommates for the second night in a row. He was asleep by eight-thirty and slept the sleep of the just until he was awakened by the early morning ablutions of his three roomies.

Garven’s midterm grades represented his best performance for any grading period since he had come to the prestigious California prep school. If he could keep this up, he would finish out the year with a raft of Bs, a few gentlemanly Cs and maybe even an A or two. He did not know what would happen in German with a much improved midterm grade that would better his average—maybe enough that he could even be eligible for a B. Wouldn’t that frost Frau Battle-ax? It was a little disconcerting that he had not gotten the test scores back from German, but no one in the class had either;?so, he was not overly concerned. After two weeks, he was more concerned.

Garven had a reason for concern. His and another scholarship student’s tests were at that very time lying in front of the headmaster, Frau Mueller, and the chairman of the department of languages, Cecil Lemuels.

“I find it hard to believe that anyone would be dumb enough to cheat and produce a perfect paper. A perfect paper! That is just not in the boy’s own self-interest. I would be more suspicious if there were a few obvious errors, wouldn’t you, Dr. Lemuels?

“But that is exactly what we found on the Daniels boy’s test. He was virtually failing, and on this test had only two or three errors. In fact, he erased over the correct answers almost as if he wanted to call attention to his mistakes, to lead us away from the fact that he cheated. In his case we have proof positive of his calumny. His roommate brought in the boy’s cheat-sheets. The writing on these little cards is so tiny I can’t even read them. Oh, for the vision of youth without all its follies.”

“We have no such incriminating evidence on the Carmichael boy, Dr. Samuels, Frau Mueller.”

“He did it. Proof or no proof!” Frau Mueller declared flatly.

“I trust that both boys will break down when confronted by the student disciplinary council, but we are in a bind if Carmichael sticks to his guns and denies cheating. He would have almost had to have had a copy of the test in advance to do this well. I know how jealously you guard your materials, Frau Mueller; so, I have my doubts as to how he could have carried off a cheat without some detection. The prefects searched his room, you know, and there was not a single suggestion of a crib sheet. On the contrary, the wastebasket was full of the work notes of the boy that looked like he had been most diligent. His roommates have sworn that Carmichael studied frantically all night. I hardly think all four of them are in collusion,” Des Moines explained to the two language teachers.

“I know this boy. He did not haf his German in mind vell enough to pass the test let alone to write a perfect test. Really, Headmaster, this cannot be ignored.”

“Nothing is going to be ignored. In fact, I will have the pair of them in my office today, and I trust that both of them will make a clean breast of it before this day is done,” Des Moines said confidently.

Dr. Samuels looked rather sad.

He said, “I hate to see this—promising boys ruined by a mistake.”

“A mistake?! Spare me the euphemisms. This is a crime!” snapped Frau Mueller.

She was not a forgiving sort and was not in a mood to be persuaded or mollified.

“Let me handle it until the disciplinary council meeting. I do so prefer to have the students feel that they have made the decision. It is a good maturing experience for them all. I will have the incontrovertible evidence before them this evening. Actually, I hope both boys will have the decency to resign. It will be easier to break the news to their parents that way, I can tell you from past experience,” the headmaster intoned.

“Better you than me, Dr. Des Moines,” said the language department chairman sympathetically. “I would not have your job.”

“I vould relish the opportunity! Especially that Carmichael boy. He has no pisness being here in the first place—zuch a pumpkin from Aridzona!” The militant German matron scowled her indignation. “I joost don’t like that one!”

???????????Garven was in the middle of his civics class in mid-afternoon when the prefect brought the terse note to him, interrupting the class momentarily and bringing full unwonted attention of the class on Garven.

The note said simply, “please present yourself in my office at three-thirty sharp this day.” It was signed with full formality, C.P. Des Moines, Headmaster.

Garven was as ignorant as anyone as to why such a summons should be given to him. It never occurred to him that he was about to meet the most serious accusation of his life to date. He was unprepared for the brusque confrontation from his headmaster, devoid of any preliminary pleasantries.

“I have the sad duty to inform you that you have been accused of cheating on your German midterm examination. The evidence is inescapable. I am sure you know the consequences. Or would you have me read the honor code to you?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?” snapped the older man abruptly sensing a challenge.

He would broach no insubordination from this puppy.

Garven was calm and polite. It was not the first time he had been in a tight situation, even one suddenly thrust on him.

“I mean you do not have to read the honor code to me.” He paused to collect himself, then continued, “I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about otherwise.”

Des Moines looked intently at the young face before him, into the steady eyes. He detected no guile. He was growing uncomfortable.

“Come now, my boy, you will feel better after a clean breast of it. Dash it! Give me your confession, and you will not have to face a single one of your fellow students with your disgrace.”

Garven made no move to comply or to beg mercy or to explain.

“Now listen to me! I will have no dilly-dallying on this matter. Your guardian will be informed, and he is the only one who needs to know. Out with it! I am a busy man!”

His voice was rising in pitch and stridency despite his concerted effort to maintain a calm judicial manner.

“No,” said Garven. It was an instantaneous feral response.

He felt desolate inside, but his face was a mask of innocence, unreadable.

The headmaster looked sternly at the boy. His fists were involuntarily clenched, and his jaw was tight. Ignoring the signs and entreaties, Garven knew he had to save himself and instinctively recognized that his only salvation was an unshakable denial. Confession might be good for the soul as the ministers had so often reiterated at chapel, but his soul was not his major concern at the moment; he had to save his hide.

He asked in as calm a voice as he could muster, “Just what is it that I am supposed to have done, Sir?”

“Don’t you be coy. The evidence is right here before me,” Des Moines indicated a folder of test papers. “You were all but failing Frau Mueller’s class, then, by some miracle, you came up with a perfect score on her midterm examination. What have you to say for yourself, young man? Do I look like I was born yesterday?”

“No, Sir,” Garven answered mechanically.

“No, Sir, what?” the headmaster queried testily.

“No, Sir, you do not look like you were born yesterday.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Carmichael, get off it. Let’s have a confession and get on to the work of the day. This is nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense to me. I think it is entirely serious. I have nothing to confess.”

“Did you or did you not take crib notes to Frau Mueller’s test?”

“I did not,” Garven’s voice was quavering a little, but he retained his resolute calm.

He knew it was his only hope.

“Did you or did you not copy answers from your fellow students during the test?”

“I did not.”

His face was as uncommunicative as a soda cracker.

Des Moines pondered a moment analyzing, nearly voicing, then rejecting his idea. Finally he asked the question about what he considered to be the least likely scenario for cheating.

“You didn’t have a copy of the test in advance, did you, Garven?”

The question came out more softly, almost apologetically.

Garven looked surprised at the question as if it was so far from his reality that he had to analyze its meaning.

He answered again, “No, Sir, I did not.”

The headmaster wavered, began to doubt the certainty of his previous convictions. His voice noticeably mellowed.

“Then how do you explain your perfect showing on this test. It strains my credulity, I must say.”

“For one thing, this is the first time I knew I had even passed the test. I worried myself sick over this thing. She was going to put me on the Jeopardy List, you know. I have to admit that I had been goofing off some and was spending too much time on baseball. I spent too much time on soccer before, and German suffered.”

“I can well understand that,” the headmaster said, his brow knitting in concern, the light of understanding coming on.

Perhaps it was just what he wanted to hear.

“Anyway, Frau Mueller took me into her office and scared the pants off me. I lit out of there and studied German like no one ever did before. I hate the subject, but I stuck to it. The night before the test, I was up all night studying. You can ask my roommates; you want their names?” Garven said rushing his sentences.

“That won’t be necessary, Garven. I have already done that.”

If the fact that he had been under investigation bothered him, Garven kept it out of his freckled face.

“Didn’t they tell you what I just said?” the boy asked with a face entirely free of duplicity.

“Indeed,” Des Moines had to admit.

He waited until the silence between the boy and himself became awkard then, making up his mind, said, “I can see that I am not going to get my confession; this is not going to be easy. I do have to admit that I now have to entertain an element of doubt as to your guilt. Either you are as innocent as you say or you are the best liar I have encountered in my years at this school. Maybe you don’t have a conscience and are a psychopath, as the psychologists describe. God help you and the rest of us if the latter is the case. We’ll see what your peers have to say. Think it over, my boy. Confession is still and truly good for the soul.”

He could see that Garven had thought it over practically before he had finished his soliloquy.

“Be in the chapel at eight o’clock sharp. The accusations and faculty opinions will be in the hands of the Student Judicial Council beforehand. You can make your defense to them then.”

Headmaster Des Moines looked down at the mound of papers on his desk as a gesture of dismissal, indicating that they had nothing further to discuss. Garven left, and the headmaster buzzed his secretary and asked her to send in the Daniels boy.

Garven arrived at the Hogan Memorial Chapel a little after seven—early enough to be sure he would be on time, and not so early as to appear overly eager or vulnerable. The chapel, like almost every building on the sprawling campus built after 1910, was a memorial and named after the wealthy donor. It was Danish Modern in style, having been designed by a firm of famous Scandinavian architects who had no idea of the terrain, flora, or climate of Pacific Palisades, California, and who created a spindly, open, unsuitable, and unattractive edifice that the elderly lady benefactor admired deeply. As near as anyone could discern, the principal reason for choosing the architectural firm was that they were famous, more accurately in vogue, in 1934 when the building was donated, and donations were otherwise very thin in that decade.

Twelve boys, three from each class at Burton-Cagle, filed in and quietly took their seats in the choir section behind the pulpit. Headmaster Des Moines and Mr. Tucker, the chemistry teacher and advisor to the Student Judiciary Council, assumed their places in seats on either side of the slender pulpit. Garven waited for Michael Daniels, but he was not in the room at eight o’clock sharp when Patrick Harrington Kent, student-body president and chairman of the council, brought the meeting to formal order.

“We will have a recitation of the charges against the student defendant,” he said and looked in the direction of Donald Perry, the council secretary.

No one seemed to be looking at Garven. He fixed his eyes straight forward on the pulpit, presenting a pose he imagined Dreyfus had adopted in his mockery of a trial. Garven was ramrod straight in his chair. Despite the difference in their relative guiltiness, Garven felt like Dreyfuss.

“Cause number one: Violation of the Burton-Cagle Honor Code by cheating in class.

“Cause number two: Perjury. Lying to the Headmaster.”

Student body president, Kent, still standing, now turned his attention to Garven who felt very small in the large, quiet church room.

“How do you plead, Mr. Carmichael? Guilty or not guilty to either or both charges of violation of the Burton-Cagle Honor Code?”

There was a pause.

“Please stand, Mr. Carmichael,” Patrick requested, as an afterthought.

Garven stood and said clearly but very quietly, “Not guilty.”

Mr.Tucker turned to the headmaster and whispered, “What’d he say?”

Mr. Des Moines broke the quiet and ordered, “Speak up, please, Mr. Carmichael. The acoustics are not good enough for a whisper to be heard.”

“Not guilty! I am not guilty of cheating or of lying,” Garven spoke up loudly and clearly.

His voice was strong enough to remove any tremors.

The secretary read a harshly worded indictment from Frau Mueller and a bland communication from Headmaster Des Moines, summarizing the conversation he had had with Garven earlier in the day. Des Moines was free of judgmental statements, except that his concluding statement was to the effect that he considered Garven to have been lying.

Patrick asked Garven, “Do you have any defense witnesses?”

“No.”

“Do you want anyone to help in your defense?”

“No.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“I certainly do. I will be very brief. I did not cheat or lie. There is not the slightest proof that I did, just that German teacher’s opinion. She doesn’t like me, and that is about all there is to it. I am a scholarship boy, not good enough for her, not important enough to be here. I’m not in the same class as you, rich boys.”

There was more sneer in his tone than he had intended when he rehearsed his defense in his room that afternoon.

“I studied hard. I did great on the test. She can’t stand it. Now, she won’t be able to get me out the regular way by failing me; so, here I am... this is the only other way to get me out. I see that a little something was left out when Don read those letters about me. Mr. Des Moines told me that the prefects sneaked and searched my room and talked behind my back with my roomies. Where’s the report on that stuff? Do you have that kind of information or would that help my defense?” he accused.

“There is no need to be uncivil, Garven,” admonished the headmaster, barely controlling his irritation. “I can tell you what the prefects learned. There was nothing found in Garven’s, I mean, Mr. Carmichael’s effects that would incriminate him. His roommates verified that Garven was in his room studying all evening, in fact, all night, before the German midterm.”

“Anything more, Garven?” asked Patrick.

No more than fifteen minutes had elapsed in the hearing; it was embarrassingly brief.

“No.”

Patrick looked at the two teachers, then at Garven, then at the other members of the Student Judiciary Council.

“Okay,” he finally said. “I guess that’s it. You may return to your room. We will meet in council, and I will let you know the results tonight, myself.”

Garven left without comment and without looking back. He was drained, emotionally exhausted from the effort to maintain his composure, from the internal struggle that willed him to break down and confess, to plead for clemency that he had consciously resisted, knowing his only hope lay in an implacable denial. He was not troubled by guilt nor by any great concern about what the teachers or boys would think of him. They had the ingrained distrust and dislike of him that always existed between the haves and the have-nots. He could deal with that another day. His problem that evening had been to survive the awful moment. Garven made a silent and intense vow that, one day, he would be rich enough to be impervious to such mean-spirited attacks.

In the subdued light of the chapel, the students were quiet, unsure how to proceed. Patrick had conducted or had been involved in any number of honor code violations, most of them regarding minor offenses. Most of the boys had been terribly cowed and had humiliated themselves by groveling and sniveling. Not Garven Carmichael. All the boys and the two advisors recognized the hardness, the unbending nature of the small boy who had stared them down. They were inclined to accept Garven’s demeanor, his challenging tone, as evidence of his innocence.

“It looks to me that it is just Frau Mueller’s word against Garven’s,” observed Harold Stiplton, the senior from Denver. “A case of he-said, she-said.”

“Me, too,” echoed four other council members, the younger boys.

“What proof of either cheating or lying have we got?” asked Petter Benson III, turning to look at the headmaster.

“This is your show now, boys; but you can ask whether you think the evidence would hold up in a court of law. I have nothing more than a gut feeling that Mr. Carmichael was lying to me and then to you in the hearing. I honestly don’t know whether or not I can trust my guts.”

“The evidence is hearsay; it is not even hearsay, it’s just speculation. We have nothing more than Frau Mueller’s belief. Even she as much as admitted that she has no evidence, let alone, proof. I say it’s not enough,” stated Carlton Fisker, the other senior on the council.

“Are you ready to vote? Any more discussion?” asked Patrick.

The boys and their advisors all shook their heads. Patrick glanced at Don Perry, the secretary, and nodded his head.

“This is an open vote. Raise your right hand to the square to signify, okay?” Don requested.

“All those who vote guilty on cause one, cheating?”

There was no movement.

“All those who vote not guilty on cause one?”

Twelve arms came promptly to the square.

“Those who vote guilty on cause two, lying?” he inquired.

There were no affirmative votes.

“Not guilty?”

Again, all twelve boys signified by squaring their right arms.

“There is a unanimous ‘not guilty’ on both causes before this council, Mr. Chairman, Headmaster, Mr. Tucker.” Don sat down.

“I will let him know right away,” announced Patrick and stood to indicate that the meeting was adjourned.

“Wait a couple of hours, please, Mr. Kent. I need to contact Carmichael’s parents and have a chat with them before he gets the results of your deliberations, if you would indulge me,” Mr. Des Moines requested.

“Sure, no problem,” replied Patrick.

Several of the committee boys asked either why Michael Daniels had not been there, had not even been mentioned.

Patrick shrugged his shoulders indicating his lack of information, “All I know is—headmaster’s prerogative.”

“Say no more,” commented the junior class cynic, Axel Holmquist.

?

The headmaster found Peter Wilsonhulme’s home telephone number in Arizona and contemplated the disagreeable task of making his second unpleasant call of the day. Such was the mantellum of leadership.

The first unpleasant call had been to Rapaport Daniels, father of Michael, directly in his corporate headquarters in Chicago, knowing that the tycoon would be at his work at that time of day. He passed through three secretaries, each more protective than the preceding, before hearing the bluff voice of the chairman of Daniels and Carne Consolidated Food Company, the world’s largest food and beverage holding company.

“It must be important for you to call me at this time of day, C.P. Something wrong with my boy? He sick?” came the rapid fire, insistent tone of the man who was used to crisp and to-the-point replies from his underlings.

“Nothing like that, Rapaport. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time, but I fear this is something that can’t wait. The boy is not sick, but there is a serious problem with Michael.”

“Tell me,” the tone was insistent but more subdued.

“I’ll come right to the point. I think that is best,” Des Moines drew a deep breath and considered the princely captain of industry on the other end of the line. “Michael has been caught in a flagrant violation of the school’s honor code. Specifically, he cheated, used crib notes in his German exam. You realize the significance of that, do you not, Rapaport?”

It was a statement, not really a question. Mr. Daniels was a member of Burton-Cagle’s board of directors.

Mr. Des Moines waited for Rapaport Daniels to collect his thoughts. He knew the food conglomerate chairman to be a man who never wasted words or time. He had a manner of speaking directly, and only after due consideration that caused his audience to give full attention.

“I would hope the two of us could find a way around this. No doubt Michael should be punished; when he gets back to Chicago, I’ll have his head on a pike. But as I understand it, this is his first offense, and perhaps there can be found a way to correct him without the full penalty, without expulsion.”

“You do realize that the actions of the Student Judiciary Council have to be automatic. We established a zero tolerance rule for cheating, lying, fornicating, and on-campus drinking three decades ago. They will have no choice. We can’t make an exception for Michael; it would undermine the entire honor system. I just thought you should fully appreciate what Michael is up against,” interrupted Des Moines.

There was another short pause.

“Then he will simply have to be kept out of that judicial council hearing.”

“And how can I do that?”

“Exercise your prerogative as the CEO! You are in charge; you can’t always let the inmates run the asylum. These boys are still children. A lot of that is left-wing nonsense anyway.”

“That, that is most irregular...most, uh...difficult.”

“Perhaps I can be of help. I do not want my family name held up for humiliation. I would rather see the name on a new library; in fact, I can envision the finest library building and book collection west of the Mississippi. It would be a great honor to commemorate the contributions of the founder of Daniels-Carne, my late lamented father, Seth Daniels, in such a worthy edifice. Wouldn’t you agree, C.P.?”

Momentarily, there was no answer. Des Moines’ success was beyond his farthest hopes.

“C.P.? What would you think of such a project?”

“Rapaport, do you know what you are suggesting? We’re talking seventeen or eighteen million dollars for the kind of project you have outlined,” Headmaster Des Moines replied with eyes tightly closed and fingers tightly crossed.

“Consider it done. I will rely on your leadership and discretion, C.P. Would I be too far afield if I asked whether there is already a set of plans for a new library?”

“Well, as a matter of coincidence, there is.”

“You old pirate,” concluded Mr. Daniels to himself. “Good-bye, then, C.P.,” and replaced his receiver.

Late that evening, Dr. Peter Wilsonhulme picked up the telephone in his home in Emmett, Arizona on the second ring. He recognized the voice of his old friend, C.P. Des Moines, immediately after the customary hellos.

“Anything wrong with Garven? Is he sick? Has he been hurt?”

“Nothing like that,” reassured Mr. Des Moines. “There is a problem, though; and I’d like to discuss it with you.”

He went on the describe the events and accusations of the last two days and finished with the description of Garven’s somewhat suspect exoneration.

“Well, that’s terrible, C.P.! Thank heaven the boy was proved innocent! I am sure you never doubted him.”

“To be perfectly frank, if it hadn’t been for me minimizing the evidence and the charges, I don’t know where we would be right now. Peter, your Garven got by this time, but I really fear for him. He needs a firm hand; he needs some direction, the kind of guidance that only a father can give. I wonder if you have enough formal authority and control to be able to deal with this headstrong youngster. Just today, I saw the effective influence of a father come to the aid of an errant son. As I understand it, my friend, you are not even Garven’s formal guardian. When push comes to shove, when he really needs your full capacities, are you going to have the paternal rights necessary?”

“You really think that is necessary? It raises a pretty delicate issue, you know. The boy is Rachel Carmichael’s, that nice school-teacher from the little town in Arizona. Maybe you remember her. I’ll have to tread lightly.”

“Nonetheless, you’d better start to tread. I don’t think that being a benefactor alone is going to be enough. By the way, I am deeply sorry about the passing of your good wife. Now that you are alone, you might even think of adopting the boy formally. Think his mother would approve? It needn’t diminish her parental role, you understand. Adoption could only help in my view.”

“I can’t think of anything that would mean more to me. You really think I should broach the subject, do you?”

“Get control of that boy as soon and as firmly as you can. I’ll confide in you as one of my oldest friends, Peter. Garven won’t survive another such accusation. He needs a serious change in status to compete in the situation here and with the privileged caste of boys we have. He needs you.”

In less than a fortnight the cheating incident was no longer a subject of discussion, the Burton-Cagle planning and development office was in possession of a firm start directive for a new library; Frau Mueller received surprise approval of her application for a year’s sabbatical to study advanced German literature at the Goethe Anthroposophical Institute in Bern, Switzerland; and Peter Wilsonhulme was sure he would be successful in his quest to adopt Garven Carmichael after the first emotionally charged discussions with Garven’s mother.