_(a) How did the war between Athens and Megara, respecting the island
of Salamis, bring about the reforms of Solon? (b) In what way did they
differ from the laws of Draco?_"

She turned to look at Joe again. He was staring as blankly as ever.

"What is the matter, Joe?" she asked. "Have you no paper?"

"Yes, I have, thank you," he answered, and began moodily to sharpen
a lead-pencil.

He made a fine point to it. Then he made a very fine point. Then, and
with infinite patience, he proceeded to make it very much finer. Several
of his classmates raised their heads inquiringly at the noise. But he
did not notice. He was too absorbed in his pencil-sharpening and in
thinking thoughts far away from both pencil-sharpening and Greek history.

"Of course you all understand that the examination papers are to be
written with ink."

Miss Wilson addressed the class in general, but her eyes rested on Joe.

Just as it was about as fine as it could possibly be the point broke,
and Joe began over again.

"I am afraid, Joe, that you annoy the class," Miss Wilson said in final
desperation.

He put the pencil down, closed the knife with a snap, and returned to
his blank staring at the blackboard. What did he know about Draco? or
Solon? or the rest of the Greeks? It was a flunk, and that was all there
was to it. No need for him to look at the rest of the questions, and even
if he did know the answers to two or three, there was no use in writing
them down. It would not prevent the flunk. Besides, his arm hurt him too
much to write. It hurt his eyes to look at the blackboard, and his eyes
hurt even when they were closed; and it seemed positively to hurt him
to think.

So the forty-nine pens scratched on in a race after Miss Wilson, who was
covering the blackboard with question after question; and he listened to
the scratching, and watched the questions growing under her chalk, and
was very miserable indeed. His head seemed whirling around. It ached
inside and was sore outside, and he did not seem to have any control
of it at all.

He was beset with memories of the Pit, like scenes from some monstrous
nightmare, and, try as he would, he could not dispel them. He would fix
his mind and eyes on Miss Wilson's face, who was now sitting at her desk,
and even as he looked at her the face of Brick Simpson, impudent and
pugnacious, would arise before him. It was of no use. He felt sick and
sore and tired and worthless. There was nothing to