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But some of the parents were restlessly craning their necks, standing up to see better. "I don't see Bertha," a woman whispered. "Where's Rebecca, where's Rebecca? They can't start without Rebecca!" chattered another. "Sumpthing has happened!" The excitement spread. The parents of 22 girls made each other mob-conscious that sumpthing had happened. From a nearby classroom came sounds suggesting what that sumpthing was. It sounded like 22 girls crying, screaming, hysterical. Anxious parents rushed forward. Where was Bertha? Where Rebecca? What had they done, when were they coming. ... What? He had locked them in a classroom, guarded by teachers and refused to let them be in the graduating ceremony because they had cut all their classes that morning? What? In spite of Teacher Nettie Chadwick's having advised them to get their hair curled rather than come to school? What? He would not let them out now? Their graduating dresses would be wasted? What? He defied their parents?... Blows pelted on Principal Morse. His hair was mussed, his clothes torn. Parents, whose children sat in the auditorium waiting to be launched upon their careers with inspiring words from Principal Morse, tried to defend him. The irate squad was more numerous. Hair was pulled, eyeglasses flew off. Someone turned in a riot call. But the parents soon dragged Principal Morse from his high horse. The 22 prisoners, red-eyed, indignant, joined their classmates. When the police arrived there was no disturbance in progress save the singing of the glee club.
At Englewood High School, Chicago, the 208 members of the graduating class threatened to "walk out" unless Richard Dobbert, Lionel Sangor and Moses Weinstraub were permitted to receive their diplomas publicly without apologizing for a "snake dance" they had led. Crying, "I'll dictate the terms," Principal David M. Davidson was obdurate. He called the snake dance "disgracing the Class of February, 1927, and the school." But the 208 stood by their snake-dancing triumvirate, obliged Principal Davidson to be content with an explanation and compromise apology signed by the class officers.
At Barringer High School, Newark (N. J.), president and honor man of the graduating class was Arthur L. Voorhees, blind from birth. Newsgatherers discovered he got about the streets without a cane or whistle; that he had built five radio sets, without ever having read a radio textbook. Said he: "I can do just about anything other fellows do—except play football or things like that. I go to dances all the time and recognize the girls I'm going to cut in on by the tone of their voices or the particular perfume they use. . . . I'm just like any one else."