The Mysterious Code

I’d better leave my
Bob-White jacket in my locker?” Trixie asked when they all met to go to Mr.
Stratton’s office.
    “Why do you want to
do that?” Mart asked. “Because it was our jackets that seemed to bother him so
much,” Trixie said. “On second thought, I don’t think I will take mine off. We
haven’t done anything wrong.”
    “It would too
closely approximate appeasement,” Mart said. “In the minds of the most erudite
men in diplomatic circles, an attempt to placate is tacit acknowledgment of
guilt.” Mart tried out all his big
words on the club members. Diana’s puzzled, violet-blue eyes widened. She mixed
up even one-syllable words. Now she stood gazing blankly at Mart.
    “Never mind, Di,”
Brian said. “He probably doesn’t know what the words mean himself. He reads the
editorials in The
New York Times and learns them by heart.” Secretly Brian was proud of his younger brother.
    “I don’t see how any
of you can laugh,” Trixie said. “Here we are now at the judgment seat.”
    Six serious-faced
young people went into the principal’s office. Six chairs were drawn up facing
Mr. Stratton’s desk.
    “Good afternoon,” he
said and smiled. “Now, let me see, you are Brian Belden... and you, Martin
Belden.”
    They nodded their
heads.
    “And Jim Frayne?”
    “Yes, sir,” Jim
said.
    “And Madeleine
Wheeler.” Honey winced at the unfamiliar name.
    “Trixie Belden. Is
Trixie a nickname?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.
    “Not exactly,”
Trixie answered. She had been christened Beatrix, but people didn’t have to
know that. Her understanding mother had just called her Trixie when she
enrolled for kindergarten.
    “And, Diana Lynch.”
Mr. Stratton straightened.
    His smile faded.
“Now, who is to be spokesman?”
    “I am,” said Trixie.
Jim was co-president of the Bob-Whites, but Trixie usually did the talking
because … well, because she was naturally chatty.
    “Trixie, you have
told me about the B.W.G. club and the reason for its being, fm afraid it isn’t
enough. The board feels it must scrutinize closely the reason for any
organization not sponsored directly by the school. It doesn’t want secret
societies to exist in Sleepyside schools, when clubs—really gangs—can be the
source of so much trouble. With vandalism occurring in Sleepyside, we feel we must clamp down. And
whatever ruling we make about secret clubs will affect the good ones as well as
the bad.”
    “But the Bob-Whites
of the Glen isn’t a secret club,” Jim said, “except when we try to do good, and
we don’t shout that to the world.”
    “That is to be
commended,” Mr. Stratton agreed. “The real fault seems to be that the work is
carried on in too restricted a field.”
    “We can only do so
much,” Brian said. “And we do help people outside our own members. I can t talk
about it, but we do.”
    “I think the members
of the school board might consider a state or a national project,” Mr. Stratton
said.
    “Creeps, we aren’t
the American Red Cross,” Mart said in a low voice.
    “I beg your pardon,”
Mr. Stratton said. “I didn’t hear you.”
    “I meant, do you think
we should be like the American Red Cross?” Mart, by now ashamed, repeated.
    “Nonsense!” Mr.
Stratton said. “Of course, everyone helps the Red Cross. I’m afraid you don’t
grasp what I mean. I can say, though, and it
is food for serious thought: The board feels very strongly that you must show a
valid reason to continue to exist or, well, they didn’t actually say so, but
they meant that you will have to disband.”
    “We couldn't!”
Trixie almost shouted.
    “No, we couldn’t,”
Diana echoed. “Why, Mr. Stratton, we’d do anything else in the world except
give up the Bob-Whites
    Jim and Brian and
Mart exchanged glances. Jim spoke for the trio. “I’m sorry, sir, but that is
something we couldn’t do. We think our club has a good purpose, and we can’t
see why anyone should try to make us disband. We just couldn’t break up our
club.”
    “Is there anything we can do, Mr.
Stratton?” Trixie begged.
    “I don’t know,” Mr.
Stratton said sadly. “I’ll try to explain to the board that the Bob-Whites are
not a secret society in the true sense of the word— at least, not the kind they
deplore. If only you could have some worthwhile project under way.”
    It was apparent that
Mr. Stratton was not the nosy troublemaker Mart had labeled him; he really was
their friend.
    “I wish we felt free