Blackie returned to his place, wondering at this new development. Gallegher had failed to pass the trials for some reason; evidently the Stuck-Ups did not accept everybody. But he figured that he was at least as clever as Nightshirt Guppy and could stand any test they might put to him.
At last there were only three neophytes left under the cherry-tree—Blackie, a younger boy named “Peanut” Westover, and Slim Yerkes. Peanut had grown more and more timid as the minutes passed, and at last ventured to address the others in quavering tones.
“Do—do you think they’re going to hurt us much?”
“Maybe,” said Blackie. “Who cares if they do?”
“I sneaked my pillow out here with me,” confessed the boy, “and stuffed it in the seat of my trousers. Some of the kids said they paddle you something awful.”
“Well, we’re in for it now,” said Yerkes, pointing. “Here come the guards for us.”
The three neophytes were surrounded by the serious-faced paddle-bearers and marched up the steps to the porch. Blackie assumed a careless expression to conceal his inward misgivings, and whistled with as much bravado as he could muster.
Knock! Knock! Knock! Kipper Dabney whispered a password through the keyhole, the door swung open, and they were marched inside. Two boys with sashes about their waists, whom Blackie recognized as Ted Fellowes and his younger brother, put pennant-hung bugles to their lips and blew a clarion call that set the rafters ringing. The huge room was dark except for a space in front of the empty fireplace, where a row of lanterns shed a yellow glare which, however, did not reveal the faces of three men who sat, robed in blankets, upon a high dais made of benches piled one upon the other. About the circle the grotesquely-costumed members of the society sat in grim silence, nursing their war-clubs and looking with threatening anticipation at the three newcomers.
From the darkness came the gruesome chords of the Funeral March, played on the concealed piano; and down an aisle in the center of the seated initiates proceeded the guarded trio. Peanut Westover was shivering with fear, and his knees were knocking together at every step. With a roll of drums they arrived before the dais, and were lined up facing the almost indistinguishable robed figures of the Grand Master and his two potentates.
“Three more rash neophytes who would dare the wrath of the honorable Stuck-Up Society,” announced Kipper in a sepulchral voice, and with a deep salaam he stepped back and left the three candidates together in the middle of the lighted space. Blackie could feel everyone’s eyes upon him, and he had a tingling, shaky feeling somewhere inside; but he resolved that not one of them should think for a minute that he was afraid.