The Paper Chase [antikvár]

In the few days between arrival at Harvard Law School and the first classes, there are rumors. And stories. About being singled out, made to show your stuff. Mostly, they're about people who made some terrible mistake. Couldn't answer a question right. One concerns a boy who did a particularly bad job. His professor called him down to the front of the class, up tó the podium, gave the student a dime and said, loudly: "Go call your mother, and tell her you'll never be a lawyer." Sometimes the story ends here, but the way I heard it, the crushed student bowed his head and limped slowly back through the one hundred and fifty students in the class. When he got to the door, his anger exploded. He screamed: "You're a son of a bitch, Kingsfield." "That's the first intelligent thing you've said," Kings-field replied. "Come back. Perhaps I've been too hasty." Professor Kingsfield, who should have been reviewing the cases he would offer his first class of the year, stared down from the window forming most of the far wall of his second story oflBce in Langdell Hall and watched the students walking to class. He was panting. Professor Kingsfield had just done forty push-ups on his green carpet. His vest was pulled tight around his small stomach and it seemed, each time his heart heaved, the buttons would give way. A pyramid-shaped wooden box, built for keeping time during piano lessons, was ticking on his desk and he stopped its pendulimi. Professor Kingsfield did his push-ups in four-four time. His secretary knocked on the door and reminded him that if he didn't get moving he'd be late. She paused in the doorway, watching his heaving 15 , i. Mi; ( :'' I