“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 car 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.