Chapter Nine. I Become an R. M. C.

The Story of a Bad Boy

by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

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 bad 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.

"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.

I have said that the society had no special object. It is true,
there was a tacit understanding among us that the Centipedes were to
stand by one another on all occasions, though I don't remember that
they did; but further than this we had no purpose, unless it was to
accomplish as a body the same amount of mischief which we were sure
to do as individuals. To mystify the staid and slow-going
Rivermouthians was our frequent pleasure. Several of our pranks won
us such a reputation among the townsfolk, that we were credited with
having a large finger in whatever went amiss in the place.

One morning, about a week after my admission into the secret
order, the quiet citizens awoke to find that the signboards of all
the principal streets had changed places during the night. People who
went trustfully to 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 town authorities took the matter in hand
without delay, and six of the Temple Grammar School boys were
summoned to appear before justice Clapbam.

Having tearfully disclaimed to my grandfather all knowledge of
the transaction, I disappeared from the family circle, and was not
apprehended until late in the afternoon, when the Captain dragged me
ignominiously from the haymow and conducted me, more dead than alive,
to the office of justice Clapham. Here I encountered five other
pallid culprits, who had been fished out of divers coal-bins,
garrets, and chicken-coops, to answer the demands of the outraged
laws. (Charley Marden 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 wholly innocent of the offence. The trick, as was afterwards
proved, had been played by a party of soldiers stationed at the fort
in the harbor. We were indebted for our arrest to Master Conway, who
had slyly dropped a hint, within the hearing of Selectman Mudge, to
the effect that "young Bailey and his five cronies could tell
something about 20them signs." When he was called upon to make good
his assertion, he was considerably more terrified than the
Centipedes, though they were ready to sink into their shoes.

At our next meeting it was unanimously resolved that Conway's
animosity should not be quietly submitted to. He had sought to inform
against us in the stagecoach business; he had volunteered to carry
Pettingil's "little bill" for twenty-four icecreams to Charley
Marden's father; and now he had caused us to be arraigned before
justice Clapham on a charge equally groundless and painful. After
much noisy discussion, a plan of retaliation was agreed upon.

There was a certain slim, mild apothecary in the town, by the
name of Meeks. It was generally given out that Mr. Meeks had a vague
desire to get married, but, being a shy and timorous youth, lacked
the moral courage to do so. It was also well known that the Widow
Conway had not buried her heart with the late lamented. As to her
shyness, that was not so clear. Indeed, her attentions to Mr. Meeks,
whose mother she might have been, were of a nature not to be
misunderstood, and were not misunderstood by anyone but Mr. Meeks
himself.

The widow carried on a dress-making establishment at her
residence on the comer opposite Meeks's drug-store, and kept a wary
eye on all the young ladies from Miss Dorothy Gibbs's Female
Institute who patronized the shop for soda-water, aciddrops, and
slate-pencils. In the afternoon the widow was usually seen seated,
smartly dressed, at her window upstairs, casting destructive glances
across the street-the artificial roses in her cap and her whole
languishing manner saying as plainly as a label on a prescription,
"To be Taken Immediately!" But Mr. Meeks didn't take.

The lady's fondness, and the gentleman's blindness, were topics
ably handled at every sewing-circle in the town. It was through these
two luckless individuals that we proposed to strike a blow at the
common enemy. To kill less than three birds with one stone did not
suit our sanguinary purpose. We disliked the widow not so much for
her sentimentality as for being the mother of Bill Conway; we
disliked Mr. Meeks, not because he was insipid, like his own syrups,
but because the widow loved him. Bill Conway we hated for himself.

Late one dark Saturday night in September we carried our plan
into effect. On the following morning, as the orderly citizens wended
their way to church past the widow's abode, their sober faces relaxed
at beholding over her front door the well known gilt Mortar and
Pestle which usually stood on the top of a pole on the opposite
corner; while the passers on that side of the street were equally
amused and scandalized at seeing a placard bearing the following
announcement tacked 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 triumph was complete. The whole community was on the broad grin,
and our participation in the affair seemingly unsuspected.

It was those wicked soldiers at the fort!