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Show 26, Jeffries, Islamorada their street gangs. Chasing the car like friendly dogs. "Haee-aay Mister Claay-ton!" they'd wave affably. He slowed and they gained on him-the first of the glue sniffers that one had been, now, looming in his rearview mirror-a mad hatter! Toward November, when the principal had to write them up, a science teacher was occupied designing a small throwaway Ian Fleming-type transmitter which could show that the boss was in the cafeteria or the second-floor boys room or heading their way and it was time to get all cotton-mouthed, observation. But who would bell the cat? Now Mr. Clayton's door was creaking open; there was a noise of rude conversation in the hall; the principal had found his way to the blind canyon again. There was that Keats on the board. "What's that, Clayton, some of your writing?" "No sir, just something I'm trying to remember from college. . ." "Indeed I hope for once it's in the course-of- study. . ." "Something from the Romantic Movement, sir." |
