NOW that the Houndsditch affair has been laid aside by the man in the
street and it is once more possible for a bearded Englishman to tread the
pavements of London without reproach, I may perhaps venture to give some
account of a secret society with which I have been intimately connected,
without earning the reputation of a monger of sensations.
Some four or five years ago I met a picturesque journalist who told me
that he had once been at pains to worm out the secrets of an anarchist
society in London, and had incorporated his discoveries in a volume so
marvellous that no editor or publisher would believe it. I only remember
one incident of all his wonderful adventures. He was led by an anarchist
comrade into a small shop in the Strand, thence into a cellar, and thence
along a series of passages and caverns that ultimately brought him out in
Seven Dials! Even Mr. Chesterton’s detective-anarchists in the “Man who
was Thursday” could not beat this. For my part I shall not try, but
shall content myself with a straightforward narration of facts.
I should think it was about last July that I first noticed that the
children of my neighbourhood, with whom I have some small acquaintance,
were endeavouring to assume a sinister aspect, and were wearing a cryptic
button with a marked air of secrecy. When I came out for my morning walk
the front garden would be animated with partially concealed children like
the park in Mr. Kipling’s “They,” and though I have long realised that
suburban front gardens do not lend themselves to the higher horticulture,
I felt the natural embarrassment of the man who does not know whether he
is expected to expel trespassers or welcome bashful visitors. In the
circumstances I affected not to notice that the lilac was murmurous with
ill-suppressed laughter and that the laurels were waving tumultuously;
but it was hardly reassuring to discover on my return that a large red
cross and the letters T. S. had been chalked on my gate by an unknown
hand. For a moment I wondered whether the children had been reading
“Sentimental Tommy,” for these were the initials and the methods of Mr.
Barrie’s luckless hero, but the age and genial contempt for scholarship
of the investing forces made this unlikely. On the fourth day, finding
one of the band momentarily separated from her comrades, I ventured a
_coup d’etat_. Pointing to the letters on her secret button, I remarked,
“I see you belong to the Teapot Society.”
“I don’t” she said indignantly; “it’s the Terror Society I belong to.”
The secret was out, but I thought it wiser to conceal my triumph.
Evidently, however, my discovery troubled the band, for next morning I
received a _soi-disant_ anonymous letter of caution signed in full by all
the members. I felt that the moment had arrived for definite action,
especially as the cat who honours my house with his presence, and whose
summer morning basking-place is in the front garden, had been much upset
by this recurrent invasion of his privacy. I wrote a humble letter to
the Society, apologising for my crimes and begging that I might be
allowed to become a member, and placed it outside on the path. Five
minutes later two very unembarrassed children appeared in my study, and
introduced themselves as Captain and Secretary of the Terror Society.
The Captain was very frank with me.
“Of course, we didn’t really want to frighten you,” she said, “but we had
to get you to become a member somehow or other.”
“But I’m afraid I’m not much good at conspiracies,” I said modestly.
“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” the Captain answered kindly. “You can be
honourable Treasurer. You know we want a lot of things for our house.”
I began to see what part I had in the scheme of things. “What are the
rules of the Society?” I asked in all innocence, and thereby flung the
Secretary into confusion.
“You see, she wrote them out,” the Captain explained, “and she doesn’t
want you to read them because of the spelling. But they’re only make-up
rules, so you needn’t bother about them. Don’t you want to see the
house?”
“Captain,” I said firmly, “it is my one wish. Lead on!”
“You ought really to be blindfolded,” the Captain whispered to me as we
went along, “but I used my handkerchief to wrap up some of cook’s toffee
this morning, and it’s rather sticky.”
“Don’t apologise,” I murmured hastily; “I don’t mind not being
blindfolded a bit. Besides, I’m practically a member, and you mustn’t
blindfold members; it isn’t done.”
The Captain seemed relieved. “I knew you would make a good treasurer,”
she said with cheerful inconsequence. “But, look! there’s the house.”
The headquarters or club-house of the Terror Society stood beside the
allotment gardens at the top of the hill, and may, at some less
honourable period of its history, have served as a place for storing
tools. In the course of their trespassings the children had found it
lying empty, and had obtained permission from the landlord to have it for
their very own. I have implied that the feminine element was predominant
in the Society, and, recalling the wigwams and log huts of my own
childhood, the difference between the ideals of boys and girls was
sharply brought home to me when I crossed the threshold. The walls were
papered with sentimental pictures out of Christmas numbers and literally
draped with curtains; there were vases filled with flowers in every
corner, and in the middle of this boudoir three of the members were
drinking tea. In a sense, perhaps, the girls were to be commended for
finding the true romance in domesticity, but I could not help wondering
what Captain Shark of the barque _Rapacious_, that faithful friend of my
boyhood, would have thought of a Terror Society run on such principles.
However, I saw that the eyes of the members were upon me, and I hastened
to do my duty as an honourable member. “It’s wonderful,” I said. “How
on earth did you manage to do it all yourselves?”
The children all fell to apportioning the credit—all, that is, save the
Captain, who seemed to me a very businesslike fellow.
“You see, Mr. Treasurer,” she said, “we want some more of those
camp-stools and a lock to keep out burglars, and some knives and forks,
and a tin of biscuits and a pail and candles and a candlestick and a
clothes-brush and a little bell to ring at dinner-time and a knocker for
the door.”
Fortunately she paused to take breath.
“My dear Captain,” I interrupted quickly, “I have a sovereign in the
savings-bank, and if you come with me to-morrow we’ll draw it out, and do
the best we can with the money. But tell me, am I really a member?”
“Of course you are!”
“Then where’s my mysterious button?”
The Captain frowned. “Jessie will have to paint you one, but the ribbon
costs a penny.”
“That makes twenty shillings and a penny,” said the Secretary. It was
indeed a businesslike Society.
The next day the Captain and I did a lot of miscellaneous shopping, and
two days later the button was left at my door by a small boy. Then for a
fortnight I heard nothing of the Society or its members, and no sinister
invasion of the morning occurred to disturb the far peace in the eyes of
my cat. At last I met the Captain in the road, and though she
endeavoured to elude me, I succeeded in getting her into a corner.
“Well, Captain,” I said, “how’s the Terror Society?”
The Captain looked gloomy. “Haven’t you heard?” she said. “The Terror
Society is all over.”
“Finished already!” I cried in astonishment. “Why, what have you done
with the house?”
“It has been given to another society,” she said without a blush.
“Another society?”
“Yes, the Horror Society. I am Captain.”
I considered this news for a moment. “Well, I suppose I’m a member of
the new society?” I ventured.
The Captain shook her head sadly. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “but the H.
S. has a rule that no grown-ups are admitted!”
That is why, though I myself was a member of the Terror Society, I yet
feel myself at liberty to write about it. For as on inquiry I discovered
that the ranks of the Horror Society differed in no wise from those of
the Terror Society save for the exclusion of the honourable Treasurer, I
cannot help feeling that I have been rather badly treated.