“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.