The furnishings consisted of a chair, which had long since parted with its back, and a small, shaky desk which had in some way survived the interval between its Christmas presentation and the fall school term. In the one drawer were kept the original of the "Tigers'" secret code, a twenty-five cent rubber stamp outfit which had been used to print the set of membership rules, beginning, "I. No swearing," and two sadly battered, springless, and rusty revolvers. Where they had originated, no one could remember, but there they lay, unsuspected by parental authorities, to be used as a possible defense against the incursions of the "Jefferson Toughs," who ruled the district to the immediate north, or to be dragged forth, as in the present case, to lend an air of solemnity to the many plots hatched between the four cramped walls. Red Brown descended the side steps into the yard, in answer to the summons of the clan, and found John in his role of master-at-arms, strutting back and forth before the doorway. Silvey, as befitted the holder of the exalted office of president, was sitting inside on the crippled chair. John whipped the more formidable of the two weapons from his back pocket and pointed it at the breast of the intruder. "Halt!" Brown obeyed. "Who goes there?" The formula had been borrowed from a thrilling Civil War story. "Friend," came the prompt reply. "Advance, friend, and give the countersign." Red opened his mouth doubtfully, then hesitated. "Hurry up." "I've forgotten it." "Aw, think--_hard_." John jabbed the muzzle of the revolver into his ribs with a steadily increasing pressure. Brown thought--hard. Finally he broke out, "It's easy enough for you to remember. You made it up." Which was true, for the master-at-arms, who was also the secretary, had drafted the rules and was responsible for the initiation ceremonies and passwords of the organization. "Go on. I'll help you." "Can't," hopelessly. "It's clean out of my head." "Have to stay away from the meeting, then." "Aw, John, quit your fooling. It doesn't matter." "Here's the start. 'Oppy.'" "Oppy--" "What's the rest of it?" "'Nother 'Oppy,' wasn't there?" "No, it was 'Oppy-poppy--'" "'Oppy-poppy--'" "'Oppy-poppy-oppy-nox.' Let's hear you say it all." Red repeated it triumphantly. "Right. Pass friend to the meeting of the 'Tigers.'" All the other members had trouble with the tongue twister. Either they left out the distinguishing "p" in the third syllable, or forgot the final "oppy" and had to have their memories refreshed in much the same manner as that of the first arrival. This was precisely what John had intended. What was the use of being both secretary and master-at-arms of a club if you couldn't have some fun at the expense of your fellow members?