INITIATION
The coming initiation ceremony of the Stuck-Up Society was the chief
subject of conversation during Tuesday. Many were the direful hints and
bloodthirsty tales that the new campers heard from the lips of seasoned
Lenape boys, who, of course, were all members of the society and who
were all occupied in getting out their regalia and ceremonial weapons in
preparation for the big night.
Immediately after the supper dishes were washed, the lodge was cleared
of all except the dozen members of the society who had been chosen to
arrange the mess-hall as the Throne Room. Blackie, sitting on the steps
in front of his tent, could hear a prodigious thumping and running and
hurly-burly inside the lodge, but could see nothing, because blankets
had been hung over all the windows and the door was guarded. He was
gravely watching Slater, who had been initiated the year before. The
red-headed boy was putting the finishing touches on a war-club he had
just made, meanwhile whistling the Funeral March in a dolorous key.
“How’s that?” he asked, whirling the formidable club by its thong. “When
you’re a member, you can bear one of these at initiations too.”
“Say, how do you make one of those clubs?” asked Blackie.
“First you find a nice little white birch tree. You dig it up and cut it
off about two feet above the roots; then you peel it around the base and
sharpen the roots. Then you can cut your mark and decorations and
designs on the bark, like this. If you soak it in water soon after it’s
cut, it gives it this nice, red, bloody color.”
“All loyal Stuck-Ups come to the Throne Room!” came a call through the
megaphone on the lodge porch.
“So long,” said Slater. “I’ve got to go up now. I’ll see you later. Take
my advice and don’t get fresh with the Grand Mogul, or it’ll be all the
worse for you.”
He departed, swinging his club with gusto. Blackie left to join the
group of new campers who were gathered under the big black-cherry tree
by the baseball field to await the summons to their doom. There were
about forty of them; among them he found many he knew, mostly boys who
had never spent a season at Lenape. Lefkowitz, Guppy, Fat Crampton, and
Gallegher were those from Tent Four who, beside himself, were to prepare
to undergo the awful ordeal. They sat about nervously on the stone
fence, trying to reassure themselves by bold talk and a great deal of
forced laughter.
“Here they come!” shouted one boy after a while, and instantly there was
silence. All eyes were turned to watch the approach of the Outer Guard,
which consisted of four older boys marching toward them in formation.
Each one of them wore nothing but a towel caught about his hips and
knotted on the side, and fantastic peaked hats some three feet high that
had been made by wetting an ordinary felt hat and pulling it over the
end of a baseball bat until the crown had stretched to a high point. The
faces and bodies of the Guard were barbarically daubed and streaked with
colored grease-paint, and each bore over his shoulder a broad-bladed
canoe paddle.
They solemnly halted beside the secretly trembling neophytes, and
“Kipper” Dabney, who was in charge, spoke in hollow tones: “Line up by
the alphabet—those with names beginning with A are in front. You are all
about to undergo the dread inquisition of the Omnipotent Stuck-Up
Society. Meditate upon your benighted souls, and ponder how best you can
serve the spirit of Lenape!”
He counted off the first four boys in the line, and marched them away to
the lodge porch. Blackie saw Dabney give a secret knock and a password;
the portals of the Throne Room unclosed; there was a flourish of
trumpets, and then an ominous silence that lasted until the Outer Guard
again came to take four more aspirants to the great hall of the society.
Four by four, Blackie Thorne saw his fellows vanish into the echoing
Throne Room. He was almost at the end of the line, and did not know
whether to be pleased or sorry that he would be one of the last to be
initiated; but Fat Crampton went with the second bunch, and both Guppy
and Gallegher with the fourth. Blackie was surprised to see the latter,
about twenty minutes after he had entered, ejected somewhat roughly
through the door and escorted down the steps by two stalwart guards.
“What’s the matter?” he called. “What did they do to you, Irish?”
“Aw, they booted me out of their old society!” mumbled Gallegher. “They
let that little squirt Guppy stay in, though. Guess I didn’t bow down
and lick their boots enough to suit ’em.”
“Key down, you!” ordered one of the guards. “You have been told to go to
your tent. You, Thorne, get back in line and wait your turn.”
Blackie returned to his place, wondering at this new development.
Gallegher had failed to pass the trials for some reason; evidently the
Stuck-Ups did not accept everybody. But he figured that he was at least
as clever as Nightshirt Guppy and could stand any test they might put to
him.
At last there were only three neophytes left under the
cherry-tree—Blackie, a younger boy named “Peanut” Westover, and Slim
Yerkes. Peanut had grown more and more timid as the minutes passed, and
at last ventured to address the others in quavering tones.
“Do—do you think they’re going to hurt us much?”
“Maybe,” said Blackie. “Who cares if they do?”
“I sneaked my pillow out here with me,” confessed the boy, “and stuffed
it in the seat of my trousers. Some of the kids said they paddle you
something awful.”
“Well, we’re in for it now,” said Yerkes, pointing. “Here come the
guards for us.”
The three neophytes were surrounded by the serious-faced paddle-bearers
and marched up the steps to the porch. Blackie assumed a careless
expression to conceal his inward misgivings, and whistled with as much
bravado as he could muster.
Knock! Knock! Knock! Kipper Dabney whispered a password through the
keyhole, the door swung open, and they were marched inside. Two boys
with sashes about their waists, whom Blackie recognized as Ted Fellowes
and his younger brother, put pennant-hung bugles to their lips and blew
a clarion call that set the rafters ringing. The huge room was dark
except for a space in front of the empty fireplace, where a row of
lanterns shed a yellow glare which, however, did not reveal the faces of
three men who sat, robed in blankets, upon a high dais made of benches
piled one upon the other. About the circle the grotesquely-costumed
members of the society sat in grim silence, nursing their war-clubs and
looking with threatening anticipation at the three newcomers.
From the darkness came the gruesome chords of the Funeral March, played
on the concealed piano; and down an aisle in the center of the seated
initiates proceeded the guarded trio. Peanut Westover was shivering with
fear, and his knees were knocking together at every step. With a roll of
drums they arrived before the dais, and were lined up facing the almost
indistinguishable robed figures of the Grand Master and his two
potentates.
“Three more rash neophytes who would dare the wrath of the honorable
Stuck-Up Society,” announced Kipper in a sepulchral voice, and with a
deep salaam he stepped back and left the three candidates together in
the middle of the lighted space. Blackie could feel everyone’s eyes upon
him, and he had a tingling, shaky feeling somewhere inside; but he
resolved that not one of them should think for a minute that he was
afraid.
The Grand Mogul upon his throne said nothing, but surveyed the three
boys before him with tantalizing deliberateness. Finally he spoke.
“You have signified your desire to enroll your unworthy names upon the
laurel-crowned roster of the honorable Stuck-Up Society. In order to win
to the gates of Glory you must first slay the Dragon of Selfishness,
defeat the Giant of Fear and arm yourselves with the Helmet of
Knowledge, the Spear of Courage, and the Sword of Justice. Are you ready
to make the trial?”
He looked at Peanut at the end of the line, and the boy quavered,
“Y-Y-Yes.”
“_Sir!_” roared the entire group within the lodge, bellowing with all
their might and beating their clubs upon the resounding floor.
“Y-Y-Yes, sir,” said Peanut, more frightened than ever.
“What is your name?” asked the inquisitor.
“P-P-Peanut, sir.”
“You have a most suspicious bulge in your trousers. Please remove the
padding, Master Seneschal.”
A boy stepped forth and removed the pillow that Peanut had placed where
he thought it would do the most good, while the circle of campers roared
with laughter at his predicament.
“Let’s see how smart you are, Peanut,” commanded the Grand Mogul. “Spell
your name with a sneeze and a hiccough.”
Peanut looked bewildered. Blackie nudged him and whispered, loud enough
for everybody to hear, “Go ahead, kid—he won’t hurt you. He’s only Sax
McNulty dressed up a little.”
The crowd gasped, horrified at such unheard-of impudence from a
candidate.
“One bell!” said the Mogul solemnly, looking gravely at the offender.
Off at one side, a dishpan struck with a drumstick resounded once with a
hollow clang. “Now—go on, Peanut.”
Taking courage, the smaller boy began: “P—achoo!—E—hup!—A—choo!—N——”
“That will do. Now get down on the floor and scramble like an egg.”
Peanut gave the best imitation of an egg in the process of being
scrambled that he could muster. When he had finished, Sax ordered him to
rise, and spoke again.
“Neophyte Peanut, you must learn that the spirit of Lenape is found in
sacrifice and self-denial. Through secret channels I am informed that
your greatest weakness is wasting the time of your leaders with foolish
questions. To remind you that it is better for a camper to discover
things for himself, I command you not to ask a single question of
anybody all day to-morrow; if any member of the society hears you ask a
question, he will be entitled to hot-hand you once. Now, you tall,
gangling, skinny drink of water on the other end,” he continued, turning
toward Slim Yerkes, “what have you got to say for yourself?”
“Nothing, sir,” said Slim quietly.
“That’s just the trouble with you. You’re always so quiet that nobody
ever knows you’re around. I’ll bet a dollar to a flash of lightning that
you’ve got lots of talent but are afraid to let anybody know it. Camp is
the place where a boy learns to step out of the background and show what
he can do. You’re here to-night to help amuse the Stuck-Ups. Let’s
see—can you sing?”
“No, sir.”
“There you go—I’m sure you’re a mighty fine singer if only you had a
little confidence. Now clear your throat, sound off, and sing in a bold
voice ‘How Dry I Am,’ starting from the end and working forwards.”
“Am I dry how——” Slim croaked feebly. The campers set up a groan, but
the Grand Mogul pretended to be immensely pleased at the thin lad’s
singing ability.
“That’s not so terrible. Now, just to make you get out of your shell, I
order you to put on a free show to-morrow for anybody that asks you.
Just pretend you’re a whole circus side-show, and when they ask you,
give imitations of the Fat Lady, the India-Rubber Man, JoJo the
Dog-Faced Boy, the Snake Charmer, or anything else they happen to think
up. Now, next case for the executioner!” He transferred his attention to
Blackie Thorne.
“All right,” said Blackie insolently, deliberately leaving off the title
of respect. “What are you going to do to me?”
“_Sir!_” roared the assembled Stuck-Ups.
“Two bells! Three bells and the foolhardy neophyte hangs on the red
cedar at midnight!” intoned Sax McNulty. The dishpan gong resounded with
two slow strokes. “You have twice dared the wrath of the Stuck-Up
Society. What excuse have you to offer, you in the middle? What’s your
name?”
Blackie resolved that he would not be daunted by the rigmarole of the
initiation as his two companions had been, and answered as impudently as
he could, “Aw, I go by the name of Saxophone McNulty.”
The listeners broke into a pandemonium of hooting and roaring, almost
drowning out the booming of the gong sounding three bells. For the first
time the Grand Mogul’s tone became deadly serious, and when he could
make himself heard he addressed Blackie with measured calm.
“Though the Stuck-Up Society has assembled here to-night in a spirit of
fun, the unwritten code of good-fellowship should govern our every
action as much now as at any other time. You, Thorne, have deliberately
disregarded that code. Besides being an obvious falsehood, your answer
showed a silly wilfulness. In the few days you have been at Lenape you
have shown yourself to be a ‘fresh guy’ and a bully to those who are
weaker than yourself; you have shown a lack of self-control and a
selfish forgetfulness of the other fellow. You get lots of fun out of
playing jokes on somebody else, but as soon as they play a trick on you,
you get sore and go off by yourself and sulk. Am I right?”
“I guess so, sir.” Blackie hung his head; he hated to be talked to this
way in front of all the other campers.
“Don’t forget, Blackie,” went on the leader, “that the difficult things
in the world are the ones worth fighting for. It’s easy to be fresh, to
be a bully, to lose your temper, to stir up mischief; but the
worth-while things are gentlemanliness and self-control. Everybody here
will help you all they can, but only you yourself can fight the fight to
make yourself a good Lenape camper. When you have won that fight and
proved that you possess the spirit of sportsmanship and team-play, you
can have another chance to join the honorable ranks of the Stuck-Up
Society. The initiation ceremonies will now proceed without you. Go to
your tent!”