“You see, she wrote them out,” the Captain explained, “and she doesn’t want you to read them because of the spelling. But they’re only make-up rules, so you needn’t bother about them. Don’t you want to see the house?” “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 children had found it lying empty, and had obtained permission from the landlord to have it for their very own. I have implied that the feminine element was predominant in the Society, and, recalling the wigwams and log huts of my own childhood, the difference between the ideals of boys and girls was sharply brought home to me when I crossed the threshold. The walls were papered with sentimental pictures out of Christmas numbers and literally draped with curtains; there were vases filled with flowers in every corner, and in the middle of this boudoir three of the members were drinking tea. In a sense, perhaps, the girls were to be commended for finding the true romance in domesticity, but I could not help wondering what Captain Shark of the barque _Rapacious_, that faithful friend of my boyhood, would have thought of a Terror Society run on such principles. However, I saw that the eyes of the members were upon me, and I hastened to do my duty as an honourable member. “It’s wonderful,” I said. “How on earth did you manage to do it all yourselves?” The children all fell to apportioning the credit—all, that is, save the Captain, who seemed to me a very businesslike fellow. “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.”