“Plumpy,” said Fryant, authoritatively, “this is a secret brotherhood, with a well-defined object. Do you desire to join the mystic fraternity?”
“If the court knows herself,” answered the fat boy, “she do.”
“Very well. Let’s initiate him into the—the—”
“Order of the Black Star,” suggested some one.
“Yes, Order of the Black Star. Now, John Porcupine Fatness de Montmorency Jones, remove all unnecessary clothing from above your waist.”
“Will you allow me first to make my will, gentlemen? ‘Let but the commons hear this testament, which, pardon me, I do not mean to—’”
“No! no!” shouted a half-dozen boys, pouncing on him, pulling off his coat and vest, and opening wide the bosom of his shirt.
“Bring forth the ink indelible, and set the seal of our most noble order on his brawny front.”
A mucilage-brush was dipped into an ink-bottle by some one, and a great rude star was hastily daubed on the fat boy’s bared and ample breast, in spite of his struggles and his squeals.