THE RIDDLE CLUB MEETS
Although Polly had been so eager when she spoke of the meeting, she was
the last one to come to the clubroom after school the next afternoon.
She looked flushed and excited, and, without knowing why, the others
felt a little thrill of excitement, too.
Polly called the meeting to order and asked for unfinished business.
There was none.
“New business?” she asked.
Fred rose, the bank prominently displayed in his hand.
“The treasurer,” he announced, rattling the “treasure” cheerfully,
“would like to remind you that the dues are due.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” grumbled Ward. “It’s too soon after
Thanksgiving. No one has any money this time of year.”
Fred gave him an exasperated glance.
“I only wish,” he said coldly, “that you’d let me know the time of year
you want to pay your dues. In summer you say you need the money for
ice-cream and in winter you need it for--for--icicles, I suppose!”
Ward giggled and Margy sighed.
“Now they’ll argue over that for half an hour,” she whispered to Polly.
But Fred was in no mood for argument. He felt that he had a duty to
perform and he intended to perform it, whether or not his friends
enjoyed the performance.
“If you think I enjoy prying you loose from ten cents, Ward Larue,”
said Fred, “or you either, Artie Marley, you’re mistaken. But as long
as we have a club and a treasurer and I’m the treasurer, you’re going
to pay your dues and pay ’em at the right time.”
“I guess you can’t collect the money if I haven’t got it,” retorted
Ward.
“Then you’ll lose your standing,” said Fred, making a wild guess at the
“by-laws.” The Riddle Club had never bothered much with by-laws.
But Polly thought it time to interfere.
“I think you boys are too silly for words,” she pronounced. “Of
course Fred has to collect the dues--that’s his work. But you know,
Fred, that if you didn’t pitch into Ward, he’d hand you the ten cents
without coaxing. Why you want to argue and get cross is more than I can
understand.”
Ward scowled and Fred laughed good-naturedly.
“There’s the bank,” he said. “You can put your money in it or leave it
alone. But let me tell you, no club lasts very long without dues.”
“We haven’t spent a cent yet,” grumbled Ward, but he slipped his dime
into the bank in something like haste.
The other dimes tinkled merrily after, and the sound was music in
Fred’s ears. Whatever he chose to do, he did with all his might, and
the matter of club dues was a serious matter with him.
“What are we going to spend the money for?” asked Artie, to whom, like
Ward, the bank seemed to hold a fortune.
“We’re not going to spend it for anything,” Polly informed him, “till
we need something very much.”
“We could buy Christmas presents with it,” suggested Artie, wistfully.
“Artie Marley, I’m surprised!” said Polly. “That money doesn’t belong
to us any more. It is club money, and has to be spent for the good of
the club. Don’t you understand?”
“Well, I’m glad,” remarked Artie, “that the dues aren’t more than ten
cents.”
Fred was ready with a retort, but Polly forestalled him.
“Is there any other business before the club?” she asked quickly.
Apparently there was not.
“Let’s begin and ask riddles, then,” said Margy.
“I have something to tell, first,” announced Polly. “Wait a minute.”
From her blouse pocket she took six tiny boxes, each wrapped in white
paper and fastened with an elastic band.
“What in the world----” began Margy, but Jess said:
“Sh!”
“There’s one apiece,” said Polly, her voice trembling a little with
eagerness. “Your names are written on the boxes. Here, Margy.”
She handed Margy one of the boxes and, in rapid succession, Jess, Fred,
Ward and Artie received theirs. One was left for Polly.
“Do we open them?” asked Jess, and at Polly’s nod six pairs of hands
went to work.
“Gee!” said Artie simply, when he had opened his box.
The contents were the same. In each box, on a bed of pink cotton, lay
a shining pin. Dark blue enamel with a tiny “question mark” inlaid
in gold. Margy turned hers over. On the back “Margy Williamson” was
engraved.
[Illustration: “YOU ARE GOING TO PAY YOUR DUES.”]
“And our names on the back!” said Jess, in a tone of awe, turning her
pin over.
“Did Mr. Kirby send them?” asked Fred.
“He gave them to Mother to bring back with her,” explained Polly.
“Aren’t they lovely? I never saw such a darling pin!”
“And there isn’t another like it, anywhere!” murmured Margy. “We can
wear them to school to-morrow.”
“Don’t we have to thank Mr. Kirby, or something?” asked Artie,
seriously, and though they laughed at him, they knew what he meant.
“I can write a letter,” said Polly, “and we’ll all sign it.”
And a day or two later a “round robin” letter went to Rye, signed by
each member of the Riddle Club, a letter that left no doubt in Mr.
Kirby’s mind as to the pleasure his pins had given the lucky boys and
girls who received them.
“Now,” said Polly, when the pins were fastened in a conspicuous place
on each blouse or coat, “we can have our riddles.”
“I’ve got a riddle for Fred,” announced Ward: “How much money does the
moon represent?”
“Huh, that’s easy,” retorted Fred, confidently. “Quarters, of course.”
“That isn’t how much,” said Ward.
“Well, give me time to think and I’ll tell you,” answered Fred. “The
moon has four quarters--and four quarters--four quarters make a dollar.
Ah-ha, Mr. Larue, the moon represents a dollar.”
Ward was divided between admiration for Fred’s mathematical abilities
and chagrin that he had solved the riddle. The former won.
“You did get it,” he said generously. “You certainly are good at
guessing riddles, Fred.”
Fred was determined to show that he could be generous, too.
“I took two guesses,” he said, “and that really isn’t fair. I think
only one guess should be allowed.”
“I think so, too,” decided Polly. “If each one takes two or three
guesses, we use up the afternoon arguing.”
Artie’s easy giggle hinted that he rather enjoyed the argument, but
Margy and Jess were loudly in favor of the single guess.
“Your turn now, Margy,” said Polly.
“Why is your nose in the middle of your face, Ward?” asked Margy, with
startling suddenness.
Ward had been day-dreaming, and the question caught him unprepared. For
the moment he forgot that they were solving riddles.
“Where else would my nose be?” he demanded.
“That’s a riddle,” Margy explained, laughing. “Why is your nose in the
center of your face?”
Polly choked and turned it into a cough.
Ward felt of his nose thoughtfully.
“It’s in the middle of your face,” said Margy, hastily. “Why?”
“You don’t have to keep telling me,” Ward announced, with dignity. “I
heard you. My nose is in the middle of my face because--because a nose
knows where it ought to be.”
“Not bad,” said Fred.
“I told you the answer myself, and Polly nearly gave it away by
laughing,” said Margy. “The reason your nose is in the middle of your
face, Ward, is because it is the scenter.”
“The center of what?” asked the suspicious Ward.
“The center is the middle--that’s one kind,” said Margy, patiently.
“And then it’s the scenter--your nose is--because you use it to smell
with.”
Ward considered this in silence for a few moments.
“Well, maybe,” he admitted reluctantly.
“There’s no maybe about it,” said Margy. “Are you going to pay a
forfeit?”
“I don’t mind,” said Ward.
“Then I’d like three of the stuffed dates you have in your pocket,”
announced Margy, calmly.
“Your nose is a good scenter,” Fred told her. “How did you know Ward
had stuffed dates with him?”
“Because I saw him eating one,” said the calm Margy.
Ward had the grace to blush a little, and, jerking the box from a
pocket already stuffed to the bursting point, he silently passed it to
Margy. She opened it, took out three dates and gave it back to him.
“One apiece,” she said, handing a date to Polly, another to Jess, and
popping the third into her own mouth.
There were three dates left, by good luck, and Ward distributed these
to Artie and Fred and peace reigned again.
“Your turn, Artie,” said Polly, who wanted to laugh, but decided that
Margy didn’t.
“Mine’s about a nose, too,” said Artie. “Jess, what have noses but
smell not?”
“Teapots,” said Jess, with a beaming smile.
Artie looked disappointed.
“Bet you can’t guess this, Polly,” said Fred: “What is that which we
often return but never borrow?”
“Why, Fred Williamson, that’s my own pet riddle,” protested Polly. “I
was saving it up to ask you.”
“What don’t you borrow?” asked Jess, curiously.
“Thanks,” said Polly.
“What for? I didn’t do anything,” replied Jess, bewildered.
“That’s the answer to the riddle,” said Polly, merrily.
“I want to ask Margy a riddle,” Jess said. “What word will, if you take
away the first letter, make you sick?”
“You always pick out riddles with arithmetic in them,” Margy
complained. “And I can’t spell long words, either.”
“This isn’t a long word,” Jess encouraged her. “It’s a short one.”
“Wait a minute,” said Polly, rising. “Some one is knocking on the door.”
“Is it mince pie?” asked Margy, in a desperate effort to give the
answer before she should be interrupted. “Is it mince pie, Jess?”
“It certainly is not!” said Jess, and at that moment Polly flung the
door open and visitors appeared on the threshold.