It's true that, in general, there's nothing positive about crapping one's pants. And Jeremy did experience the usual range of reactions in the seconds immediately before and after the bursting of his bowels' dam, scurrying, as he did, bowleggedly down the hall to the bathroom just barely too late. He really did feel momentarily consumed with disgust at the sensation, then paranoia that someone had seen or would be able to tell later, then the mental flailing that accompanied trying to figure out just what he was supposed to do with a decidedly brown-stained pair of pants and no change of clothes at hand.
However, there was a sort of grim satisfaction in dealing with the harsh realities of being in a public bathroom stall with crapped-in pants and no change of clothes or means of cleaning the current ones without leaving the stall in an unfortunate state of nudity. Jeremy would survive, and possibly even go undetected for long enough to make it home. He would blot at his pants with sparse institutional toilet paper, track down an empty garbage bag for his underwear, and walk with his backpack hanging low to cover the seat of his pants. He would rise above this momentary lapse in fecal composure and live to see another, brighter, crapless day.