THE INITIATION
At supper Gerald asked Alf if he might bring a recruit to the meeting.
“It’s Arthur Thompson, and he wants to join, Alf.”
“Bring him. Where’s your badge, though?” Alf pointed to his own yellow
disk, which he wore conspicuously pinned to his lapel. “Didn’t you get
instructions to wear it?”
“I didn’t know you meant to wear it to supper, Alf.”
“Why not? How do you suppose people are to know that we have a secret
society unless we advertise it?” asked Alf, disgustedly. “Well, bring
Thompson along with you. Joe Chambers is coming, too. As editor of _The
Scholiast_, he may be able to give the society a nice write-up in the
next number.”
When Gerald and Arthur reached 7 Dudley, they were confronted by a
sheet of brown paper pinned to the door. It read:
HEADQUARTERS OF THE S. P. M.
A SECRET SOCIETY
_Ask for a circular!_
Alf, Tom, Dan, and Joe Chambers were already inside as Gerald gave the
password and was admitted. Chambers was a tall First Classman, who wore
glasses and tried his best to look cultured. Joe rather fancied himself
as a molder of public opinion, and really did have a knack of writing
red-hot editorials. When Gerald came in he was sprawled in an easy
chair, visibly amused by the proceedings.
“We are all here,” announced Alf, gravely. “The Sergeant-at-Arms――I
mean the Incendiary――will lock the door. Hold on a minute, though!”
He took a sheet of foolscap from a table drawer, and pinned it on the
outside of the door, under the first sign. The others followed him and
read:
INITIATION NOW GOING ON.
NO ADMITTANCE.
“There,” said Alf, “I guess that’s some businesslike, what?”
“Look here,” said Joe, uneasily, “you didn’t say anything about
initiation when you beguiled me to this den of iniquity.”
“My dear chap,” expostulated Alf, “you didn’t think, did you, that you
could join a society of this sort without being initiated? Why, that’s
absurd, positively absurd. Isn’t it, Tom?”
“Silly,” grunted Tom.
“Of course.” Alf locked the door. “The initiation will now proceed. The
novitiates will remove their coats and waistcoats, please.”
Arthur obeyed smilingly, but Joe Chambers looked a trifle uneasy, and
hesitated. “What for?” he asked. “What do you think you’re going to do
with me?”
“What!” roared Alf, savagely. “Would you dare question the authority of
the Chief Assassin?”
“I would,” replied Joe, firmly. “What’s your game?”
Alf looked helplessly at Tom and Dan. “Did you ever hear of such
effrontery, such ingratitude, such――such―― Honest, now, did you?”
Dan sadly acknowledged that he never had. Tom grunted.
“Here I invite him to become a member of the finest, most high-toned
little band of cutthroats in the country,” said Alf, “and now he
refuses to allow himself to be initiated. Ha, I have it!” He viewed Joe
darkly. “It was a scheme to penetrate to our meeting-place and learn
our secrets! You are a brave man, Joe Chambers, to put yourself in our
power!”
“Come on, Joe, be a sport,” begged Dan. “What do you care if you get
killed?”
“And think what it would mean to the school, Joe,” added Tom. “We’d be
spared those editorials in _The Scholiast_!”
“Yes, be a good fellow, Joe. Just one tiny little initiation,” said
Alf. “It won’t take five minutes; honest, it won’t. Look at Thompson
there, brave and calm. My word, how brave and calm!”
“Oh, all right,” laughed Joe. “Go ahead with your tomfoolery. What do
you want me to do?”
“Remove your coat and waistcoat,” returned Alf, promptly. “The
Incendiary will give you a check for them. Thank you. Lay them aside,
Gerald. It’s barely possible he will need them again.” Alf crossed
to the window-seat and piled the cushions together in the middle.
“Now, gentlemen, the first ordeal will be that known as the Ordeal by
Water.” He opened the window from the bottom and put his hand out.
It was still raining hard, and Alf seemed to derive much satisfaction
from the fact. “Kindly place yourselves on the cushions, gentlemen. No,
faces up, please, and heads outside the window. That’s it. Thank you
very much.”
“But it’s raining, you idiot!” protested Joe.
“Ah, that is the point,” replied Alf, gravely.
“Well, I’m going to take my collar and tie off,” grumbled Joe. He did
so, and Arthur followed his example. Then, side by side, they stretched
themselves across the cushions, their legs sprawling over the floor,
and their heads and shoulders over the sill.
“Beautiful,” said Alf, approvingly. “Hold it, please.” From somewhere
he whisked into sight two broad-mouthed tin funnels and clapped them
into the mouths of the recumbent boys. At the same instant he closed
the window as far as it would go. Both strove to get their hands
outside to remove the funnels, but they were so closely jammed in
that they couldn’t move their arms. Dan and Tom and Gerald viewed the
proceedings with broad grins.
“How long before they will drown?” asked Tom, untroubledly.
“About two minutes,” replied Alf, darting to the door. It opened and
closed behind him, and they heard him speed down the corridor and then
go racing upstairs. A moment later there were footsteps in the room
overhead. Dan looked inquiringly at Tom.
“Whose room is above?” he asked.
“Steve Lingard’s. What’s Alf up to, do you suppose?”
“Search me, but I guess we’ll find out if we wait.” The two pair of
legs on the floor were beginning to move restively. Evidently the
position was growing wearisome. The three boys inside heard a window
above being softly raised, and they crowded around Joe and Arthur and
watched. Suddenly, there descended a great stream of water straight
onto the faces of the two initiates. Away went Arthur’s funnel, but not
until he had swallowed enough water to almost choke him. Joe’s funnel
had tipped sideways, so that he fared rather better; but when Dan and
Tom raised the window and pulled them into the room, there wasn’t much
to choose between them. Both looked like drowned rats, and were gasping
and choking and sputtering wildly. They were soaking wet halfway to
their waists. Alf came hurrying in, and the quartette sank into chairs
and laughed until their sides ached. Joe was the first one to find his
voice.
“A r-r-rotten joke!” he gasped. “You fellows think you’re plaguey
smart, don’t you? L-l-look at me! I’m wet to the skin!”
“Yes, but you’re a member in good standing of the S. P. M.,” returned
Alf, soothingly. “All that remains is to swear to reveal everything
that you have witnessed at the meeting.”
“Yah!” said Joe, disgustedly, seizing a towel and trying to dry himself
off. “You make me tired!”
Arthur, however, took it quite good-naturedly.
“Gee,” he said, “I thought I was drowned there for a minute. What was
it, Loring, a cloudburst?”
“Yes, from Lingard’s pitcher. It was a peach of a shot, wasn’t it?
Better take your shirts off, fellows, and get dry. Joe, you are elected
to the office of Press Agent Extraordinary and Chief of the Bureau of
Publicity. Thompson, you are First Assistant Assassin. Any little jobs
too menial for me to attend to will become your duty; trifling murders
that you can attend to in the evenings after study. And now, Brothers
in the Cause, we will banquet.”
Alf had provided crackers and pâté and cheese, and six bottles of
ginger ale; and Joe, who had wiped his shoulders dry, and hung his
upper garments over the radiator, became pacified. Alf removed the
initiation notice from the door, and replaced it with one announcing
that a midnight orgy was in progress. They were disturbed several times
by knocks and demands for admission, but no one was allowed in. When
Tom Roeder became too obstreperous, Dan mounted a chair and dropped an
empty ginger-ale bottle through the transom. He had to guess at his
aim, but, from the subsequent sounds, and the fact that Roeder took
himself off precipitately, it is probable that the aim was not so bad.
The meeting broke up late, and none of the six had any study to their
credit that night. But then, as Alf pointed out, that didn’t matter
very much, since in a very short time the faculty would be totally
eradicated. That, he explained, would happen just as soon as he was
able to decide which member to do away with first.
“The trouble is, fellows, that as soon as I decide on one, it occurs to
me that another deserves the honor more. At present Old Toby and Noah
are tied for first place.”
“I wish you’d make it Noah,” sighed Arthur. “I’m having beastly luck
with his old physics lately.”
“Why not begin at home?” asked Joe. “There’s Kilts right down the hall
there.”
“Ssh!” Alf leaned across the remains of the feast. “Just between
ourselves, I have a weakness for Kilts, and I’m hoping we’ll be able to
get him to join us. I’ve always thought that Kilts would make a dandy
assassin. He reminds me so often of one of those old Scotch Boarders――I
mean Borderers. When the time is ripe I shall put it up to him, and I
think――mind you, I only say I _think_――that he will jump at the chance!”
After that evening the S. P. M. met occasionally and informally,
and there was one hilarious evening when another double initiation
took place, Harry Durfee, the baseball captain, and Tom Roeder,
being admitted to the fold. By that time the S. P. M. had become
rather famous throughout school, and there were many applications
for membership. But Alf counseled keeping the society select. Many
guesses were made as to what S. P. M. stood for, the guesses varying
from Socially Prominent Members to Stewed Prune Munchers. Alf managed
to derive a good deal of entertainment from his society; but as
the faculty continued to breathe and have their being, it must be
confessed that the S. P. M. failed of its avowed mission. March settled
down to fair and warm weather before it was half gone; and with the
beginning of outdoor work for baseball and track candidates, the S. P.
M. lost its interest.
The track and field squad had grown to over forty boys, and every
afternoon they were hard at it under Andy Ryan’s direction. Every one
was glad when gymnasium work was over, and they could get out on the
field and feel the sod or cinders under their spiked shoes. Dan and Alf
were busy on the diamond, Dan at second base and Alf in left field. Tom
was swinging the hammer around his head or tossing the shot, getting
himself into form again, and at the same time helping Andy with the
coaching of three other candidates for the weight events. Thompson was
working hard at the high bar, and Gerald――well, Gerald was trying his
best to run his young legs off, and would have succeeded, I fancy,
had not Andy Ryan kept a close watch on him. For Gerald was eager and
willing to a degree; and if he had been left to his own devices, would
undoubtedly have blasted his chances in the very first fortnight by
overexertion.
For Gerald’s idea of training for the mile run was to go out every
day and run that distance at top speed; and he was both surprised and
disappointed when Andy restricted him to jogging around the track one
day, racing a quarter of a mile the next, and, as like as not, laying
him off entirely the third.
“But I’m perfectly able to run to-day, Andy,” he pleaded on one such
occasion. Andy shook his head.
“Easy does it, my boy, easy does it,” he replied. “You’ve got two
months ahead of you yet. We’ll start slow and work up. Mile runners
aren’t made in a day, nor a week, nor yet a year, for that matter.”
And when Gerald complained to Alf that he feared Andy wasn’t going to
take enough interest in him, Alf gave him a little lecture. “Get that
idea out of your head, Gerald,” he said, severely. “Andy knows what
he’s up to. When he tells you to jog, you jog. When he tells you to
sprint, you sprint; and when he says rest, why, rest as hard as you
know how. That’s the way to get on fastest. Distance running, as I’ve
heard, is largely a matter of endurance, and I guess endurance is
something you’ve got to learn slowly.”
“But I’ve run three miles time and again, Alf, and finished strong.”
“Yes, but you weren’t doing the mile around five-five, and that’s what
you’ll have to do if you want to get a place in the Duals, Gerald. Has
Andy given you a trial yet?”
“No, and I wish he would. He says he isn’t going to until after recess,
though.”
Alf nodded wisely. “What he says goes, Gerald. Keep that in mind.
Remember that Andy knows more about training than you ever will know if
you live to be a hundred.”
And Gerald got the same sort of talk from Dan and Tom. Only Arthur
Thompson was at all sympathetic.
“Seems to me,” said Arthur, “he might let you do a good deal more than
he is, Gerald. But then I don’t pretend to know anything about running.
Anyhow, I guess he means to take you on the squad.”
“I guess so, because there are only four of us out for the mile. Maury
has been at it every day this week, except Saturday. I don’t think it’s
fair, Arthur. Of course, I won’t be able to do anything against him if
I don’t get any practice!”
“Well, you don’t expect to beat him, do you?” asked Arthur, with a
smile. “He’s pretty good at it, you know.”
“The best he ever did it was five, three-and-four-fifths,” Gerald
objected.
“Well, isn’t that pretty good?”
“Y-yes, but I’ll bet I could do it pretty near that.”
“Bet you couldn’t!” replied Arthur, laughingly. “Not yet awhile. Why,
Maury’s nineteen, I guess; eighteen, anyhow.”
“Well, I’m sixteen,” answered Gerald, stoutly. “And, besides, age
hasn’t got much to do with it, anyway.”
“Yes it has, Gerald. You’re stronger at eighteen than you are at
sixteen, and strength means endurance; and I guess you’ve got to have a
heap of that to make good in the mile run.”
“I read in a book,” said Gerald, “that all you have to do to become a
good distance runner is to practice. And Andy won’t let me do that. I
guess I’ll try for something else. Think I could learn to pole vault?”
“Maybe. But I’d stick to the mile if I were you, Gerald. You’d have to
begin all over if you went in for the pole.”
“Yes, I suppose I should,” answered Gerald, dispiritedly.
Arthur slapped him on the back.
“Buck up, Mr. Pennimore! Never say die, you know.”
But Gerald’s countenance didn’t clear. “That’s all well enough for
you,” he grumbled, “for Andy treats you right. And Maury makes a fuss
about you, because you’re our crack pole vaulter. But they don’t care
a button whether I get along or not. I guess they’re just laughing at
me behind my back. Guess they think I’m sort of a fresh kid for wanting
to make the team. I’ve seen fellows kind of grin as I went by on the
track.”
“Oh, come, Gerald, that’s nonsense!” said Arthur, heartily. “Nobody’s
laughing at you, I’ll bet. It’s plucky of you to try for the track
squad, and I guess every fellow thinks that way. And don’t get
discouraged about it. Even if you don’t do terribly well this year,
you’ve got two more years here, and college afterward.”
“But I’m going to do well this year,” replied Gerald, determinedly.
Adding, less assuredly, “If they’ll give me a fair show, I mean.”
“And they will. Why shouldn’t they? Don’t you think Andy and Maury want
to win the Duals as much as you do? Not to treat you fair would be
cutting off their nose to spite their face, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” answered Gerald. Then he laughed. “Andy would have a
hard time cutting off his nose, wouldn’t he? He couldn’t find it, I
guess!”