Chapter Nine--I Become an R. M. C.
In the course of ten days I recovered sufficiently from my injuries toattend 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? Thedistraction which prevailed in the classes the week preceding the Fourthhad subsided, and nothing remained to indicate the recent festivities,excepting a noticeable want of eyebrows on the part of Pepper Whitcomband myself.
In August we had two weeks' vacation. It was about this time that Ibecame a member of the Rivermouth Centipedes, a secret society composedof twelve of the Temple Grammar School boys. This was an honor to whichI had long aspired, but, being a new boy, I was not admitted to thefraternity 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 myresidence at Rivermouth, and at one time held the onerous position of F.C., First Centipede. Each of the elect wore a copper cent (some occultassociation being established between a cent apiece and a centipedessuspended by a string round his neck). The medals were worn next theskin, and it was while bathing one day at Grave Point, with Jack Harrisand Fred Langdon, that I had my curiosity roused to the highest pitchby a sight of these singular emblems. As soon as I ascertained theexistence of a boys' club, of course I was ready to die to join it. Andeventually I was allowed to join.
The initiation ceremony took place in Fred Langdon's barn, where I wassubmitted to a series of trials not calculated to soothe the nerves of atimorous boy. Before being led to the Grotto of Enchantment--such was themodest title given to the loft over my friend's wood-house--my hands weresecurely 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 tooweak to undergo the necessary tortures. I replied that I was not tooweak, in a tone which I intended to be resolute, but which, in spite ofme, 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 aCentipede, a Centipede I was bound to be. Other boys had passed throughthe ordeal and lived, why should not I?
A prolonged silence followed this preliminary examination and I waswondering what would come next, when a pistol fired off close by my cardeafened me for a moment. The unknown voice then directed me to take tensteps 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 havedisappeared down an abyss three thousand feet deep!"
I naturally shrunk back at this friendly piece of information. A prickfrom some two-pronged instrument, evidently a pitchfork, gentlychecked my retreat. I was then conducted to the brink of several otherprecipices, and ordered to step over many dangerous chasms, wherethe result would have been instant death if I had committed the leastmistake. I have neglected to say that my movements were accompanied bydismal groans from different parts of the grotto.
Finally, I was led up a steep plank to what appeared to me anincalculable height. Here I stood breathless while the bylaws were readaloud. A more extraordinary code of laws never came from the brain ofman. The penalties attached to the abject being who should reveal anyof the secrets of the society were enough to make the blood run cold. Asecond pistol-shot was heard, the something I stood on sunk with a crashbeneath 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 Ifound myself standing in an empty hogshead surrounded by twelve maskedfigures fantastically dressed. One of the conspirators was reallyappalling with a tin sauce-pan on his head, and a tiger-skin sleigh-robethrown over his shoulders. I scarcely need say that there were novestiges to be seen of the fearful gulfs over which I had passed socautiously. My ascent had been to the top of the hogshead, and mydescent to the bottom thereof. Holding one another by the hand,and chanting a low dirge, the Mystic Twelve revolved about me. Thisconcluded the ceremony. With a merry shout the boys threw off theirmasks, 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 theseinitiations, as you may imagine, were sometimes very comical spectacles,especially when the aspirant for centipedal honors happened to be of atimid disposition. If he showed the slightest terror, he was certainto be tricked unmercifully. One of our subsequent devices--a humbleinvention of my own--was to request the blindfolded candidate to put outhis tongue, whereupon the First Centipede would say, in a low tone,as if not intended for the ear of the victim, "Diabolus, fetch me thered-hot iron!" The expedition with which that tongue would disappear wassimply ridiculous.
Our meetings were held in various barns, at no stated periods, but ascircumstances suggested. Any member had a right to call a meeting. Eachboy who failed to report himself was fined one cent. Whenever a memberhad reasons for thinking that another member would be unable to attend,he called a meeting. For instance, immediately on learning the death ofHarry Blake's great-grandfather, I issued a call. By these simple andingenious 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, therewas a tacit understanding among us that the Centipedes were to stand byone another on all occasions, though I don't remember that they did; butfurther than this we had no purpose, unless it was to accomplish asa body the same amount of mischief which we were sure to do asindividuals. To mystify the staid and slow-going Rivermouthians was ourfrequent pleasure. Several of our pranks won us such a reputation amongthe townsfolk, that we were credited with having a large finger inwhatever went amiss in the place.
One morning, about a week after my admission into the secret order, thequiet citizens awoke to find that the signboards of all the principalstreets had changed places during the night. People who went trustfullyto 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 townauthorities took the matter in hand without delay, and six of the TempleGrammar School boys were summoned to appear before justice Clapbam.
Having tearfully disclaimed to my grandfather all knowledge ofthe transaction, I disappeared from the family circle, and was notapprehended until late in the afternoon, when the Captain dragged meignominiously from the haymow and conducted me, more dead than alive,to the office of justice Clapham. Here I encountered five other pallidculprits, who had been fished out of divers coal-bins, garrets, andchicken-coops, to answer the demands of the outraged laws. (CharleyMarden 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 whollyinnocent of the offence. The trick, as was afterwards proved, had beenplayed by a party of soldiers stationed at the fort in the harbor. Wewere indebted for our arrest to Master Conway, who had slyly dropped ahint, within the hearing of Selectman Mudge, to the effect that "youngBailey and his five cronies could tell something about them signs."When he was called upon to make good his assertion, he was considerablymore terrified than the Centipedes, though they were ready to sink intotheir shoes.
At our next meeting it was unanimously resolved that Conway's animosityshould not be quietly submitted to. He had sought to inform againstus in the stagecoach business; he had volunteered to carry Pettingil's"little bill" for twenty-four icecreams to Charley Marden's father; andnow he had caused us to be arraigned before justice Clapham on a chargeequally groundless and painful. After much noisy discussion, a plan ofretaliation was agreed upon.
There was a certain slim, mild apothecary in the town, by the name ofMeeks. It was generally given out that Mr. Meeks had a vagu
e desireto get married, but, being a shy and timorous youth, lacked the moralcourage to do so. It was also well known that the Widow Conway had notburied her heart with the late lamented. As to her shyness, that was notso clear. Indeed, her attentions to Mr. Meeks, whose mother she mighthave been, were of a nature not to be misunderstood, and were notmisunderstood by anyone but Mr. Meeks himself.
The widow carried on a dress-making establishment at her residence onthe corner opposite Meeks's drug-store, and kept a wary eye on all theyoung ladies from Miss Dorothy Gibbs's Female Institute who patronizedthe shop for soda-water, acid-drops, and slate-pencils. In the afternoonthe widow was usually seen seated, smartly dressed, at her windowupstairs, casting destructive glances across the street--the artificialroses in her cap and her whole languishing manner saying as plainly as alabel on a prescription, "To be Taken Immediately!" But Mr. Meeks didn'ttake.
The lady's fondness, and the gentleman's blindness, were topics ablyhandled at every sewing-circle in the town. It was through these twoluckless individuals that we proposed to strike a blow at the commonenemy. To kill less than three birds with one stone did not suitour sanguinary purpose. We disliked the widow not so much for hersentimentality as for being the mother of Bill Conway; we disliked Mr.Meeks, not because he was insipid, like his own syrups, but because thewidow loved him. Bill Conway we hated for himself.
Late one dark Saturday night in September we carried our plan intoeffect. On the following morning, as the orderly citizens wended theirway to church past the widow's abode, their sober faces relaxed atbeholding over her front door the well known gilt Mortar and Pestlewhich usually stood on the top of a pole on the opposite corner;while the passers on that side of the street were equally amused andscandalized at seeing a placard bearing the following announcementtacked 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 triumphwas complete. The whole community was on the broad grin, and ourparticipation in the affair seemingly unsuspected.
It was those wicked soldiers at the fort!