Now that the Houndsditch affair has been laid aside by the man in the street and it is once more possible for a bearded Englishman to tread the pavements of London without reproach, I may perhaps venture to give some account of a secret society with which I have been intimately connected, without earning the reputation of a monger of sensations. Some four or five years ago I met a picturesque journalist who told me that he had once been at pains to worm out the secrets of an anarchist society in London, and had incorporated his discoveries in a volume so marvellous that no editor or publisher would believe it. I only remember one incident of all his wonderful adventures. He was led by an anarchist comrade into a small shop in the Strand, thence into a I should think it was about last July that I first noticed that the children of my neighbourhood, with whom I have some small acquaintance, were endeavouring to assume a sinister aspect, and were wearing a cryptic button with a marked air of secrecy. When I came out for my morning walk the front garden would be animated with partially concealed children like the park in Mr. Kipling’s “They,” and though I have long realised that suburban front gardens do not lend themselves to the higher horticulture, I felt the natural embarrassment of the man who does not know whether he is expected to expel trespassers or welcome bashful visitors. In the circumstances I affected not to notice that the lilac was murmurous with ill-suppressed laughter and that the laurels were waving tumultuously; but it was “I don’t” she said indignantly; “it’s the Terror Society I belong to.” The secret was out, but I thought it wiser to conceal my triumph. Evidently, however, my discovery troubled the band, for next morning I received a soi-disant anonymous letter of caution signed in full by all the members. I felt that the moment had arrived for definite action, especially as the cat who honours my house with his presence, and whose summer morning The Captain was very frank with me. “Of course, we didn’t really want to frighten you,” she said, “but we had to get you to become a member somehow or other.” “But I’m afraid I’m not much good at conspiracies,” I said modestly. “Oh, that doesn’t matter,” the Captain answered kindly. “You can be honourable Treasurer. You know we want a lot of things for our house.” I began to see what part I had in the scheme of things. “What are the rules of the Society?” I asked in all innocence, and thereby flung the Secretary into confusion. “You see, she wrote them out,” the Captain “Captain,” I said firmly, “it is my one wish. Lead on!” “You ought really to be blindfolded,” the Captain whispered to me as we went along, “but I used my handkerchief to wrap up some of cook’s toffee this morning, and it’s rather sticky.” “Don’t apologise,” I murmured hastily; “I don’t mind not being blindfolded a bit. Besides, I’m practically a member, and you mustn’t blindfold members; it isn’t done.” The Captain seemed relieved. “I knew you would make a good treasurer,” she said with cheerful inconsequence. “But, look! there’s the house.” The headquarters or club-house of the Terror Society stood beside the allotment gardens at the top of the hill, and may, at some less honourable period of its history, have served as a place for storing tools. In the course of their trespassings the “You see, Mr. Treasurer,” she said, “we want some more of those camp-stools and a lock to keep out burglars, and some knives and forks, and a tin of biscuits and a pail and candles and a candlestick and a clothes-brush and a little bell to ring at dinner-time and a knocker for the door.” Fortunately she paused to take breath. “My dear Captain,” I interrupted quickly, “I have a sovereign in the savings-bank, and if you come with me to-morrow we’ll draw it out, and do the best we can with the money. But tell me, am I really a member?” “Of course you are!” “Then where’s my mysterious button?” The Captain frowned. “Jessie will have to paint you one, but the ribbon costs a penny.” “That makes twenty shillings and a penny,” said the Secretary. It was indeed a businesslike Society. The next day the Captain and I did a lot “Well, Captain,” I said, “how’s the Terror Society?” The Captain looked gloomy. “Haven’t you heard?” she said. “The Terror Society is all over.” “Finished already!” I cried in astonishment. “Why, what have you done with the house?” “It has been given to another society,” she said without a blush. “Another society?” “Yes, the Horror Society. I am Captain.” I considered this news for a moment. “Well, I suppose I’m a member of the new society?” I ventured. The Captain shook her head sadly. “I’m That is why, though I myself was a member of the Terror Society, I yet feel myself at liberty to write about it. For as on inquiry I discovered that the ranks of the Horror Society differed in no wise from those of the Terror Society save for the exclusion of the honourable Treasurer, I cannot help feeling that I have been rather badly treated. |