CHAPTER I PEANUT CALLS TO ARMS Nobody who had seen Art Bruce in a scout suit would ever have recognized him in his present costume. He had on black silk knee-breeches. On his low shoes were sewed two enormous buckles, cut out of pasteboard, with tinfoil from a paper of sweet chocolate pasted over them to make them look like silver. Instead of a shirt, he wore a woman’s white waist, with a lot of lace in front, which stood out, stiff with starch. His jacket was of black velvet. Instead of a collar, he wore a black handkerchief wrapped around like an old-fashioned neck-cloth, the kind you see in pictures of George Washington’s time. On his head was a wig, powered white, with a queue hanging down behind. As he came out of the boys’ dressing room into the school auditorium Peanut Morrison emitted a wild whoop. “Gee, look at Art!” he cried. “He thinks he’s George Washington going to deliver his last message to Congress!” Everybody looked at Art, and Art turned red. “Shut up,” he said. “You wait till _you’re_ all dolled up, and see what _you_ look like!” “Yes, and you’d better be getting dressed right away,” said one of the teachers to Peanut, who scampered off laughing. Art stood about, very uncomfortable, watching the other boys and girls come from the dressing rooms, in their costumes. It was the dress rehearsal for a Colonial pageant the Southmead High School was going to present. They were going to sing a lot of old-time songs, and dance old-time dances (the girls doing most of the dancing). The stage was supposed to represent a Colonial parlor. Several people had loaned the school old mahogany furniture, the light was to come largely from candles, and finally, while the party was supposed to be in full blast, a messenger was going to dash in, breathless, announce the Battle of Lexington, and call the men-folks of Southmead to arms. Then the men would run for their guns, say good-bye to the women, and march off. Art couldn’t see why they should march off in all their best clothes, and had said so to the teacher who got up the play, but she had pointed out that they couldn’t afford to hire two costumes for all the boys, so they’d just have to pretend they went home for their other clothes. Art was not yet satisfied, however. The girls were in funny old costumes with wide skirts and powdered hair. They were all having a much better time than Art was. “Gee, they _like_ to dress up,” thought Art, as he watched Lucy Parker practicing a courtesy before her own reflection in a glass door, and patting her hair.