And the legend grew. It was rumored that John Benton and Arnold Jameson were communist agitators. Hadn’t they defended the Jews? And what were Jews but the worst damned breed of communist on earth! Didn’t they think that the confounded Japs should be allowed to thin Idaho beets, even though Idahoans starved? If they weren’t communists, then what in hell were they?
And John Benton, bewildered, terrified, felt the growth of a mighty unfriendliness. Idlers in pool halls, on the streets, looked at him with skulking eyes. Men who had introduced him as our distinguished citizen did not speak to him now. He wrote a letter to his local paper, summarizing the argument of an eminent American who said Roosevelt might lead the nation into war to save his face. And then the crisis came.
The paper declared one morning that Jameson had made remarks to his classes which were false and subversive and communistic, and that John Benton was in the pay of Russia. It demanded the dismissal of the one and the resignation of the other; and two days later Jameson was called before the trustees. There were five members on the board, including John; Cuthwright, the banker; a druggist; and a lawyer and the editor of the local newspaper. They sat at the head of a long table in the banker’s office and Jameson came in, looking anxiously from face to face. Cuthwright waved him to a chair.
“Jameson, have you anything to say in your defense?”
“What is the charge against me?”
“Why, that your teaching is subversive. It is dangerous to the welfare of our government.”
“Because I preach peace?”
“Because,” said Cuthwright impatiently, “you talk like a communist.”
He leaned forward and folded his arms on the table. He was a big man with stern jaws and a paralyzing gaze. “A week ago you said in your class in history that the World War was a mistake and we entered it because our statesmen were outwitted by the English. You implied, as I understand it, that we’re a nation of fools—”
“I was quoting,” said Jameson, “from a book.”