“Well,” continued the spokesman, pointing to the “Bottomless Pitt,” “he’s a Pie Eater, he is. He eats ’em whole.”
Hinpoha’s glance strayed nervously to the shelf where the apple pie stood awaiting the end of the Ceremonial Meeting. The tall boy’s eyes followed here and his teeth showed in a wide smile, as he seemed to read her thoughts. Hinpoha blushed fiery red and dropped her eyes. But he looked away again immediately and did not increase her embarrassment.
“This,” he said, drawing forward a spidery little fellow with red hair and freckles all over his face, “is Munson K. McKee, called for short, Monkey, and those,” indicating the other three, “are Dan Porter, Peter Jenkins and Harry Raymond. We seven boys have always gone together, so we decided to form a club, and we all like sandwiches so well that we named ourselves the Sandwich Club. There, now you know all about us.”
“But you haven’t told us your name,” said the Winnebagos, who were beginning to like the spokesman very much, and were anxiously waiting to hear him introduce himself.
“Haven’t I?” he asked. “That’s right, I haven’t. My name,” he said solemnly, but with that suggestion of a twinkle in his eye again, “is Cicero St. John—and the fellows don’t call me Cissy for short.” Here the corners of his mouth twitched as at some humorous memory.
“You bet they don’t call him Cissy!” put in the Bottomless Pitt.
Hinpoha’s eyes met Gladys’ in comical dismay. How could anyone in their right senses name a boy—an American boy—Cicero! The St. John part sounded very fine, but that awful Cicero!
“How do you keep them from calling you—Cissy?” ventured Sahwah.
“He licked the tar out of them!” spoke up the Monkey. “And he dumped one fellow overboard out in the lake when he tried it. Everybody calls him ‘Cap’ now, because he’s captain of the football team.”
“Indeed,” murmured the Winnebagos, looking at Cicero St. John with fresh interest and great respect, for all the world loves a football player.