“We swear,” said Dan in a sepulchral voice.
“Aren’t there going to be any other members?” asked Gerald, eagerly.
“In time we will recruit. For the present the members are all here. Now then.” Alf seated himself and dropped into conversational tones. “What awful thing shall we do first, fellows?”
Tom yawned loudly.
“Go to bed,” he said.
“Bed!” exclaimed Alf. “Do you mean to tell me that you have listened—er—er—listened unmoved to my eloquence, you old sleepy-headed chump? Bed! Why, doesn’t your soul cry out for vengeance, for——”
“Sleep? It does.” Tom started to unlace a shoe.
“Where’s your sporting instinct, Tom,” pleaded Alf. “Please don’t go to bed yet. Let’s do one desperate deed first, just a tiny desperate deed! Breathes there a man with soul so dead who even to himself has said ‘It’s time to go to bed?’ No!”
But Tom went calmly on with his preparations, and finally Alf gave him up.
“Traitor!” he hissed. “Ingrate! Sluggard! Here I go to work and get up the dandiest secret society that ever was, and what’s the result? Do I get gratitude, support? I do not! I am yawned at! Very well, go to bed; saturate yourself with sleep. The rest of us will go on with the great work without you.” Alf seized a golf club from a corner and waved it above his head. “On to Oxford Hall!” he shouted. “Death to the tyrants! Down with faculty! Viva la Commune! A bas le——”