It was felt to be a very small kind of a club that had not an office for every member, and Tony was made assistant-sentinel.  The club was in raptures, every body in office!

“What shall be the name of the club?” asked the president.  This was followed by a long discussion.  Earth and sky were searched for a name.

“Call it Star Club,” said Billy.

“No, that aint bright enough,” replied the governor.  The titles “Sun,” “Moon,” and “Comet” were successively rejected.  “Let’s ask teacher,” chirped little Pip.  The idea took, and it was resolved to visit “teacher” as soon as the club had been manufactured.

“I think we ought to pay something,” suggested Charlie.  The club resolved that each member should pay a cent a month.

“And what do with the money?” asked the governor.

“Buy swords,” replied the martial Jugurtha.

The idea spread like wild-fire, and, not stopping to count how long at the above rate it would take to accumulate money sufficient to buy a sword for every one, the club voted Juggie’s proposition a wise and patriotic one.

“I think,” said the self-forgetful Sid, “that the president ought to have the first sword.”

“And the governor next,” said Rick.

“And the treasury next,” said Charlie.

“I’m that, Charlie, too, and I want one,” clamored Pip.

“A sentinel ought to have one fust, ’cause he’s at de door, and might hab to dribe away down-townies,” said Juggie.

“No, me first,” said the governor.

“No, me,” said the president.

“No, me,” said the secretary.

It was “me!” “me!” “me!” all over the barn chamber, and the members of that swordless club were almost at swords’ points.

“Sposin’ we ’journ this,” said Charlie the peace-maker, remembering the rule for “doing things” in meetings.

“Yes,” exclaimed Sid, “and until we get a real sword each one can chalk a sword on his pants.”

“Hurrah!” sang out Gov.  Grimes, and each one, happy in the thought that he could have a sword as speedily as his neighbor, cheered lustily.

“Now, boys, let’s go and see ‘teacher’ about our name,” suggested the president.  The barn was vacated at once, and the members of the club went down stairs as if a fire were after them, and then rushed along the lane, all heading for a cozy story-and-a-half house where “teacher” lived.  “The Sunday-school teacher” was Miss Bertha Barry, brown-haired, brown-eyed, vivacious Bertha Barry.  All the boys were in her class, save Tony.

“O, she won’t do for a teacher,” said old Mrs. Jones, when the pastor invited Bertha to enter the Sunday-school as a worker.  “Too flighty!”

“She wont stick,” growled Timothy Scriggins, a venerable male gossip, who scolded every body and every thing, satisfied only with Timothy Scriggins.

However, she did do and she did stick.  The boys took a very positive fancy to this young, sprightly, energetic teacher, and their liking lasted.  She compelled their respect and she won their hearts.  They looked upon her as an older sister, and promptly confided to her their troubles and solicited her advice.  In a troop, running, panting, they came into her yard and presented themselves at her door.