THE S. P. M.
While our four friends are satisfying four very healthy appetites,
let’s look about us a little. The place is Wissining, Connecticut, and
Wissining, in case you happen not to be acquainted with it, is on the
Sound, about equidistant from New Haven and Newport. Perhaps you can
locate Greenburg better, for Greenburg is quite a city in a small way,
and something of a manufacturing town. Wissining lies just across the
river from Greenburg, and Yardley Hall School is about a half-mile
from the Wissining station. It may be that you have never noticed it,
even if you have traveled that way, for the railroad passes through
the Yardley property by way of a cut, and the school buildings are not
long in sight. But if you look sharp as your train crosses the bridge
over the little Wissining River, you will see them describing a rough
semicircle on the edge of a not distant hill; Clarke, Whitson, Oxford,
Merle, and the Kingdon Gymnasium. Dudley you won’t see for the reason
that it is situated back of the other buildings and across the Yard.
Oxford is a recitation hall; but, besides class-rooms, it holds Dr.
Hewitt’s apartments, the office, the laboratories, the library, the
assembly hall, and the rooms of the two school societies, Oxford and
Cambridge. The dining-room, or commons, is in Whitson.
The school property consists of some forty acres of hill, woodland, and
meadow, and ascends gradually from the shore to the plateau whereon the
buildings are set, and then descends as gently to the curving river at
the back. Here are the tennis courts and the athletic field, the golf
links and the boat house; and here, near the river-bank not long since,
was the ice rink whereon Yardley defeated the Broadwood hockey team
and won the first leg of the Pennimore Cup, the trophy presented by
Gerald’s father.
Yardley usually holds two hundred and seventy students, their ages
ranging from twelve to twenty. There are five classes known as First,
Second, Third, Fourth, and Preparatory, and Yardley’s graduates have
a habit of going on to Yale for the rest of their education, although
there have been occasions when rash youths have preferred Harvard.
Broadwood, which is situated some four miles distant as the crow
flies, is a prominent feeder to Princeton, and so rivalries begun at
these schools are often nourished at college. There have been other
stories written about Yardley Hall, and so if you want a more detailed
description of the school you have only to refer to a book called
“Forward Pass,” though for my part I think you already have heard
enough about it to answer our purpose. It’s a good school, is Yardley
Hall; good in all ways; and, which is more important, it turns out some
fine fellows. If I had space to set down a list of all the eminent
government officials, scientists, writers, jurists, diplomats and the
like who have graduated you would be vastly impressed. But I haven’t,
and you must just take my word for it. I might add that it has turned
out a large number of athletes who, if their renown has been more
fleeting, have won honor and acclaim.
There was a stereoptican lecture that night in Assembly Hall and, after
they had finished supper, Dan was all for hearing it. But Alf refused
to entertain the idea for a moment.
“It’s something about the Irish Lakes,” he said, “and no one cares a
fig for the Irish Lakes. It’s wet enough here to-night without having
to listen to a lot of drool about the Lake of Killarney and――and the
others. If the chap would lecture on Irish bulls I might go. No, my
soul craves excitement, Dan.”
“So does mine,” Dan laughed, “but I don’t know where to find it. We
might go up to Cambridge and watch Chambers and Rand play backgammon.”
“Awful thought! No, you come over to our room, Dan, and Tom and I will
entertain you. Bring little Geraldine along, if you like.”
“He’s gone off with Thompson. I’ll come over for awhile after the
lecture.”
“You won’t. You’ll be drowned in the Irish Lakes. Let the old lecture
go.” But Dan was obdurate. Alf called on Tom for aid.
“Tell him to come, Tom,” he said. “We’ll dance and sing and recite
poetry for him, won’t we?”
“Maybe you will,” was the calm response. “I’m going over to Oxford for
awhile. There’s a debate and a concert.”
Alf groaned.
“Another of your silly vaudevilles! All right, go ahead, both of you.
But you’ll be sorry when you come back and find that I’ve blown up the
building or assaulted a faculty from sheer boredom. You’ll wish then
that you’d been kind to me.”
They parted on the steps of Whitson, Dan and Tom scudding across to
Oxford, and Alf, hands in pockets and head drooping dejectedly, walking
off through the downpour toward Dudley. Dan tried to persuade Tom to
accompany him to the lecture, and Tom strove to induce Dan to accept
the hospitality of Oxford Society. They argued it out at the head of
each flight of stairs and consumed some ten or fifteen minutes, and
finally Tom tried to kidnap Dan by main force in the upper corridor,
and was severely reprimanded by an usher for unseemly noise. The
lecture was mildly interesting and lasted the better part of an hour.
At the back of the hall a group of younger fellows, among whom was
Gerald, found the darkened room much to their liking and spent most
of the time cutting-up. The lecturer, a spare, nervous gentleman with
a prominent Adam’s apple and a very bald head, was visibly annoyed
at times, and when one of the pictures was thrown on the screen
upside-down didn’t discover the fact until the snickers of his audience
appraised him that something was wrong. After the entertainment was
over Dan met Gerald in the corridor and took him off to Alf’s room.
They scuttled over to Dudley through the rain and slush and found Alf
alone in his glory, his feet to the fire and a tablet and pencil in his
hands.
“Where’s Tom?” he asked. “I need him. Hello, Gerald. Fate, Mr.
Pennimore, has decreed that you be one of us. Your appearance, as
welcome as unexpected, decides the matter. I congratulate you.”
“What the dickens are you babbling about?” asked Dan, ruffling Alf’s
hair. “What’s the game?”
“You shall know in due time. I can’t explain it more than once, and so
we will await the arrival of Mr. Dyer, our respected colleague. While
you fellows have been wasting your valuable time in aimless pleasures I
have been working.” He held up a leaf from the tablet scrawled upon on
both sides.
“Is it poetry?” asked Gerald.
“Or an essay for _The Scholiast_?” suggested Dan.
“No, children, it is――But here comes Mr. Dyer. Welcome, Mr. Dyer.
Remove your coat and join our little home circle.”
“Alf’s got one of his silly fits,” said Dan. “Sit down, Tom, and let
him get it off his chest.”
Alf arose, turned his back to the fireplace, thrust one hand between
the buttons of his waistcoat and faced his audience impressively. Dan
and Tom cheered subduedly.
“Gentlemen,” began Alf. “(For the moment we will suppose that you are
gentlemen.) There is an adage which has it that Satan finds some
mischief still for idle hands to do. At this time of year when the
inclemency of the weather and――ah――lack of athletics deprive most of us
of occupation, leaving us little wherewith to interest ourselves save
degrading studies, it is especially desirable that our minds and hands
should be kept busy to the end that Satan shall not get in his work
with us. Let us keep out of mischief at all cost, say I.”
“Hooray!” applauded Dan. Alf bowed profoundly.
“Gentlemen, I thank you. Now, therefore, I have spent a profitable hour
during your absence, and am happy to be able to say to you, gentlemen,
that the problem is solved. In order that we have an interest above the
drudgery of study, I submit to you plans for the forming of a society,
a secret society which――Mr. Pennimore, kindly close the transom and
guard the door. As I was about to say, a secret society, to be known as
the ‘S. P. M.’” He paused dramatically.
“What’s that mean?” asked Tom.
“The Society of Predatory Marauders!”
“Bully name,” commented Dan, with a grin. “Who are we going to maraud,
Alf?”
“Society in general; we will strive not to show favoritism or――or
bias. I suggest that we begin with the faculty.”
Enthusiastic applause from the audience.
“After that we will settle scores with such of our personal friends as
need attention.”
More applause.
“Then we can turn to our ancient and much-loved enemy, Broadwood
Academy. After blowing up the buildings at Broadwood, we will search
for other worlds to conquer.”
“Let’s begin with Broadwood,” suggested Tom, lazily. “I never did like
green as a color.”
“Mr. Dyer is out of order,” said Alf, severely. “I will read to
you a brief outline of――of――a brief outline. Mr. Pennimore, as
Sergeant-at-arms you will kindly plug up the key-hole. Now, then.
‘The Society of Predatory Marauders, incorporated under the laws of
the State of New Jersey.’ (That’s where all the robbers and hold-ups
incorporate, you know.) ‘Object, the betterment of Society and the
uplifting of the Human Race. Motto: Sic semper facultus――――’”
“That’s rotten Latin,” grunted Tom.
“Dry up! ‘_Sic semper facultus et al._ Password, Vengeance.’ (We will
have a grip and a special knock, but I haven’t got to those yet.)
‘Officers: Alfred Loring, Chief Assassin; Thomas Dyer, Executioner;
Daniel Vinton, Torturer; Gerald Pennimore,――er――Incendiary.’ Now,
gentlemen, the resolutions. These have been very thoughtfully and
carefully prepared. ‘Whereas, for years we have been ground under the
merciless heel of the faculty of this institution, have been deprived
of our innocent pleasures and punished without provocation, have
been intimidated and brow-beaten, crammed with useless knowledge and
otherwise maltreated, now, therefore, be it Resolved that we arise
in our might and overthrow the despotic rule of the tyrants; that we
burn, pillage, and destroy; that we show no mercy nor hold our hands
until vengeance is satisfied and the ground is strewn with the lifeless
bodies of our enemies and not one is left to tell the tale. So perish
all tyrants!’”
“Dandy!” cried Gerald.
“Sounds like one of Joe Chambers’s editorials,” commented Tom.
“Now then, the oath!” commanded Alf. “Arise, gentlemen! Raise your
hands and repeat after me. ‘To the S. P. M. I pledge my fealty and
life, forgetting all ties of blood, friendship, and affection, pledging
myself to obey its laws and commands. Failing this, I hope to choke!’
Swear!”
“Darn,” said Tom, calmly.
“We swear,” said Dan in a sepulchral voice.
“Aren’t there going to be any other members?” asked Gerald, eagerly.
“In time we will recruit. For the present the members are all here. Now
then.” Alf seated himself and dropped into conversational tones. “What
awful thing shall we do first, fellows?”
Tom yawned loudly.
“Go to bed,” he said.
“Bed!” exclaimed Alf. “Do you mean to tell me that you have
listened――er――er――listened unmoved to my eloquence, you old
sleepy-headed chump? Bed! Why, doesn’t your soul cry out for vengeance,
for――――”
“Sleep? It does.” Tom started to unlace a shoe.
“Where’s your sporting instinct, Tom,” pleaded Alf. “Please don’t go to
bed yet. Let’s do one desperate deed first, just a tiny desperate deed!
Breathes there a man with soul so dead who even to himself has said
‘It’s time to go to bed?’ _No!_”
But Tom went calmly on with his preparations, and finally Alf gave him
up.
“Traitor!” he hissed. “Ingrate! Sluggard! Here I go to work and get up
the dandiest secret society that ever was, and what’s the result? Do I
get gratitude, support? I do not! I am yawned at! Very well, go to bed;
saturate yourself with sleep. The rest of us will go on with the great
work without you.” Alf seized a golf club from a corner and waved it
above his head. “On to Oxford Hall!” he shouted. “Death to the tyrants!
Down with faculty! _Viva la Commune! A bas le――――_”
There was a soft knock at the door. Alf’s arm and the improvised sword
dropped.
“Come!” called Tom.
The door opened and Mr. McIntyre, or Kilts, as the boys called him,
faced them. Kilts was the mathematics instructor and roomed at the end
of the corridor. He shook his head gently.
“’Tis past ten,” he said, “and I’m thinking ye’d best be quiet,
gentlemen.”
He closed the door again and went off down the hall. Alf looked at the
others in deep disgust.
“That’s always the way,” he grumbled. “Whenever I try to save the
country some one butts in and spoils it!”
“You’re like the Irishman who said that Ireland could be free to-morrow
if it wasn’t for the police,” laughed Dan. Alf viewed him coldly.
“I don’t see the apposition of your story, Mr. Vinton.”
“Why didn’t you start in and slay Kilts?” asked Tom.
“Because,” replied Alf, with dignity, “he was unarmed.”
“Come on, Gerald,” laughed Dan. “Let’s go home. The massacre is
postponed until to-morrow.”
“To-morrow is Sunday,” Gerald objected. “We can’t wipe out the faculty
on Sunday, can we?”
“No.” Alf shook his head thoughtfully. “No, my soul revolts at the
thought of killing any one on Sunday. We will wait until Monday.
Good-night, Brothers in the Cause. _Sic semper facultus et al.!_”
“The same to you,” replied Dan, politely, from the doorway, “and many
of them.”