The Wilson barn loft was big and roomy, with great mounds of hay. Down below them the boys could hear the black mare moving in her stall. A hen was nesting in the hay. She squawked angrily, then flew away. The rain beat hard on the roof overhead.

"No more baseball today," Joe said sadly.

"I wish we could get up a regular team," said Will. "We could play boys from other parts of town."

Eleven-year-old Tommy Wilson had a sudden idea. "Let's start a club! We can have a name and a secret password and play baseball and everything!"

"A good idea!" "What will our name be?" "The Rovers!" "I don't like that!" "How about the Beavers?"

The boys were all talking at once. One or two were ready to fight. They were making a great racket, but they were getting nowhere. Tommy remembered the wartime meetings in Father's church. Those men were all eager to talk, but they managed things better.

"Look here!" He jumped up on a mound of hay to catch their attention. "If we're going to have a club we must do it right. We'll have to have par-li-a-men-ta-ry order."

Tommy wasn't the only boy who liked big words. The others were impressed. But what was it? Tommy explained. The boys grew interested. This would be fun. They wanted to choose a president at once.

From the dust jacket