“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.