“It’s in the histories.”
“And it was secret?”
“The most secret thing ever was. Even men in it didn’t know who one another was.”
“Let’s have one,” Plunk yelled, squirming around like he was sitting on an ant’s nest. “I kin git a sheet.”
“Who’s goin’ to b’long?” I said; and then we all looked at one another.
“Nobody but us four,” Binney whispers, because he’s beginning to feel secret already. There wasn’t any argument to that, so we agreed to be a Ku Klux Klan, and to have our secret meeting-place in a little cave up across from the island where the swimming-hole was. It wasn’t much of a cave. Just a little round room dug out of the hill by somebody a long time ago. I couldn’t stand up straight in it, and when we four was all inside there wasn’t much room left—not with Mark Tidd taking up the space he did.
Well, each of us got a sheet and hid it there, and we kept potatoes to bake and an old frying-pan and a kettle and other things like that in case of emergency, for there was no knowing what might come up with an organization like ours, and we knew we had to be ready. Mark made up passwords and grips and secret signs; and we had an alphabet all of our own that we could write letters to one another in, which was fine, even though there never seemed to be anything very secret to write. But there come to be later on, and there was a time when we was glad of the cave and the potatoes and the frying-pan. But that wasn’t until the next spring, and lots of things happened before then.
I guess maybe it was a month after we organized the Klan when the stranger came to town. We were cooking dinner up at the cave that day—a black bass, four perch, and a couple of blue-gills, with baked potatoes—and we were just scouring the dishes with sand when we looked down and saw Uncle Ike Bond come ambling along the river. Uncle Ike drove the bus when it was necessary and fished the rest of the time, which was most of the time; and he caught fish, too; lots of them. I guess he got a good many on night lines.
Binney Jenks yelled down at Uncle Ike, and he looked up to see who it was. When he recognized Mark Tidd he sat down sort of tired on a log and motioned for us to come. He was a great friend of Mark’s since the day the Tidds moved to town; and he let on to folks that Mark was the smartest boy in Wicksville, which I wouldn’t be surprised if he was.
We all went down the hill, three of us running, and Mark panting along behind and puffing and snorting.