excited. Out of the ragged pocket he fished a piece of chalk. Then he leaned forward and began to draw something quickly on the flagstones closest to his platform. The Squad leaned forward also, quite breathlessly, and Marco leaned forward. The chalk was sketching a roughly outlined map, and he knew what map it was, before The Rat spoke.
“That’s a map of Samavia,” he said. “It was in that piece of magazine I told you about—the one where I read about Prince Ivor. I studied it until it fell to pieces. But I could draw it myself by that time, so it didn’t matter. I could draw it with my eyes shut. That’s the capital city,” pointing to a spot. “It’s called Melzarr. The palace is there. It’s the place where the first of the Maranovitch killed the last of the Fedorovitch—the bad chap that was Ivor’s father. It’s the palace Ivor wandered out of singing the shepherds’ song that early morning. It’s where the throne is that his descendant would sit upon to be crowned—that he’s GOING to sit upon. I believe he is! Let’s swear he shall!” He flung down his piece of chalk and sat up. “Give me two sticks. Help me to get up.”
Two of the Squad sprang to their feet and came to him. Each snatched one of the sticks from the stacked rifles, evidently knowing what he wanted. Marco rose too, and watched with sudden, keen curiosity. He had thought that The Rat could not stand up, but it seemed that he could, in a fashion of his own, and he was going to do it. The boys lifted him by his arms, set him against the stone coping of the iron railings of the churchyard, and put a stick in each of his hands. They stood at his side, but he supported himself.
“‘E could get about if ‘e ‘ad the money to buy crutches!” said one whose name was Cad, and he said it quite proudly. The queer thing that Marco had noticed was that the ragamuffins were proud of The Rat, and regarded him as their lord and master. “—‘E could get about an’ stand as well as any one,” added the other, and he said it in the tone of one who boasts. His name was Ben.
“I’m going to stand now, and so are the rest of you,” said The Rat. “Squad! ‘Tention! You at the head of the line,” to Marco. They were in line in a moment—straight, shoulders back, chins up. And Marco stood at the head.
“We’re going to take an oath,” said The Rat. “It’s an oath of allegiance. Allegiance means faithfulness to a thing—a king or a country. Ours means allegiance to the King of Samavia. We don’t know where he is, but we swear to be faithful to him, to fight for him, to plot for him, to DIE for him, and to bring him back to his throne!” The way in which he flung up his head when he said the word “die” was very fine indeed. “We are the Secret Party. We will work in the dark and find out things—and run risks—and collect an army no one will know anything about until it is strong enough to suddenly rise at a secret signal, and overwhelm the Maranovitch and Iarovitch, and seize their forts and citadels. No one even knows we are alive. We are a silent, secret thing that never speaks aloud!”
Silent and secret as they were, however, they spoke aloud at this juncture. It was such a grand idea for a game, and so full of possible larks, that the Squad broke into a howl of an exultant cheer.
“Hooray!” they yelled. “Hooray for the oath of ‘legiance! ‘Ray! ‘ray! ‘ray!”
“Shut up, you swine!” shouted The Rat. “Is that the way you keep yourself secret? You’ll call the police in, you fools! Look at HIM!” pointing to Marco. “He’s got some sense.”
Marco, in fact, had not made any sound.
“Come here, you Cad and Ben, and put me back on my wheels,” raged the Squad’s commander. “I’ll not make up the game at all. It’s no use with a lot of fat-head, raw recruits like you.”
The line broke and surrounded him in a moment, pleading and urging.
“Aw, Rat! We forgot. It’s the primest game you’ve ever thought out! Rat! Rat! Don’t get a grouch on! We’ll keep still, Rat! Primest lark of all ‘ll be the sneakin’ about an’ keepin’ quiet. Aw, Rat! Keep it up!”
“Keep it up yourselves!” snarled The Rat.
“Not another cove of us could do it but you! Not one! There’s no other cove could think it out. You’re the only chap that can think out things. You thought out the Squad! That’s why you’re captain!”
This was true. He was the one who could invent entertainment for them, these street lads who had nothing. Out of that nothing he could create what excited them, and give them something to fill empty, useless, often cold or wet or foggy, hours. That made him their captain and their pride.
The Rat began to yield, though grudgingly. He pointed again to Marco, who had not moved, but stood still at attention.
“Look at HIM!” he said. “He knows enough to stand where he’s put until he’s ordered to break line. He’s a soldier, he is—not a raw recruit that don’t know the goose-step. He’s been in barracks before.”
But after this outburst, he deigned to go on.
“Here’s the oath,” he said. “We swear to stand any torture and submit in silence to any death rather than betray our secret and our king. We will obey in silence and in secret. We will swim through seas of blood and fight our way through lakes of fire, if we are ordered. Nothing shall bar our way. All we do and say and think is for our country and our king. If any of you have anything to say, speak out before you take the oath.”
He saw Marco move a little, and he made a sign to him.
“You,” he said. “Have you something to say?”
Marco turned to him and saluted.
“Here stand ten men for Samavia. God be thanked!” he said. He dared say that much, and he felt as if his father himself would have told him that they were the right words.
The Rat thought they were. Somehow he felt that they struck home. He reddened with a sudden emotion.
“Squad!” he said. “I’ll let you give three cheers on that. It’s for the last time. We’ll begin to be quiet afterward.”
And to the Squad’s exultant relief he led the cheer, and they were allowed to make as much uproar as they liked. They liked to make a great deal, and when it was at an end, it had done them good and made them ready for business.
The Rat opened the drama at once. Never surely had there ever before been heard a conspirator’s whisper as hollow as his.
“Secret Ones,” he said, “it is midnight. We meet in the depths of darkness. We dare not meet by day. When we meet in the daytime, we pretend not to know each other. We are meeting now in a Samavian city where there is a fortress. We shall have to take it when the secret sign is given and we make our rising. We are getting everything ready, so that, when we find the king, the secret sign can be given.”
“What is the name of the city we are in?” whispered Cad.
“It is called Larrina. It is an important seaport. We must take it as soon as we rise. The next time we meet I will bring a dark lantern and draw a map and show it to you.”
It would have been a great advantage to the game if Marco could have drawn for them the map he could have made, a map which would have shown every fortress—every stronghold and every weak place. Being a boy, he knew what excitement would have thrilled each breast, how they would lean forward and pile question on question, pointing to this place and to that. He had learned to draw the map before he was ten, and he had drawn it again and again because there had been times when his father had told him that changes had taken place. Oh, yes! he could have drawn a map which would have moved them to a frenzy of joy. But he sat silent and listened, only speaking when he asked a question, as if he knew nothing more about Samavia than The Rat did. What a Secret Party they were! They drew themselves together in the closest of circles; they spoke in unearthly whispers.
“A sentinel ought to be posted at the end of the passage,” Marco whispered.
“Ben, take your gun!”