THIS TIME they were really in trouble. The twelve boys lined up in the headmaster’s office at the Choate School in Wallingford, Connecticut, awaited sentencing for their crime. It was Monday, February 11, a glowering, heavy-skied New England winter morning. The loudest sound in the headmaster’s chambers was the rattle and hiss of the radiator. The headmaster sat silent at his desk. Before announcing their punishment, he would wait until every one of the thirteen accused was in his presence. All of them were guilty. One of them was missing.

The tallest boy in the lineup, K. LeMoyne Billings, a bespectacled, six-foot-two-inch, 175-pound sixth former (senior), knew exactly where the missing boy was at that moment, but Billings was mostly concerned about the face he himself was presenting. Billings had difficulty with his face: the natural expression of his emotions was usually about half under control. His eyes, friendly, blue, and guileless, were nearly incapable of bluffing, and anyone who knew him well could detect the supreme effort of trying to keep his face from breaking into a vast and reckless smile.

Full Story >>