Silas Timberman by Howard Fast

skillful—considering that none but undergraduates worked on the paper—in a turgid game of words which achieved pomposity without ever saying anything of consequence, and which avoided the new spectre of controversial issues like a plague. Nevertheless, it was in tune with the times, and the students accepted it without any undue comment.
    The regular election of new staff for the fall semester, Alvin Morse as the new editor and Frank Hoffenstein as the managing editor, both of them seniors in the School of Journalism, made no immediate apparent difference in Fulcrum . As with the previous editors, they gave ample space to the football squad and took up as a cause and an issue the construction of an adequate stadium. They ran a not too daring article on patterns of sexual behavior on campus, printed those letters which resulted from it, and then printed a series of letters on the question of why there was no Negro teacher on Clemington’s faculty, a series which brought a calm and judicious comment, in letter form, from President Cabot—who approved the thought students were giving to this matter, cited it as an instance of the inevitability of “the American way,” and stated flatly that the standards of Clemington were scholastic and moral standards, pure and simple, and that anyone who met them, be he Jew or gentile, black or white, would be welcomed to the faculty. As for the Korean War, Fulcrum gave it formal support, echoing the position of the administration and condemning aggression, just as Fulcrum got out a special issue on the question of civil defense.
    In all of this, there was nothing to indicate the position it would take in its October 30th issue.
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    It was fortunate, Silas felt, that he had not read Fulcrum before his morning class on that Monday; for if he had, he could hardly have ignored it and might well have been drawn into a discussion he was hardly prepared for. As it was, most of his students had read it, and several asked him whether he had. No, he had not, he replied, but he would immediately—immediately upon getting out of this, for he had a sensation of a class at odds with itself and himself, fragmented and confused—and his own confusion at not knowing what was in Fulcrum only worsened the situation. Yet he would not permit himself to exhibit such obvious weakness as to halt his lecture and peer into the newspaper, even though a number of students were doing just that—to a point where he was prompted to remark caustically,
    â€œWhatever attraction Fulcrum has, suppose you pretend that mine is greater. Put the papers away.”
    Afterwards, he writhed over this small stupidity on his part—after he had read the two editorials, which he was able to do immediately after the class, alone in the security of his office. The first editorial, lead-off on page three, and a full column, was written by Alvin Morse. It was titled, Samuel B. Clemens, Communist , and it went on to say:
    â€œAn incident has occurred here at Clemington which has gone far enough to make us heartily ashamed of ourselves, and which may in time make us the laughing stock of the nation. We consider it so shocking that we have decided to deal with it forthrightly, bringing the whole matter out into the open where it properly belongs.
    â€œThis incident began with the decision, on the part of a respected member of the English Department, to base a survey syllabus for the semesters of 1950–1951 on the concept of Mark Twain as the decisive and determining factor in modern American literature. While some may disagree with this concept, one must admit that it is not unprecedented, and certainly no one will gainsay the importance of Mark Twain on our native literary scene.
    â€œProceeding with his plan, the professor in question announced to his class that he would use Mark Twain’s little known short novel, The Man That Corrupted Hadleyberg , as the central focus of his