Eastertown: A Novel (Literature of the American West, V. 11) by Max Crawford

By Max Crawford

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He grabbed up another pencil. Snap and it was in two! Many students had sprawled themselves over their typewriters, pounding keyboards, holding an aching jaw. Tears of merriment grew and grew, till they filled Jo Peters’s eyes, though not so many of them that he could not still see Principal Cook standing in the doorway, never getting the joke. It was definitely something he would have to talk over with Miss Blum, sometime during her free hour, if he could ever find her during her free hour. The subject of such a chat would not only be Jack Cook being wit’s chief antagonist in this stuffy place, but how to cheer him up.

He came with a hop from his seat forward to the front of the bus. His voice burred, it buzzed, as he came to the front of the bus, to the windshield that showed the back of the school. “Wow! To think people actually live in these dumps. All their lives. ” Henning was not bad, Bella kept telling herself, he wasn’t so bad. Not so bad as Rath, not so bad as the pair that had left. Henning, there was something about him, Bella kept telling herself, he’s almost like us. 23 24 max crawford “It’s falling apart.

The drama coach was moved. Backstage still had its problems. Snow White looked as if she might break down at any moment, if she hadn’t already. She sat there not moving, not speaking, not seeming to see. The dwarfs gathered about her, with little hope to their encirclement. They turned to Mrs. Rainborough, their sad eyes, as large as anyone’s, seeming to say—being small makes life tough. Yet somehow they got themselves all in line, ready for the next scene, not one of them, by the looks of them, caring if he ever went onstage again in his life, yet not one able to pull out.

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