17
ON THE NIGHT of the last meeting of the Young Tars, I arrived at the school very early. Porky let me in, and we went upstairs to the office together, where I ran off copies of the manual on the mimeograph machine. Porky helped me collate and staple them, and we carried them to the gym, where Porky took a position at the door, so that he could give a copy to each Tar as he arrived. I took my position in the circle at the center of the floor. I paced nervously within the circle, taking care not to leave it.
When most of the Tars had arrived, I called for attention, and after the usual (and, according to the latest and final version of the manual, required) shushing, elbowing, and rude noises, I got it.
“I know you’re all unhappy about getting another version of the manual,” I said.
There was a rowdy uproar at this, with raspberries.
“All right, all right,” I said, holding my hands in the air to signal for quiet. “I promise you—”
I was drowned out by the groans and hoots of boys who had been made too many promises of the sort they knew they were going to hear. I laughed, and they laughed with me—well, they laughed, anyway.
“I promise you,” I shouted above them, “that this is absolutely the last Tars Manual you will ever receive.”
Wild whooping and screaming greeted this announcement.
I said, “We’re going to conduct this meeting strictly by the manual.”
I held my copy of the manual high.
“A Tar does things by the manual,” I called out.
Mr. Summers walked in just then, carrying his Ping-Pong bazooka, and made his way down the steps to the gym floor. When he was within ten feet or so of me, I saluted him. I tried to put into my salute the tone of sarcasm, of mockery, of insolence, that I had put into my saying “Aye, Sir,” the week before.
Mr. Summers returned my salute with what looked to me like a nasty glance, but I smiled.
“Precious Metals,” he called out. “I want you in the coach’s office for a humility session.” The Precious Metals scrambled down from their seats in the bleachers and waddled across the floor to the coach’s office. Mr. Summers turned to me. “Humility is something you could use a good dose of, Peter,” he said.
“Aye, Sir,” said I.
“Impudence takes many forms, Peter, as I see you’ve learned. Learn this too: Pride goeth before a fall.”
“Aye, Thir,” said I. I couldn’t resist, and I was new at this nasty game. My understanding of subtlety was not well developed.
Mr. Summers sneered. He handed me a sheet of paper. “I want this added to the manual,” he said. He paused. “Don’t rewrite the whole thing—just stick this on the end.” He twisted his mouth into a grin. “It’s the official Tars court-martial procedure,” he said.
I took the paper from him, saluted again, and said, “Sir, it’s—”
He turned and walked to the coach’s office, herded the last of the Precious Metals inside, and slammed the door.
“—too late,” I said. I crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball and tossed it over my shoulder.
In Topical Guide 232, Mark Dorset considers Words on Paper: Their Power from this episode.
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