“A club” said Juggie Jones.  “Got nuff dose on my wood-pile.”

“He means an or-gorgan-gangor—­” Charlie spoke very hesitatingly.  It was a long word and threatened to catch crosswise in his windpipe and choke him.

“Organization?” inquired Sid.  “O I will show you.  We had plenty of ’em in Boston.”

As Sid had just moved from the city, and especially a city so full of knowledge as Boston, Charlie and Juggie received this piece of news with all possible respect.

“We can make one right here,” suggested Charlie.

“Yes, straight off,” said the late citizen of Boston.

“But whar’s de boys?” asked Juggie.

“O three will do,” said Sid Waters, “for you don’t want many to start with.  I know the club will be popular after she has been started.  And then, fellers,” he said, in a quiet tone, “there’s a better chance for offices in a small club, you know.  We can fill ’em all now and get good berths.”

It was a great temptation, but a conviction of the importance of numbers finally prevailed.  The three pioneers in this great club movement saw also it would look better to defer all elections until others had joined, as it would give these a chance for position.  The magnanimity native to the three conquered, and it was decided to accumulate more material before making the club.

“We might adjourn and meet in an hour,” suggested Sid.  “That would give us more opportunity to invite other fellers in.”

How Charlie did admire Sid for his easy flow of language!  The “lane,” as Seamont called the narrow street before the barn, was now searched for recruits, and the barn-chamber was deserted a whole hour.  The big horse-flies sawed on their bass-viols at their leisure.  The warm gold of the sunshine undisturbed continued to decorate the floor of the chamber.  Hark!  There’s a noise in the yard!  It grows to a harried, breathless scramble on the stairs.  Finally eight boys appeared, the future members of the club, save one or two later additions.  There was Sid or Sidney Waters, aged eleven.  He was the oldest boy present, and the brains really of the enterprise.  He was a bit vain, rather selfish, and liked to have his own way, a very rare failing among boys.  Still, he was a bright boy, and he had his generous impulses as well as his selfish ones.  Rick Grimes, aged ten, was a stout, Dutchy kind of lad, rather slow and heavy, but well-meaning and pretty resolute.  There was also Billy Grimes, Rick’s cousin, and a year younger.  You would have said that these two boys came from the same ancestral stock when you saw their cheeks.  These had a well-filled look, as if padded for Thanksgiving.