It seemed to me the perfection of pith and poetry. What could be more
terse? Not a word to spare, and yet everything fully expressed. Rhyme
and rhythm faultless. It was a delightful poet who made those verses. As
for the beer itself--that, I think, must have been made from the root
of all evil! A single glass of it insured an uninterrupted pain for
twenty-four hours.
The influence of my liberality working on Charley Marden--for it was I
who paid for the beer--he presently invited us all to take an ice-cream
with him at Pettingil's saloon. Pettingil was the Delmonico of
Rivermouth. He furnished ices and confectionery for aristocratic balls
and parties, and didn't disdain to officiate as leader of the orchestra
at the same; for Pettingil played on the violin, as Pepper Whitcomb
described it, “like Old Scratch.”
Pettingil's confectionery store was on the corner of Willow and High
Streets. The saloon, separated from the shop by a flight of three steps
leading to a door hung with faded red drapery, had about it an air of
mystery and seclusion quite delightful. Four windows, also draped, faced
the side-street, affording an unobstructed view of Marm Hatch's back
yard, where a number of inexplicable garments on a clothes-line were
always to be seen careering in the wind.
There was a lull just then in the ice-cream business, it being
dinner-time, and we found the saloon unoccupied. When we had seated
ourselves around the largest marble-topped table, Charley Marden in a
manly voice ordered twelve sixpenny icecreams, “strawberry and verneller
mixed.”
It was a magnificent sight, those twelve chilly glasses entering the
room on a waiter, the red and white custard rising from each glass like
a church-steeple, and the spoon-handle shooting up from the apex like
a spire. I doubt if a person of the nicest palate could have
distinguished, with his eyes shut, which was the vanilla and which the
strawberry; but if I could at this moment obtain a cream tasting as that
did, I would give five dollars for a very small quantity.
We fell to with a will, and so evenly balanced were our capabilities
that we finished our creams together, the spoons clinking in the glasses
like one spoon.
“Let's have some more!” cried Charley Marden, with the air of Aladdin
ordering up a fresh hogshead of pearls and rubies. “Tom Bailey, tell
Pettingil to send in another round.”
Could I credit my ears? I looked at him to see if he were in earnest.
He meant it. In a moment more I was leaning over the counter giving
directions for a second supply. Thinking it would make no difference to
such a gorgeous young sybarite as Marden, I took the liberty of ordering
ninepenny creams this time.
On returning to the saloon, what was my horror at finding it empty!
There were the twelve cloudy glasses, standing in a circle on the sticky
marble slab, and not a boy to be seen. A pair of hands letting go their
hold on the window-sill outside explained matters. I had been made a
victim.
I couldn't stay and face Pettingil, whose peppery temper was well known
among the boys. I hadn't a cent in the world to appease him. What should
I do? I heard the clink of approaching glasses--the ninepenny creams.
I rushed to the nearest window. It was only five feet to the ground. I
threw myself out as if I had been an old hat.
Landing on my feet, I fled breathlessly down High Street, through
Willow, and was turning into Brierwood Place when the sound of several
voices, calling to me in distress, stopped my progress.
“Look out, you fool! The mine! The mine!” yelled the warning voices.
Several men and boys were standing at the head of the street, making
insane gestures to me to avoid something. But I saw no mine, only in the
middle of the road in front of me was a common flour-barrel, which, as
I gazed at it, suddenly rose into the air with a terrific explosion.
I felt myself thrown violently off my feet. I remember nothing else,
excepting that, as I went up, I caught a momentary glimpse of Ezra
Wingate leering through is shop window like an avenging spirit.
The mine that had wrought me woe was not properly a mine at all, but
merely a few ounces of powder placed under an empty keg or barrel and
fired with a slow-match. Boys who didn't happen to have pistols or
cannon generally burnt their powder in this fashion.
For an account of what followed I am indebted to hearsay, for I was
insensible when the people picked me up and carried me home on a shutter
borrowed from the proprietor of Pettingil's saloon. I was supposed to
be killed, but happily (happily for me at least) I was merely stunned.
I lay in a semi-unconscious state until eight o'clock that night, when
I attempted to speak. Miss Abigail, who watched by the bedside, put
her ear down to my lips and was saluted with these remarkable words:
“Strawberry and verneller mixed!”
“Mercy on us! What is the boy saying?” cried Miss Abigail.
“ROOTBEERSOLDHERE!”
This inscription is copied from a triangular-shaped
piece of slate, still preserved in the garret of the Nutter
House, together with the pistol butt itself, which was
subsequently dug up for a postmortem examination.
Chapter Nine--I Become an R. M. C.
In the course of ten days I recovered sufficiently from my injuries to
attend school, where, for a little while, I was looked upon as a hero,
on account of having been blown up. What don't we make a hero of? The
distraction which prevailed in the classes the week preceding the Fourth
had subsided, and nothing remained to indicate the recent festivities,
excepting a noticeable want of eyebrows on the part of Pepper Whitcomb
and myself.
In August we had two weeks' vacation. It was about this time that I
became a member of the Rivermouth Centipedes, a secret society composed
of twelve of the Temple Grammar School boys. This was an honor to which
I had long aspired, but, being a new boy, I was not admitted to the
fraternity until my character had fully developed itself.
It was a very select society, the object of which I never fathomed,
though I was an active member of the body during the remainder of my
residence at Rivermouth, and at one time held the onerous position of F.
C., First Centipede. Each of the elect wore a copper cent (some occult
association being established between a cent apiece and a centipedes
suspended by a string round his neck). The medals were worn next the
skin, and it was while bathing one day at Grave Point, with Jack Harris
and Fred Langdon, that I had my curiosity roused to the highest pitch
by a sight of these singular emblems. As soon as I ascertained the
existence of a boys' club, of course I was ready to die to join it. And
eventually I was allowed to join.
The initiation ceremony took place in Fred Langdon's barn, where I was
submitted to a series of trials not calculated to soothe the nerves of a
timorous boy. Before being led to the Grotto of Enchantment--such was the
modest title given to the loft over my friend's wood-house--my hands were
securely pinioned, and my eyes covered with a thick silk handkerchief.
At the head of the stairs I was told in an unrecognizable, husky voice,
that it was not yet too late to retreat if I felt myself physically too
weak to undergo the necessary tortures. I replied that I was not too
weak, in a tone which I intended to be resolute, but which, in spite of
me, seemed to come from the pit of my stomach.
“It is well!” said the husky voice.
I did not feel so sure about that; but, having made up my mind to be a
Centipede, a Centipede I was bound to be. Other boys had passed through
the ordeal and lived, why should not I?
A prolonged silence followed this preliminary examination and I was
wondering what would come next, when a pistol fired off close by my ear
deafened me for a moment. The unknown voice then directed me to take ten
steps forward and stop at the word halt. I took ten steps, and halted.
“Stricken mortal,” said a second husky voice, more husky, if possible,
than the first, “if you had advanced another inch, you would have
disappeared down an abyss three thousand feet deep!”
I naturally shrunk back at this friendly piece of information. A prick
from some two-pronged instrument, evidently a pitchfork, gently
checked my retreat. I was then conducted to the brink of several other
precipices, and ordered to step over many dangerous chasms, where
the result would have been instant death if I had committed the least
mistake. I have neglected to say that my movements were accompanied by
dismal groans from different parts of the grotto.
Finally, I was led up a steep plank to what appeared to me an
incalculable height. Here I stood breathless while the bylaws were read
aloud. A more extraordinary code of laws never came from the brain of
man. The penalties attached to the abject being who should reveal any
of the secrets of the society were enough to make the blood run cold. A
second pistol-shot was heard, the something I stood on sunk with a crash
beneath my feet and I fell two miles, as nearly as I could compute it.
At the same instant the handkerchief was whisked from my eyes, and I
found myself standing in an empty hogshead surrounded by twelve masked
figures fantastically dressed. One of the conspirators was really
appalling with a tin sauce-pan on his head, and a tiger-skin sleigh-robe
thrown over his shoulders. I scarcely need say that there were no
vestiges to be seen of the fearful gulfs over which I had passed so
cautiously. My ascent had been to the top of the hogshead, and my
descent to the bottom thereof. Holding one another by the hand,
and chanting a low dirge, the Mystic Twelve revolved about me. This
concluded the ceremony. With a merry shout the boys threw off their
masks, and I was declared a regularly installed member of the R. M. C.
I afterwards had a good deal of sport out of the club, for these
initiations, as you may imagine, were sometimes very comical spectacles,
especially when the aspirant for centipedal honors happened to be of a
timid disposition. If he showed the slightest terror, he was certain
to be tricked unmercifully. One of our subsequent devices--a humble
invention of my own--was to request the blindfolded candidate to put out
his tongue, whereupon the First Centipede would say, in a low tone,
as if not intended for the ear of the victim, “Diabolus, fetch me the
red-hot iron!” The expedition with which that tongue would disappear was
simply ridiculous.
Our meetings were held in various barns, at no stated periods, but as
circumstances suggested. Any member had a right to call a meeting. Each
boy who failed to report himself was fined one cent. Whenever a member
had reasons for thinking that another member would be unable to attend,
he called a meeting. For instance, immediately on learning the death of
Harry Blake's great-grandfather, I issued a call. By these simple and
ingenious measures we kept our treasury in a flourishing condition,
sometimes having on hand as much as a dollar and a quarter.
I have said that the society had no special object. It is true, there
was a tacit understanding among us that the Centipedes were to stand by
one another on all occasions, though I don't remember that they did; but
further than this we had no purpose, unless it was to accomplish as
a body the same amount of mischief which we were sure to do as
individuals. To mystify the staid and slow-going Rivermouthians was our
frequent pleasure. Several of our pranks won us such a reputation among
the townsfolk, that we were credited with having a large finger in
whatever went amiss in the place.
One morning, about a week after my admission into the secret order, the
quiet citizens awoke to find that the signboards of all the principal
streets had changed places during the night. People who went trustfully
to sleep in Currant Square opened their eyes in Honeysuckle Terrace.
Jones's Avenue at the north end had suddenly become Walnut Street,
and Peanut Street was nowhere to be found. Confusion reigned. The town
authorities took the matter in hand without delay, and six of the Temple
Grammar School boys were summoned to appear before justice Clapham.
Having tearfully disclaimed to my grandfather all knowledge of
the transaction, I disappeared from the family circle, and was not
apprehended until late in the afternoon, when the Captain dragged me
ignominiously from the haymow and conducted me, more dead than alive,
to the office of justice Clapham. Here I encountered five other pallid
culprits, who had been fished out of divers coal-bins, garrets, and
chicken-coops, to answer the demands of the outraged laws. (Charley
Marden had hidden himself in a pile of gravel behind his father's house,
and looked like a recently exhumed mummy.)
There was not the least evidence against us; and, indeed, we were wholly
innocent of the offence. The trick, as was afterwards proved, had been
played by a party of soldiers stationed at the fort in the harbor. We
were indebted for our arrest to Master Conway, who had slyly dropped a
hint, within the hearing of Selectman Mudge, to the effect that “young
Bailey and his five cronies could tell something about them signs.”
When he was called upon to make good his assertion, he was considerably
more terrified than the Centipedes, though they were ready to sink into
their shoes.
At our next meeting it was unanimously resolved that Conway's animosity
should not be quietly submitted to. He had sought to inform against
us in the stagecoach business; he had volunteered to carry Pettingil's
“little bill” for twenty-four icecreams to Charley Marden's father; and
now he had caused us to be arraigned before justice Clapham on a charge
equally groundless and painful. After much noisy discussion, a plan of
retaliation was agreed upon.
There was a certain slim, mild apothecary in the town, by the name of
Meeks. It was generally given out that Mr. Meeks had a vague desire
to get married, but, being a shy and timorous youth, lacked the moral
courage to do so. It was also well known that the Widow Conway had not
buried her heart with the late lamented. As to her shyness, that was not
so clear. Indeed, her attentions to Mr. Meeks, whose mother she might
have been, were of a nature not to be misunderstood, and were not
misunderstood by anyone but Mr. Meeks himself.
The widow carried on a dress-making establishment at her residence on
the corner opposite Meeks's drug-store, and kept a wary eye on all the
young ladies from Miss Dorothy Gibbs's Female Institute who patronized
the shop for soda-water, acid-drops, and slate-pencils. In the afternoon
the widow was usually seen seated, smartly dressed, at her window
upstairs, casting destructive glances across the street--the artificial
roses in her cap and her whole languishing manner saying as plainly as a
label on a prescription, “To be Taken Immediately!” But Mr. Meeks didn't
take.
The lady's fondness, and the gentleman's blindness, were topics ably
handled at every sewing-circle in the town. It was through these two
luckless individuals that we proposed to strike a blow at the common
enemy. To kill less than three birds with one stone did not suit
our sanguinary purpose. We disliked the widow not so much for her
sentimentality as for being the mother of Bill Conway; we disliked Mr.
Meeks, not because he was insipid, like his own syrups, but because the
widow loved him. Bill Conway we hated for himself.
Late one dark Saturday night in September we carried our plan into
effect. On the following morning, as the orderly citizens wended their
way to church past the widow's abode, their sober faces relaxed at
beholding over her front door the well known gilt Mortar and Pestle
which usually stood on the top of a pole on the opposite corner;
while the passers on that side of the street were equally amused and
scandalized at seeing a placard bearing the following announcement
tacked to the druggist's window-shutters:
Wanted, a Sempstress!
The naughty cleverness of the joke (which I should be sorry to defend)
was recognized at once. It spread like wildfire over the town, and,
though the mortar and the placard were speedily removed, our triumph
was complete. The whole community was on the broad grin, and our
participation in the affair seemingly unsuspected.
It was those wicked soldiers at the fort!