Mr. Jenkins was a matinee idol type of the day--tall, muscular, thick, dark blond hair, with a full moustache, piercing blue eyes...and a reputation as a serious disciplinarian. On the Friday before Spring Break, the class clowns were in rare form, disrupting the class, scuffling, and talking... almost everyone else was participating, because we were all restless and anxious for the end of the day and a week of freedom.
Mr. Jenkins had finally settled the class down by administering a pop quiz; those who passed it with a B or better would have no homework over Spring Break; those who made a C or worse would be writing a five-page report on the material. The pressure was on, and the room was silent. I was just finishing my last question when I heard the sudden scrape of Mr. Jenkins' desk chair as he jumped up.
"You, Tom and Barry, stand up beside your desks NOW," he ordered crisply. The room took a collective breath. When I looked at the two, their faces were beet red. Mr. Jenkins had caught them cheating, looking over the shoulder of the Class Brain, then copying the answers.
"I take a very dim view of cheating," Mr. Jenkins said through clenched teeth. "And I have no tolerance at all for cheaters. You two come up here and bring your papers with you."
Having been caught red-handed, the boys knew better than to argue.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Jenkins," Tom began in a small voice, curiously out of character with his six-foot-four linebacker's body.
"Save your remorse," interrupted Mr. Jenkins. "It's about to become much more abject." He was at his desk now, opening the second drawer on the right-hand side, where he kept his gradebook, a supply of ball-point pens, cough drops, and a Jokari paddle from his college days.
"Empty your hip pockets and assume the position, Johnson," he ordered. Tom's red face went white, but he obeyed. He bent down and put his big hands just below his knees. I could see his butt muscles clenching through the thin fabric of his trousers.
"The position involves grabbing the ANKLES," corrected Mr. Jenkins, and pushed Tom down furhter till his bubbly butt was sticking out like a target. This position, of course, made butt-clenching impossible. With no further words, Mr. Jenkins drew back his big arm and let fly, one earsplitting swat after another. His jaw was set and there was fire in his eyes. Tom Johnson, who never batted an eye when he broke his ankle as a freshman, snapped like a dry twig. Soon the sound of his sobbing and howling was mingling with the paddle whacks, which built relentlessly to twelve, then abruptly stopped.
"Lace your fingers behind your head and face the blackboard. And don't move, or you can take another dozen. Mr. Haskins, it's your turn."
The whole sequence was repeated, except Barry Haskins, a notorious bully who hardly opened his mouth except to brag or make fun of someone, screamed like a girl at the first lick and was begging and blubbering before the third one. When the two criminals had stood for twenty minutes, Mr. Jenkins gave each boy the other boy's quiz and instructed them to tear them up.
That was why Tom Johnson and Barry Haskins spent Spring Break writing a Civics report...standing up in the library.