Strength of Ten

THE seventh meeting of the Sir Galahad Civics Club was in progress, ‘Gerald Hunt presidin’,’ as the diminutive secretary read with unfailing precision each week. All was going well.

Miss Carr was proud of her boys’ club. While the girls sewed — and hated it — the boys declaimed, debated, put motions, rescinded votes — and loved it. They had taken to civics served in this style like the proverbial duck to water. Miss Carr’s soft heart always swelled with emotion when the boys’ rough young voices rose and fell in the ‘Knights’ Song’ with which they opened each meeting: —

Miss Carr suddenly became aware that while she had been musing on the knightly spirit in her boys the programme had been going forward and Antonio Josephs, chairman of the committee for the afternoon, was putting his trained men through their paces.

Antonio had drilled the readers faithfully during the week, paying especial attention to ‘chest up, chin in, knees firm, heels together, toes apart.’ Unfortunately Antonio, in his zeal to hasten the programme, had mixed his last two orders and exhorted his cohorts with ‘toes together, heels apart,’ which they obeyed literally as loyal subjects. Miss Carr joined in the laugh which shook the school, and the president rejoiced that he was given opportunity to call the meeting sharply to order with vigorous use of the gavel — a crooked ruler. Order was restored immediately and the meeting went forward with dignity and seriousness. Her boys had learned splendid selfcontrol, complacently thought Miss Carr. All was well!

And then the unexpected happened. Nurse Wyman came in with her portable scales to weigh each pupil. Miss Carr was inwardly disturbed. She liked to have the boys feel that this one hour of the week was especially their own, and thus far she had been able to keep it free from interruption.

Miss Carr sometimes wondered who had the right of way in her school. Of one thing only she was certain: she did not. At any moment of the day the principal might enter and, sweeping the programme aside, give to the school an intelligence test, or the athletic director might send for a few boys to come to the gymnasium for practice — that too while the history lesson was in progress. Perhaps the school physician, discovering a spare hour in his daily programme, might come in and direct that each pupil come to his office in alphabetical order for a physical examination. However disconcerting these interruptions might be to Miss Carr, there was, as in this instance, no help for it. She knew, too, that Nurse was a busy woman and that the weighing must go forward immediately, so she advanced to meet her pleasantly, suggesting meanwhile to the tall, handsome young president that he adjourn the club meeting for half an hour. Then it developed that Miss Carr must assist Nurse by recording name, age, height, and weight of each boy. This required rapid work on Miss Carr’s part and close attention to Nurse Wyman.

To give the boys something to do while she was thus occupied, Miss Carr suggested that they copy and learn the Knights’ Creed which they had adopted: —

The boys began to copy obediently. Now it is very disconcerting to take off one’s shoes before the curious gaze of one’s companions, and most upsetting to one’s gravity if bare flesh shows where firm hose ought to be. If Soup Turner had n’t wiggled a saucy toe at the class through a large-sized opening in his stocking perhaps Miss Carrmight still have retained her faith in the self-control of her young Knights. Soup’s toe started it, and when poor Timmy Cooley’s huge shoes came off and his feet, which were but poorly covered with ragged hose, could scarcely find room on Nurse’s portable scales, the laughter became almost hysterical. Miss Carr could not have stopped writing if she would, — Nurse Wyman was a busy woman, — perhaps she would not if she could. But a pink spot appeared in either cheek and her lips were one straight line as she wrote on without once lifting her head.

The laughter continued, interspersed with whispering. Now and then an audible word was heard, and an eraser flew across the room. Miss Carr wrote steadily on. A book crashed to the floor and two boys, springing from their seats, fought for its possession. In the back seat Fat Newhall was putting a ruler down Snowball Hayden’s back.

‘Gerald Hunt, 12 years old, height 64, weight 101,’ wrote Miss Carr, and her work was done.

Nurse Wyman picked up her portable scales and departed briskly, totally unaware that the tragedy of shattered ideals had been going on under her very nose. Nurse Wyman was a busy woman!

Then Miss Carr stepped forward and faced the young Sir Galahads, upon whom an unwonted silence had suddenly settled. Her cheeks were very pink now and her mouth a single straight line. In a few terse sentences she told the boys her opinion of them, ending with these words: —

‘The Sir Galahad Civics Club is a failure and I am sure that you will agree with me that so complete a failure should be given up. The club stood for manliness and honor, for selfcontrol and obedience to law, and at the very first trial of your strength you were found wanting in all these. I think the club would better be discontinued. We can very profitably spend the hour when the girls are in the sewing class in individual work in the subject that each boy needs. Some of you need arithmetic’ (Fat Newhall groaned in spirit) ‘and some need spelling’ (Raspberry looked pensive) ‘and some might well spend the hour on geography, and so —’ Right here Miss Carr had an inspiration. She looked at her wrist watch. ‘There are just ten minutes before the girls return. You may write me a letter telling me what you think about giving up the Civics Club.’

The boys scrambled for their pens. Usually an order to write a letter was received with inward writhings, but they wanted, indeed they wanted to write this letter. Give up their beloved club now when a new election was just at hand, when the next meeting was to be a big debate, when Soup’s father had promised to come in sometime and tell the club about fighting forest fires? Perhaps, oh, perhaps this letter, it it were very well written and one sat up straight and kept the movement while writing, and the spelling was good and one said the right thing, might yet save the day!

The minister’s son wrote as follows: DEAR MISS CARR:

I think if this keeps on, that we will not have any club. But if the club is orderly, the way it stands for we will keep on just as if nothing had happened.

Your purple,

RAY BROWN

Raspberry Jewett spent much hard thought on his spelling, with the following result: —

DEAR MISS CARR:

I think we bitter not give up the clube because I think the boys will do bitter.

Your turky,

CHARLTON B. JEWETT, JR.

Fat Newhall had tiptoed down the aisle during the letter writing, hitting every desk he passed in his earnest endeavor not to make any noise, in order that he might ask permission to read the ‘America First’ poster which hung on the wall. From this he obviously cribbed for his letter.

DEAR MISS CARR:

I think that we had ought to keep having the club meetings and that the boys had better show Themselfs that they have self-control; show some knighthood. And for everyone to Do as Mr. Oldham says: ‘Not merely in matters of greatness, but in matters of spirit.’

Very Truly Yours,

PETER NEWHALL

The lawyer’s son wrote:—

DEAR MISS CARR:

I do not think we ought to give up the club because the President said we would have to adjourn the meeting for half an hour to get weighed. Therefore it was n’t a Civics Club meeting.

ROBERT HOLMES

The next day a formal apology duly signed by thirty-one boys was laid on Miss Carr’s desk. But the end was not yet. By afternoon peace offerings began to arrive. Miss Carr found a russet apple on her desk, donor unknown, also a calendar and a purple pencil. Timmy Cooley sheepishly laid a broken croquet mallet on the desk. ‘It could be used for a gavel,’ he explained.

Not until the following afternoon, however, came the pièce de résistance. Michael Casey brought it proudly and with no attempt at concealment. It was in a bottle and Miss Carr had never seen its like before.

‘What is it, Michael?’ she asked, pleasantly curious.

‘Me mother’s appendix. She had it out last summer and she don’t want it no more. You can have it.’

The sixteenth meeting of the Sir Galahad Civics Club was held last Thursday, ‘Timmy Cooley presidin’.’