Billy was backward in his studies and could not write, his office promised to be one of great honor and no duties. Every body had been pat into office except one, shy, silent, little olive-face, Tony. He was contented to be an unnoticed flower in the field. Charlie was the first to detect it, and whispered to Sid, “Tony hasn’t got nothing.”

It was felt to be a very small kind of a club that had not an office for every member, and Tony was made assistant-sentinel. The club was in raptures, every body in office!

“What shall be the name of the club?” asked the president. This was followed by a long discussion. Earth and sky were searched for a name.

“Call it Star Club,” said Billy.

“No, that aint bright enough,” replied the governor. The titles “Sun,” “Moon,” and “Comet” were successively rejected. “Let’s ask teacher,” chirped little Pip. The idea took, and it was resolved to visit “teacher” as soon as the club had been manufactured.

“I think we ought to pay something,” suggested Charlie. The club resolved that each member should pay a cent a month.

“And what do with the money?” asked the governor.

“Buy swords,” replied the martial Jugurtha.

The idea spread like wild-fire, and, not stopping to count how long at the above rate it would take to accumulate money sufficient to buy a sword for every one, the club voted Juggie’s proposition a wise and patriotic one.

“I think,” said the self-forgetful Sid, “that the president ought to have the first sword.”

“And the governor next,” said Rick.

“And the treasury next,” said Charlie.

“I’m that, Charlie, too, and I want one,” clamored Pip.

“A sentinel ought to have one fust, ’cause he’s at de door, and might hab to dribe away down-townies,” said Juggie.

“No, me first,” said the governor.

“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.

“Come into the sitting-room, boys. Glad to see you. Well!”

Her air said: “I wonder what brought my class in a body to me,” something was evidently on the minds of all. The president quickly dissipated the mystery.

“We—we—” said Sid, trying to catch his breath, “have—formed a—club—and—want—you—to name it.”

“Yes! yes! yes!” was the chorus coming from the eager faces turned up to Miss Bertha.

“Name a club? Dear me! What shall I tell you? Where is your club?”

“Here!” said Sid, looking round in pride.

“No; I mean, where do you hold your meetings?”

“In my barn,” said Charlie. “You go in from the street and go up some stairs. It’s up stairs.”

“You might go up higher,” added the governor. “There’s a ladder there, so you can get up—up in the cupelo, but you wont want to go up there.”

“Why, that suggests a name. It’s a little odd, but you’ll think of it every time you go up stairs and see the ladder. Call it ‘Up-the-Ladder Club,’ and then it will have a meaning that you are boys who mean to do your best, climbing up always, up, up, up!”

Miss Bertha here reached as high as she could, and her admirers, with sparkling eyes, stretched upward their small arms, also, shouting, “Up-the-Ladder Club! Up-the-Ladder Club!”

“I’ll put it to vote, teacher,” said the president, with dignity. “Those in favor of it, say ‘Aye.’”

A ringing “Aye” was now given, and after it, came a sharp-featured, wrinkled face at the door.

“Land’s sake, Bertha, what’s the matter?”

“O it’s only my class, grandmother.”

“It scat me dreadfully. I thought it was fire,” and, saying this, the old lady, with a sigh of relief, withdrew.

“And now, teacher, we want a badge; something to wear, you know,” exclaimed Sid.

“What’s that you have on?” Miss Bertha asked of Juggie.

“A sword,” replied that warrior, displaying his right leg, on which he had already chalked a sword.

“That’s for the down-townies,” said the governor, in a martial tone.

“I’m—afraid—the ‘down-townies’ will laugh at that; are not you?”

The club had only thought of what they might do to the “down-townies,” not at all of what the latter would do to them. They certainly had not given a thought to any ridicule these old enemies might heap upon them. A sadden chill now struck the sword-plan and it went down in the boys’ estimation like the mercury in the glass on a cold day.

“Now, I don’t want my class to be sword-boys. I can’t say I fancy the idea. I will tell you something that I think will be nice, and I will make the badge.”

Here the mercury began to climb the glass again, and that chilled look in the boys’ faces began to thaw out.

“I will make you—each one of you—a pretty white shield, to be worn on the left arm, make it of pasteboard, so it will be stiff, and then cover it nicely with white silk.”

The boys began to hurrah. The mercury was away up the glass now.

“A white shield, that will mean something. That means purity, honesty, every thing good and fair, and that your beautiful white shield will be your defense against harm. You are my knights of the white shield.”

The applause following this was almost tumultuous.

“You are the Up-the-Ladder Club, that is, boys who are always going ahead in every thing good; climbing up, not lazy or bad, but boys, with an ambition—a true Up-the-Ladder Club—”

“Or,” suggested Sid, impressively, “the Knights of the White Shield.”

How Charlie did admire the ready wit of the president! The enthusiasm of the club increased. As in that reputed story of Maria Theresa, where her nobles are said to have surrounded her, and, waving their swords enthusiastically, pledged her their support, so the Up-the-Ladder Club waved their caps around this their young queen. The excitement became so intense it was necessary to open the door to give it suitable vent, and out into the open air went these newly-dubbed knights.

“There go Bertha Barry’s boys, I know,” growled Timothy Scriggins, who chanced to meet this band of knights issuing from the yard of their queen. “I never saw sich a teacher.”