Juggie received this piece of news with all possible respect.

“We can make one right here,” suggested Charlie.

“Yes, straight off,” said the late citizen of Boston.

“But whar’s de boys?” asked Juggie.

“O three will do,” said Sid Waters, “for you don’t want many to start with. I know the club will be popular after she has been started. And then, fellers,” he said, in a quiet tone, “there’s a better chance for offices in a small club, you know. We can fill ’em all now and get good berths.”

It was a great temptation, but a conviction of the importance of numbers finally prevailed. The three pioneers in this great club movement saw also it would look better to defer all elections until others had joined, as it would give these a chance for position. The magnanimity native to the three conquered, and it was decided to accumulate more material before making the club.

“We might adjourn and meet in an hour,” suggested Sid. “That would give us more opportunity to invite other fellers in.”

How Charlie did admire Sid for his easy flow of language! The “lane,” as Seamont called the narrow street before the barn, was now searched for recruits, and the barn-chamber was deserted a whole hour. The big horse-flies sawed on their bass-viols at their leisure. The warm gold of the sunshine undisturbed continued to decorate the floor of the chamber. Hark! There’s a noise in the yard! It grows to a harried, breathless scramble on the stairs. Finally eight boys appeared, the future members of the club, save one or two later additions. There was Sid or Sidney Waters, aged eleven. He was the oldest boy present, and the brains really of the enterprise. He was a bit vain, rather selfish, and liked to have his own way, a very rare failing among boys. Still, he was a bright boy, and he had his generous impulses as well as his selfish ones. Rick Grimes, aged ten, was a stout, Dutchy kind of lad, rather slow and heavy, but well-meaning and pretty resolute. There was also Billy Grimes, Rick’s cousin, and a year younger. You would have said that these two boys came from the same ancestral stock when you saw their cheeks. These had a well-filled look, as if padded for Thanksgiving.

This peculiarity of feature gave the cousins special titles in whose selection the boy-instinct for nicknames had shown its unerring accuracy of aim. One was “Choppy,” and the other, Billy, was “Cousin Choppy.” Their playmates were generally considerate and did not apply these titles unless they “got mad.” Forgetting themselves, these titles might be sent flying about freely as snow-balls in a January thaw. There was Worthington Wentworth. It takes a long breath and a very straight throat to say that, and we will not repeat it, but will call him Wort Wentworth, as the boys did. His hair was twisted all over his head, like a brush fence, and his black eyes were very lively. He was one of the rogues of the club, and at school took more rattannings, as a mark of his teacher’s affection, than any other boy. Juggie Jones—full name Jugurtha Bonaparte Jones—was a little colored fellow lately from the South, now living with his granny, a washer-woman, in a little yellow house at the head of the lane. He was always laughing and showing his white teeth. He was a great favorite with the boys. Wort and Juggie were of the same age as Charlie,—nine. Pip or Piper Peckham, aged eight, was a big-eyed, black-haired, little fellow with a peaked face. Timid, sensitive to neglect, very fond of notice, he was sometimes a subject for the tricks of his playmates. Then there was Tony or Antonio Blanco, a late arrival at Seamont. He was an olive-faced, black-haired, shy little fellow. When he spoke, he used English, but his accent was Italian. He was rarely heard from. An air of mystery encircled him. Whether his father was a count in Italy or a seller of pea-nuts in New York, no one at Seamont had been able to say for a month, and that was a long time in circles of gossip. It was finally asserted that his father lived in Italy. Tony was of the same age as Pip.

Concerning Charlie we shall find out farther along.

“Will the gentlemen please come to order,” shouted Sid Waters, pompously,” and sit—sit—on the floor?”

The meeting obeyed at once.

“Ahem—I ’spose we had better fill the offices first. Who will be president?”

This magnanimous tender of the office to any one present was received in silence. The meeting was overawed by the thought of this mighty honor so nigh at hand. All recovered in a short time, and several, including Pip Peckham, were about to sacrifice themselves for the common good, when Sid dexterously presented himself as an offering ahead of them all, and said: “Well, if nobody wants it, as I don’t like to see an office go a-beggin’, I’ll—I’ll take it!”

“Three cheers for our president!” said Charlie, magnanimously, and the three were given, though it must be confessed that several disappointed souls cheered faintly.

“We ought to have a governor,” said Charlie.

“What! besides a president?” inquired Sid, a slight sneer noticeable in his tones.

“Don’t they have a governor in Massachusetts?” inquired Charlie, triumphantly.

“Well, ye—ye—yes.”

That settled it, for Massachusetts custom was plainly authority in this matter.

Rick Grimes was made governor.

“Treasurer now!” called out Sid.

“Charlie, would you like to be that?” he whispered. Charlie was about to say “Yes,” when the fruit hanging before his thirsty lips was suddenly snatched away.

“I’d like that,” piped a voice. It was Pip Peckham.

“Ahem!” said the president, “I think the office ought to be given to experience,” and here he looked in the direction of Charlie.

“Who’s he?” inquired Billy. “Who’s Sperience?”

“Silence!” ordered the president. “Little boys must speak only when they are spoken to.”

Billy pouted.

“Why couldn’t we have two treasuries?” inquired Gov. Grimes, putting the thing for its keeper. This happy solution of a difficult problem was at once accepted. Charlie was named as the first official of this grade, and Pip as the second.

“We ought to have a keeper of the great seal,” said the president.

“What is that?” asked the inquisitive Billy. The president was puzzled to say just what it did mean, “But,” he affirmed, “I think we ought to have it. It is something, I know, and they put it on things.”

“I know what it is,” said Gov. Grimes, eagerly. “My uncle has two down on the wharf, in a tank, a great one and a little one, and I guess we could have the great one up here, and some one be keeper of it.”

The contempt of the president was undisguised. “That isn’t it! If I could only think, but there is so much noise! Order, gentlemen!”

Whatever noise had been made, the president was the author of the most of it, though he did not seem to know it.

“Perhaps we’d better ’journ that,” said Gov. Grimes. “That’s what they do to things in meetings, when they want to put them off, my father says.”

“Well, we can do that, only I think we’d better have a—”

“I will!” shouted Wort, fearful that he might lose his chance for an office, and eagerly assenting beforehand to any thing that was coming.

“You be janitor, and take care of the—the—hall?” said Sid, looking round on the barn-chamber. “That’s what I meant.”

“Yes, yes!”

“There ought to be a sentinel,” said Sid; “one, you know, to look after the door and not let any down-townies up. Will you, Juggie?”

“Yes,” replied that man of war, Jugurtha Bonaparte Jones.

“Billy’s got nothing,” said Juggie.

“So he hasn’t,” said Gov. Grimes. “We ought to have a secretary, to put up notices and soon.”

“Billy shall be that,” declared the president. As