[HE DESCENDED THE SLOPE]

THE
SAFETY FIRST
CLUB

BY
W. T. NICHOLS

Illustrated by
F. A. Anderson

THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
1916

COPYRIGHT
1916 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

The Safety First Club

To
M. H. M.

A youthful critic with the precious art of
combining frankness and friendliness,
this book is appreciatively dedicated

Introduction

The Safety First idea, along with some other sound rules of conduct which have been hammered out by hard experience of the race, is often easier to put into words than into practice. Like other brakes on machines or men it sometimes seems to cause too much friction, with resulting protest, especially from youngsters impatient of warnings of dangers possible rather than presently pressing.

The fact is, however, that these objectors fail to recognize the true spirit of the rule. Nobody expects active boys and girls to be wrapped in cotton wool and stored away out of all harm’s reach. They have their work to do in the world, and in doing it must take certain risks as the rest of us do. But there are unnecessary risks, just as there are other risks which are not to be avoided; and it is in shunning these unnecessary risks, in learning that reasonable caution is not cowardice, that recklessness is no proof of bravery, and that the way to redeem a mistake is not to repeat it, that the rule is to be truly honored.

In “The Safety First Club” and the volumes which are to follow it are set forth certain adventures of boys who have to deal with problems such as confront healthy young Americans, boys well intentioned but not wise beyond their years, fond of the open, restive under restraint. It is the author’s hope that in their haps and mishaps they may be found likably human.

Contents

Illustrations

The Safety First Club

The Safety First Club

CHAPTER I
“HEDGEHOG DAY”

Sam Parker stepped out upon the side porch of his father’s house, closing the door behind him with a slam. There was a frown on his face, which by no means became it; and the corners of his mouth drooped sulkily. He was, as a matter of fact, in a fit of temper, which did not lessen as he surveyed the dull, gray sky, and saw its promise of a dismal day.

“’Nother spoiled Saturday!” he grumbled. “Nowhere to go and nothing to do—oh, thunderation!”

Now, to tell the truth, it may be that the weather had much to do with Sam’s pessimism, just as it often influences persons a great deal older and wiser than this boy of sixteen. Sam, commonly, was good-natured enough. This day, though, things had seemed to go wrong from the very start. He had overslept; one of his shoes had contrived to hide itself under the bureau; his necktie stubbornly had declined to slip into a smooth and even knot; he was late at breakfast, and the oatmeal was cold, and the eggs were as hard as the Fate which he was beginning to suspect was pursuing him. He had attempted criticism, and his father had checked him rather sharply with the reminder that the breakfast hour was 7:30 and not 7:50. His mother had not hastened to his defense; and even Maggie, the cook, frequently his ally and dispenser of consoling doughnuts and cookies, had failed him when he sought sympathy in the kitchen.

“You got up wrong foot foremost,” she told him. “Get along with you now! This is bakin’ day, and I can’t be bothered.”

Sam, thus repulsed, had clumped out of the kitchen; stormed into the hall; snatched up his cap and reefer; stamped across the dining-room, and flung himself out of the house, without visible improvement in his spirits or his condition. If it was dark within, it was gloomy without. He looked up the street and down; nobody was in sight. He buttoned his coat to the neck, and thrust his hands into his pockets: the world, he perceived, was chilly as well as lonely. Then, of a sudden, he grinned, fleetingly and reluctantly, at vagrant memory of the old story of the child that threatened to go out and eat two smooth worms and three fuzzy fellows because nobody loved it. The baby’s troubles were ridiculously like his own, and for a trying second he realized the resemblance. Then he was frowning harder than ever, with mouth drooping still more sulkily.

In sunnier moods Sam Parker was a good-looking boy. Nobody would have called him pretty; he wasn’t of the “pretty” type, being, indeed, rather wholesome and hearty, with plenty of color in his cheeks—and not a few freckles. For a youth who was rapidly adding to his inches, in the process known as getting his growth, he carried himself well; though, as everybody knows, this period in a boy’s life is not that at which grace of figure or movement is most marked. In other words, there were times when Sam did not know what to do with his hands or his feet, and impressed the painful fact upon all beholders, especially because of a certain impulsiveness, which led him now and then into embarrassing ventures.

Standing on the porch and glowering at all he beheld, Sam was not attractive. Hannibal, his bull terrier, trotting from the barn, noted the storm signals his master was flying, and halting at a safe distance, made great pretense of scratching for a flea which did not exist. Sam whistled, and Hannibal grew busier than ever. The boy took an impatient step, and the dog stopped scratching and bolted for the barn.

Sam, striding after him, pulled up abruptly. A thick-set man in cap, and overalls, and boots, and with a carriage rug in one hand and a brush in the other, appeared in the big doorway.

“H’lo, Sam!” was his greeting. “Good day, ain’t it?”

“Good for nothing!” snapped the boy. “Rotten weather!”

The man’s eyes twinkled. They were pleasant eyes, with little fans of fine wrinkles at the corners, and they lighted up his smooth-shaven, weather-beaten face amazingly.

“Huh! Guess you ain’t looked at the calendar lately. This ain’t June; it’s the fust day of December. And I’m tellin’ you this is pretty good weather for December. What if there ain’t no snow? The wheelin’s all right—your daddy took the car out this mornin’.”

Sam nodded. “I know—he went over to Epworth.”

“Why didn’t you go along?”

“What’d be the use?”

Now, this was not strictly ingenuous. Possibly because of his sulks, Sam had not been invited to accompany his father.

“Sure enough! What’d ’a’ been the use?” said the man with an odd grin.

Sam reddened. “Look here! Bet you I could have gone if I’d wanted to, Lon!”

Lon, otherwise Alonzo Gates, hired man and general factotum, made no response to the challenge, but fell to dusting the rug vigorously. Sam, gloomy browed, drew nearer.

“Tell you, Lon, I could have gone. No fun, though—ride’s too cold. That’s the trouble with this weather—no coasting, no skating, no football, nothing!”

“So?” said the man non-committally.

Hobe, the barn cat, sauntered out of the door. Sam kicked at the animal, which took refuge behind a wooden bucket standing just inside the sill, and from this cover snarled defiance. Whereupon Sam kicked again. This time his foot struck something—the bucket. Over it went, and out shot a gallon or two of soapy water. Hobe darted back into the barn. Lon moved aside nimbly, but not nimbly enough. Splash! went the water upon his boots.

“Wal, now, but you have gone and done it!” he ejaculated. “Nice mess to clean up, ain’t it?”

In Sam’s perverse mood the one thing he cared for was to hide the regret he felt.

“Huh! Oughtn’t to have stuff standing round like that. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Lon paused in his labors. “My! but this world’s awful crowded this mornin’, ain’t it?” he remarked. “First there wasn’t room for you ’n’ Hobe; then you jest couldn’t stand for that bucket treadin’ on your toes. Wal, wal!”

Sam snorted wrathfully. What wouldn’t he have given for speech so cuttingly sarcastic that Lon must throw up his hands and beg mercy! But, effective words failing him, he could do no better than offer sounds which were disagreeable rather than intelligible.

Lon chuckled; then grew serious. “See here, Sam!” said he. “I kind o’ guess this is hedgehog day for you, ain’t it?”

“Huh?”

“When you come to think it over,” Lon went on, “a hedgehog’s about the one critter you can’t think of as ever snugglin’ up nice and cozy to anything or anybody. Now, I knew a feller once that had a tame woodchuck that liked to be patted; and I’ve seen the tigers and big cats in circuses purrin’ round their trainers; but I never heard tell of a hedgehog actin’ real sociable and wantin’ to sit in anybody’s lap. And, so far’s I can rec’lect, I never run across a hedgehog that you’d call all-around popular with the neighbors. Whenever one gets close to anybody, he sticks his spines into him. And when a human gets to actin’ like a hedgehog—why that’s when he’s havin’ a hedgehog day—see?”

“Huh!” said Sam again.

Lon gave the rug another flick with the brush.

“By and large, son,” he remarked, “it ain’t good business to have hedgehog days. I know, I know! When you’re feelin’ that way, that’s the way you feel, as the fox said to the bear in the trap. But you ain’t doin’ yourself no good, and you ain’t any perticular help to the rest of the community.”

“Hang the community!”

“Jest what the hedgehog says,” quoth Lon tranquilly. He carried his rug into the barn; brought out another; brushed skilfully for a minute.

“Hunt up some of the boys, Sam,” he advised. “Try lowerin’ your spines, and see if they won’t keep down after a while.”

“Don’t want to.”

“Bad as that, eh?”

Sam disdained to make reply. Lon pursed his lips.

“Sonny, this won’t do. It’s bad medicine. Say, where’ll you be at if you behave like this when you go to St. Mark’s?”

“I’ll get along all right.”

Lon brushed furiously for a little. “I—I dunno’s there’s but—but one way—for some folks to learn things,” he said jerkily. “When you’re there—jest one among two-three hundred boys—it’ll be different, now I tell you! We put up with you; they won’t.”

“Huh! Who’s afraid?”

“I’d be—if I was you.”

“Bah!”

Lon shook his head. “Sam,” he said, “if I thought this was a real in-growin’ attack, I’d be worried a heap wuss than I am. But I’m worried enough as it is. Now, I’ll give you a good tip. If you don’t want to see the other boys, go for a good, long tramp. Walk it off! That’s jest what the real hedgehog can’t do—his legs ain’t long enough.”

“No fun walking—day like this.”

Lon was a patient soul. “Wal, why don’t you go huntin’, then?”

“What for? Rabbits?”

“If you can’t get anything bigger. But you might land a shot at a deer. ’Member what day this is? First of December! Law on deer goes off, and stays off till the fifteenth.”

“Oh!” said Sam. In the new interest he almost forgot, for an instant, that he had a grievance against the universe. But it was only for an instant. “But I wouldn’t have the luck to get a shot at a buck, or a doe, either. The crowd will have started out early, and scared every deer within ten miles of town,” he concluded pessimistically.

“Don’t be too sure of that.”

“’Tis sure!” Sam insisted. “Then what’ll I do for a gun?”

“Got your own, haven’t you?”

“What! Try for a deer with a ‘twenty-two’?”

“Why not? It’s big enough, if it gets to the right spot.”

Sam fell back to his second line of defense. “Well, there’ll be no deer anywhere near town.”

“Who says so?”

“I do!” snapped the boy.

Lon bent toward him, and lowered his voice. “Sam, a feller was tellin’ me last night about a herd that’s been feedin’ in close—right back of old Bill Marlow’s barn—big buck and three-four more. Old orchard in there, you know. And that’s so nigh to town most folks won’t look for ’em there. But there they be—or there they were as late as yesterday, anyhow. And, by gum! if I was you, I’d scout out that way on the chance—that is, if your mother says it’s all right,” he added hastily.

In spite of himself, Sam’s ambition was fired. A shot at a deer! That would be worth while.

“You—you’re certain they were there yesterday?” he asked.

“Bill Marlow told me himself. And you can be sure of one thing—he didn’t tell many other folks. Bill ain’t no gossip.”

Sam nodded. He knew something of Mr. Marlow’s habit of taciturnity. Doubter though he might be, the prospect was brightening. He had heard old hunters tell stories of cases in which deer had been killed almost in the outskirts of the village, while sportsmen ranging farther afield had been rewarded with sight of neither buck nor doe.

“Well, I suppose I might as well have a look,” he said not too graciously.

“Of course you might!”

Sam took a step toward the house. “Of course, with my luck——”

“Oh, you never can tell,” Lon reminded him.

“Still, I might as well be wasting time that way as any other,” said Sam sourly, and quickened his pace.

“Don’t forget to tell your mother!” Lon called after him.

Sam waved a hand in reply, and went on to the house.

CHAPTER II
SAM TAKES CHANCES

In simple fairness it should be said that Sam Parker meditated no breach of parental authority. Indeed, as he was permitted to own a little rifle, and to hunt for small game, it was possible that no serious objection would have been raised to his quest for deer, though there might have been scant faith in his success. But Sam, as it was fated, was not to secure permission for his expedition.

Mrs. Parker was not in the dining-room. Sam saw that the room was unoccupied, and went on to the library. It, too, failed to reward him for his search. So did the living-room. He strode into the hall, and took station by the foot of the stairs.

“Mother! Oh, Mother!” he called. “Say, Mother! Mother!”

There was no reply from above stairs or below.

“But I say, Mother!” His voice rose shrilly in his impatience. “Where are you? Oh, Ma, Ma, Ma!”

A door at the back of the hall opened, but the head which appeared was that of Maggie.

“Don’t make such a racket, Sam!” she cautioned. “What do you want, anyway?”

“Where’s Mother? I’ve got to see her—right off!”

“Well, she ain’t here.”

“Why not?” demanded the boy hotly.

Maggie tossed her head. “Because she can’t very well be in two places at once. And she’s run over to see Mis’ Lake for a minute.”

Sam stamped his foot. “Minute—nothing! I know what that means. She’ll stay half an hour.”

“Well, why shouldn’t she, if she wants to?” said Maggie coolly. And then, being busy, she closed the door and went back to her work.

Sam scowled; hesitated briefly; reached resolution; marched into the library. His little rifle stood in its appointed place against the wall, beside his father’s double-barreled gun. “The armory corner” of the library was a family joke; for though Sam’s rifle was frequently in use, the shotgun had not been taken out of the room in years. It was a fine weapon, of a noted make, and highly prized by its owner, who, however, had not hunted for many seasons; though regularly he planned expeditions in the woods, and bought a fresh stock of ammunition.

Sam laid eager hold upon his rifle; then, of a sudden, seemed to be seized by scorn of it. After all, it was never meant for big game. Why, with its short cartridges and light charges of powder, it was hardly more than a toy! Really, it was intended for target practice.

“Yet, for all that, it’s a rifle,” said the boy to himself. It was odd how, once his prejudice was aroused, arguments presented themselves to strengthen his objections. “And the law says you can’t hunt deer with rifles.”

Here he was speaking by the book. The statute, which provided an open season from December 1st to December 15th, also forbade the use of rifles by sportsmen. Possibly a very lenient judge might have held that Sam’s “pop-gun” hardly classed with the high-power, long-range weapons against which the law was aimed, and might have deemed it annoying rather than dangerous to two-footed or four-footed creatures; but Sam, at the moment, was not disposed to be liberal in his interpretation. He restored the piece to its place. He picked up the shotgun.

Temptation was strong upon him. Wasn’t it true that if he had not been told that he could use the gun he also had not been expressly forbidden to lay hands upon it? Nothing had been said about it either way. And didn’t his father wish him to have some knowledge of firearms? Of course he did! Oh, but it was a wonderfully persuasive voice, which seemed to be whispering in his ear! It was so seductive that it frightened him—a very, very little.

Sam hastily put down the gun. Yet he lingered in its neighborhood. Half absently he opened a drawer in his father’s desk. There, in a corner, was a paper box, labeled “3 1/4 drams, smokeless; shot 00.” Cartridges for deer shooting! Surely here was Fate’s own finger pointing the way.

The boy drew a long breath. He lifted the cover of the box; took out half a dozen of the cartridges; thrust them into a pocket. Then he caught up the shotgun, and strode out of the library.

There was nobody to halt him or question him. Maggie was fully occupied in the kitchen, and his mother had not returned. Leaving the house by the front door, he avoided chance of observation by Lon Gates, who still was at work in the barn. Not that Lon would have stopped him; for the hired man would have supposed him to be sallying forth with his mother’s permission. Nevertheless, Sam preferred to have his going unnoted. He turned the corner of the house—the corner away from the barn; stole back through the yard; climbed a fence, and found himself in a narrow lane. It led to a side street, which, in turn, brought him to a road running into the country.

His gun tucked under his arm, Sam walked briskly; and as the Parker house happened to be on an edge of the town, it was but a very few minutes before he had open fields on either hand. Ahead of him was the low hill on which the Marlow farmhouse stood; and farther on were loftier wooded summits. In summer the scenery of the region was pleasantly picturesque, but on an overcast December day a stranger might have found the prospect somewhat dreary. Sam, cheered by the spirit of adventure, and the better for the exercise, began to shake off his sulkiness; and he was whistling almost blithely when, at a bend in the road, he saw two boys approaching. Physically, they were in marked contrast. One was tall and thin, with a peculiarly angular effect at elbows and knees; the other was short and plump, with a round, good-humored face. Both hailed Sam eagerly.

“Hi there! Where are you going? What you doing with that artillery?” sang out the tall lad.

“Don’t fire! I’ll surrender,” chuckled his companion.

Sam halted. He brought his gun to parade rest. An onlooker might have suspected that he was not seeking secrecy regarding errand or armament in the case of these two friends.

“Hullo, Step!” said he. “Same to you, Poke! And what am I doing? Oh, just looking around on the chance of bagging something.”

The tall youth was carrying a package, wrapped in a newspaper. He laid it on the ground, and took the gun from Sam’s hands, balancing the weapon lovingly and finally raising it to his shoulder.

“Gee, but what a daisy!” he exclaimed. “Whose is it? Yours?”

“Oh, it isn’t exactly mine, Step, but I’m using it,” said Sam.

Any boy could have told how Clarence Jones came by his nickname. “Step” was an abbreviation of “Step-ladder”; and undeniably Master Jones did bear a resemblance to that valuable, if not graceful, article of household equipment.

“Here, let me take the shooting-iron!” the plump youth urged. His name was Arthur Green, but he was called “Poke,” because one so easily could dig a finger into his fat sides. Having placed the basket he had been carrying beside Step’s bundle, his hands were free to lay hold upon the gun. There was a little tussle, and Poke captured the prize.

“My eyes! but this is a crackerjack!” was his comment. “Jiminy, but you’re the lucky chap, Sam! What are you after?”

Sam did his best to appear blasé. “Oh, thought maybe I might get a shot at a buck.”

The reception of the remark was not flattering. “You!” jeered Step; Poke laughed.

“Why not?” Sam demanded, indignantly.

“That’s ri-right; why not?” Poke was quivering with amusement. “All you’ve got to do is to hold the gun and pull the trigger; and if only a deer happens to walk in the way, the gun’ll do the rest.”

Sam snatched the weapon from the jester. “Oh, cut the comedy!” he snapped. “There’s nothing funny about it. I’ll bet you fifty men and boys are out for deer to-day, and I’ve just as good a chance as any of them can have of running into a herd. And if I want to take a chance——Come, now! what’s ridiculous in that?”

Step was disposed to side with Sam. “There’s sense, Poke. Stop your kidding. I want to ask Sam something.”

“Well, what is it?” queried Master Parker guardedly.

“It’s about St. Mark’s. Are you sure you’re going there?”

“Why—why——” Sam hesitated. “Why, I’m practically sure, I guess. Father and I were talking it over last week; and I gathered that if I passed the mid-year examinations here he’d let me transfer.”

Step was rubbing his chin. “Well, that’s what I wanted to know. I’ve been campaigning to get my folks to send me, but they’re hanging off till they learn what your father will do with you.”

Sam’s petulance had vanished. “Great Scott, Step, but it would be cracking if we could go together!” he cried. “Say, Poke, get after your family! We three have been pals ever since we can remember. It’d be bully to take the gang to St. Mark’s.”

Poke shook his head. “Too bad, but there’s no hope for me. Little old High School has got to be good enough for Yours Truly.”

“Oh, the school’s all right,” said Sam. “Only—as my father puts it—it’s case of general versus special. We can fit for college here, but the preparatory course is but one of several, while at St. Mark’s it’s the whole thing. That ought to mean a better ‘fit.’ And you know the fun the fellows have there, and the athletics, and all the rest of it.”

Poke’s expression was uncommonly serious. “You’ve set your heart on going, Sam, haven’t you?”

“It’ll be broken if I don’t go.”

Poke gave a funny little sigh. “Oh, well, they’ll need some of us to stay home and run the errands, I reckon. And I guess I’m unanimously elected. Here’s one, for instance.” And he picked up his basket.

“What have you got there?” Sam asked.

“Eggs! Two dozen—all Mrs. Trask could spare. And fifty-five cents a dozen! Say, when I’m carrying this basket, I feel like a walking cash register!”

Step had resumed possession of his package. “And here’s one of Mrs. Trask’s roosters—five and a half pounds, dressed. I’m some plutocrat myself.”

Sam shouldered his gun. “We’re all pretty richly loaded to-day,” said he. “I suppose if I kill an eight-point buck you won’t care to have me send a haunch to either of you?”

“Oh, well, I’ll take it—as a favor to you,” quoth Step.

“Same here!” chimed in Poke. Then he was seized by an idea. “Look here, Sam! If you shoot anything—short of a heifer calf—bring it down to the club this afternoon, and we’ll have a feed. Both of us are going to be there.”

“But come, anyway,” urged Step. “If you don’t hit bird or beast, you’ll have a story to tell of the big ones that got away.”

Sam nodded. “All right; I’ll be there,” he promised readily.

CHAPTER III
THE LUCK OF A LONG SHOT

At the base of the hill crowned by the Marlow house the woods came close to the road. Years before the pines had been cut off, and in their place had come in a second growth of hard wood, scrubby, tangled and dense. On many of the trees, especially the oaks, dead leaves still were thick, affording cover for game and adding considerably to the difficulties of hunting novices.

Sam climbed the fence, and plunged into the thickets to the right. It was his intention to work around the base of the hill, and thus reach the old orchard, of which Lon Gates had spoken; but he quickly discovered that the plan was more easily made than carried out. There was a good deal of underbrush, and the ground was rough, stony in places and swampy in the tiny valleys. Moreover, as he tried to advance as silently as possible, and to keep a keen, if limited, lookout, his progress was slow as well as wearisome. With all his vigilance, however, he saw nothing and heard nothing to indicate the presence of anything which would serve as target for his aim. No rabbit scurried away, and there was no whir of wings among the branches. As for deer—why, there was nothing to hint that buck or doe was to be found thereabouts.

He had slipped a couple of cartridges into his gun, and felt prepared for any emergency; but an emergency declined to present itself. Even when he reached the little brook, which skirted the hill, the silence of the woods was unbroken, except by the subdued murmur of the stream. He paused for a moment, listening intently but vainly; then moved on, following the course of the brook. The going was now a trifle easier, though clumps of trees and bushes still narrowed the view.

For perhaps a quarter of an hour his progress was absolutely uneventful, and unrelieved by even a false alarm. A turn in the brook warned him that he had passed the farmhouse, and was nearing the old orchard. More cautiously than ever he changed his course, and began to climb the slope on his right, the first, as he knew, of a series of low ridges. He reached its top without mishap, and halted to reconnoiter.

From somewhere, afar off, the wind brought a sound to his ears, which set his pulse bounding and made him tighten his hold on his gun. It was a sound he could not mistake, faint though it was. Some other hunter had found something to fire at; perhaps the lucky fellow had sent a charge of buckshot into a deer!

Just in front of Sam, and on the verge of the farther slope, was a mass of tangled bushes. He dropped to his knees, and slowly tunneled a way through the barrier. From its shelter he could look down into a ravine, beyond which rose the second ridge.

For several minutes he lay motionless in his burrow, peering into the gully and straining his ears for the rustle of branches or the crack of dried twig. Once he thought he heard both from the lower ground to his left; but he could not be sure, and the disturbance was not repeated.

[HIS FINGER TREMBLED ON THE TRIGGER]

Suddenly, from another direction—straight across the ravine and near the top of the ridge—came sounds of movements in the undergrowth. Instinctively, Sam brought the gun to his shoulder; its muzzle barely protruded from the branches. [His finger trembled on the trigger]. And then his eager eye had a glimpse of a darker patch amidst the dried leaves, a patch which seemed to be moving very, very slowly.

Sam had heard tales of “buck fever,” and had laughed at the plight of its victims; but now he could sympathize with them. His heart was pumping furiously; he was trembling from head to foot; every muscle seemed to be relaxed and helpless. And, as if to mock him, that dark spot across the ravine grew clearer and more distinct. It was too high from the ground to suggest the presence of any of the smaller animals likely to be found in the woods.

“That—that’s a deer over there!” Sam told himself desperately. “It—it can’t be anything else!”

With an effort he summoned all his will. The swaying barrels along which he glanced steadied. His finger pressed the trigger. There was a roar which seemed to him as loud as thunder. His right shoulder ached under what was like a smart blow from the butt of the gun. A thin wisp of smoke blew away from the muzzle, and was lost in the branches.

On the other side of the gully was violent commotion. The dark spot vanished. In its stead appeared the bare head of a man!

Sam uttered a queer, faint, choking cry of horror. The gun dropped from his hands. His head sank to the ground, and he lay, face downward, for the moment utterly overcome. Through his recklessness and folly he had shot a fellow being. Terrible certainty was his that he had not missed his aim, and that he had wounded, perhaps fatally, the victim of his criminal carelessness. There flashed upon him all the possible consequences of his act—arrest, imprisonment, disgrace; sorrow and suffering for his parents; pain and anguish for the stranger, even if he survived his wounds.

For a little Sam closed his eyes, but he could not keep from his ears the ominous sounds from the other ridge. The man had not cried out; but there was a wild crashing of brush, as if he were writhing convulsively in the thicket. Presently the sounds grew less distinct. The man must be weakening from loss of blood! Sam’s imagination pictured him lying in a crimson pool, and the boy shuddered at the thought. Yet it nerved him to the duty which he knew was his to do.

Sam had faults enough, but lack of courage to face the music, as the saying goes, was not among them. Plainly, the way for retreat was open for him, if he chose to take it; there was nobody to interfere. But Sam, once he had recovered somewhat from the shock of his disaster, set himself resolutely to the task of making such amends as he might.

He crawled out of the protecting bushes, and got upon his feet. For a moment or two he stood, listening intently; but now there was no sound from beyond the ravine. Then, with a sort of grim and unhappy determination, [he began to descend the slope]. At the bottom he paused again, but heard nothing either to lessen or to increase his anxiety. Then he went on, climbing doggedly and steadily to the clump where first had appeared the dark spot, and then the head of a man. The quiet of the place was unbroken. A new and terrible fear laid hold upon him: perhaps the wounded man had already succumbed. It needed all his grit and courage at last to part the branches and look in at the spot where the man had stood.

Sam looked, and looked again; and felt that he could not believe the evidence of his eyes. For three or four feet in each direction the brush had been trampled down, but there was nobody there!

A great sense of relief filled the boy. At all events, he had not killed anybody! There was even a second in which he cherished wild hope that what he had seen had been merely a vision raised by some trick of over-taxed nerves. But the hope was doomed to swift dismissal. There was blood on the dried leaves on the ground—not much blood, to be sure, but enough to make a fresh, dark stain.

Kneeling, Sam examined the sanguinary traces very carefully. As he rose, his expression curiously combined satisfaction and bewilderment. It was manifest that the stranger’s wound had neither bled copiously nor crippled him; and that he had been able to make off. But whither had he gone? Why had he not charged across the gully? And why had he not raised a warning shout to prevent a second shot?

“Jiminy!” said Sam to himself. “Jiminy! but I don’t believe he got sight of me at all! I was covered by the bushes, and there was hardly any smoke, and if he were looking another way—why—why——” He broke off, frankly unable to weigh and decide the probabilities of the strange affair.

There still remained the possibility of finding and following the man’s trail; but Sam was not especially skilled in such matters. He fancied that for a few yards he could make out evidences of somebody forcing a way through the undergrowth, but then he came to a sort of woods path along the backbone of the ridge, and there lost the slender clews upon which he had depended. Certainly he could discover no more drops of blood.

Sam went back to the trampled space, and searched it minutely from end to end, and from side to side. He had his trouble for his pains. He found nothing to throw light upon the mystery.

“Well, this does beat me!” he confessed, and shook his head in perplexity. “I never heard of anything like it. And I don’t want to hear of anything like it again—ugh!” He gave a little shiver. “I know when I’ve had enough—and too much. I’m going home, and I’m going to get there, and put up this gun, as quick as my legs will carry me to the house. And you can bet I’m going to keep quiet about this. And—and I hope the other fellow will keep quiet, too. Come now, Sam Parker! Brace up! Forward march!”

Thus encouraging himself, Master Sam set off at a round pace for the highway, but when he reached it his speed lessened. He had a new sense of merciful escape from perils when he was out of the dark woods and in the open road; and with it came a peculiar weakness and uncertainty in his knees. He was glad to sit down on a boulder beside the ditch and rest for what seemed to him a long, long time. Finally he rose, and trudged toward the town. He went slowly, and his face was thoughtful.

CHAPTER IV
THE CLUB GETS A NEW NAME

It was well after noon when Sam came up the narrow lane behind the Parker place, and scaled the back fence. Hasty observation from its top showed him that the coast was clear. He stole through the yard, kept the house between himself and the barn, and let himself in at the front door.

The house was as quiet as well ordered homes generally are at that hour, when dinner has been disposed of, and supper is still afar off. Sam tiptoed into the library. With feverish haste he put his father’s gun in its place, first removing the cartridges from the breach. Then he opened the desk drawer, and restored his stock of cartridges to their box. He hesitated a moment over the empty shell, being, indeed, tempted to slip it in with the rest. At a casual glance the box would then seem to be full. But Sam, with all his imperfections, was not given to tricks and deceits.

“I won’t do it!” he said, with decision, and slipped the shell into his pocket.

As he stepped into the hall, Maggie hailed him from the top of the stairs.

“Is that you, Sam?” she called. “I thought I heard the front door open, and I wondered who ’twas.”

So she hadn’t seen him enter the house; therefore she could not know that he had been carrying the gun. Thus was another danger of investigation avoided.

“Yes; I came in that way,” he said. “Father home yet?”

“No.”

“Where’s Mother?”

“Lon’s drivin’ her over to see old Mis’ Hardee at Webster Mills.”

There are times when things do seem to have been arranged most fortunately. Sam could have thrown up his cap and cheered. But Maggie was beginning to descend the stairs.

“Look here, Sam Parker! Why didn’t you come home to dinner?” she demanded.

“Oh, I’m all right. I don’t want anything to eat.”

Maggie continued to descend the stairs. “Don’t, eh? Where’d you get dinner? Did the Joneses invite you?”

“No.”

“The Greens, then?”

“Why—why—no; they didn’t.”

Maggie had reached the foot of the flight. “So you come traipsin’ home after everything’s cleaned up and put away, and expect me to muss up my kitchen for you? I like that! Well, you can just guess again, Sam Parker!”

“But I don’t want anything, Maggie!” Sam said pacifically. “Honest, I don’t. I’m not hungry.”

“That’s lucky—seein’s there ain’t anything,” said Maggie drily. However, she was moving toward the kitchen. “Come along with you, though!” she flung over her shoulder.

Sam followed her meekly. “You don’t need to bother,” he insisted.

Maggie paid not the slightest heed to his protests. “Don’t see how folks can expect to keep a house decent, with all the overgrown boys in town runnin’ in for snacks between meals,” she grumbled. “Well, now you’re here, you might as well sit down.” She pointed to a table, bare but spotlessly clean. “S’pose I’ll have to give you some dry bread or a cracker, maybe. And the water from the faucet’s cold enough to drink at this time of year.”

Sam sat down. “Oh, anything’ll do,” he said humbly.

“Umph!” said Maggie, and opened the door of the oven. “Well, I do declare! How’d that happen?” And from the oven she took a plate, on which was a generous slice of steak, also a big potato. “Goodness gracious! but I must be gettin’ flighty! I’d ’a’ said for sure I put those things in the ice chest. Don’t it beat all how things happen! Course, the meat’s cooked hard as a rock, but you might as well have it as Hannibal.” She set the plate on the table with a bang. “Well, now the stuff’s before you, what are you goin’ to do with it?”

Sam showed her. In spite of the morning’s adventures he had an excellent appetite. Maggie, observing, brought a glass of milk and a large piece of pie from the pantry. Then, standing before him, she studied the youth closely.

“Sam, what you been doin’? What mischief you been up to?”

“Noth—nothing,” mumbled Sam.

Maggie shook her head. “Don’t you try to tell me, Sam Parker! I ain’t known you years and years for nothing. Where you been?”

Sam took thought. Maggie was his sworn ally and help in time of trouble, but he feared she couldn’t be brought to look kindly upon the incidents of his morning.

“Oh! I—I went for a—for a walk—out in the woods,” he stammered.

“Then what?”

“Then I came home,” said Sam.

“So I see!” quoth Maggie drily. “But go on! As you were sayin’——?”

Sam wriggled. “This—this is bully pie, Maggie,” said he, in an effort to change the topic.

Her severity of expression deepened. “Mebbe it is, Sam. But you can’t have another piece ’less you ’fess up.”

“But I—I can’t confess.”

“Bosh!” said Maggie tartly.

Sam, in his turn, regarded her gravely. He had no intention of confiding in his old friend, but plainly it was a point of interest to learn if he struck people as one who was burdened with a terrible secret.

“Well, I got awfully tired, for one thing,” said he. “And it was chilly and—er—er—and lonesome. And so I show it, do I?”

“You show something fast enough—I ain’t sure what.”

“Oh!” said Sam, and pushed back his chair. He got upon his feet, and crossed to the door. His hand on the knob, he looked at Maggie, whose brow was furrowed.

“Say, it was mighty clever of you to save my dinner. Thank you a lot!” he cried. Then he opened the door, and went out hurriedly.

The talk in the kitchen had given him warning. If he would not rouse suspicion, he must increase the gaiety of his air and manner. As he strolled down the street, he was whistling shrilly; and he shifted to a merrier tune when he turned in at the gate of the Joneses’ place, and walking up to the door of a small and very trim outbuilding, knocked thrice.

A few months earlier Mr. Jones, disposing of a pony, whose legs had become a good deal shorter than Step’s, had turned the pony’s quarters over to his son, with the understanding that the little house was to be used for a club, which the boys were forming. Step and his chums at once took possession. They worked like beavers, cleaning, sweeping, painting and furnishing the building, and succeeded in making for themselves a very attractive meeting place. The club—it was called the Adelphi—had flourished mightily, and membership in it was highly prized.

Sam’s triple knock brought no response, being, indeed, somewhat of an empty form and ceremony; and after waiting for a moment—this, too, was part of the accepted program—he opened the door and walked in. Step and Poke were in the lounging room, recently the space given to the pony cart. Its walls were gay with college pennants, photographs, and pictures cut from magazines and newspapers; in one corner was a lounge, worn but still useful; the chairs represented contributions from the attics of several families; there was a serviceable table, on which stood a shaded lamp; and an oil heater effectually dispelled the chill of the afternoon air.

“Hi there, fellows!” Sam sang out. “What are you doing to kill time?”

It had been his desire to impress them with his ease of mind, but neither betrayed much interest in his mood. Step, huddled in an old steamer chair, was a picture of depression and angles, with his knees almost on a level with his ears, and his long arms sagging till his hands touched the floor. Poke was standing before a blackboard, which hung on the wall. As he turned to regard the newcomer, his round face was puckered in a frown.

“Oh, you, Sam?” he said absently.

“Oh, you?” croaked Step like a dismal echo.

Sam glanced from one to the other. “What’s the row?” he inquired. “You two look like chickens with the pip.”

“Chickens? Ugh!” Step fairly shuddered.

“Huh!” snorted Poke; and turning to the blackboard, dabbed viciously at it with the eraser which he had in his left hand.

“What are you doing?” queried Sam. He moved nearer to Poke, and glanced curiously at the board. It had borne, in bold lettering:

Adelphi Club
Rules and By-laws.

Now, however, there was only a chalky smear to show where the lines had been. “What are you doing?” he repeated. “Say, you’ve spoiled it!”

“Huh! This club needs a new name,” growled Poke. “I’m trying to think of one that’ll fit.”

Sam wheeled and addressed the youth in the chair. “Step, what ails him? What ails you? What’s the matter, anyway?”

Step clasped his hands about his knees. “What ails us? Guess you wouldn’t be asking if you knew!”

“Course I wouldn’t!” Sam agreed rather testily to what might be called a fairly self-evident proposition.

“Hang the luck!” groaned the doleful Step.

Poke whipped about. “Confound it, but there’s more than luck!” he cried. “You’re letting us off too easy, Step. Oh, I know—I know what you’d say! We didn’t mean to have it happen, but it did happen; so what’s the use in talking? And it was just like a lot of other things that keep happening to us, and will keep on happening till we have more sense.”

“Huh!” came from the depths of the chair.

Sam dropped a hand on Poke’s shoulder. “Translate, won’t you? You’re worse than old Cæsar when he tells about building his bridge.”

“Darn that dog!” wailed Step.

Sam tightened his grip on Poke’s plump shoulder. “So there was a dog, was there?” said he. “That’s a start, anyway. Go on!”

Poke wriggled free. “Yes; there was a dog, and it was that big hound of Mr. Mercer’s. And it came along, and smelled Step’s chicken, and grabbed for it, and gobbled it, and knocked over my basket of eggs, and ran away. And we chased it, but couldn’t catch it. And Step lost his chicken, and every one of my eggs was smashed. And ain’t that trouble enough for one day?”

“But I don’t quite understand. It—it’s sort of complicated. I don’t see how the hound could grab the chicken and upset your basket all at once.”

Poke shifted weight from one foot to the other. “Well—well, you see, we—we’d sort of stopped to look at a knife Tom Appleton had bought; and we’d set the bundle and the basket on a stone wall; and the dog hit both when he jumped for one. That was the way of it. And say! did you ever hear of anything worse?”

Sam’s smile was bitter. “Anything worse!” he repeated scornfully. What was a poor tale of broken eggs and looted chicken to one who, by pure mischance, had shot a man?

Poke resented his friend’s tone. “Huh! Much you know about it! Dollar and ten cents’ worth of eggs gone—just like that!”

“And a five-and-a-half-pound rooster—five and a half pounds dressed!” chimed in Step.

“Oh, well, that was hard luck,” Sam admitted. It had occurred to him that it was not wise to withhold sympathy if he would avoid suspicion of cherishing some terrible secret of his own.

Poke was one of those ordinarily cheery souls who, on occasion, take melancholy consolation in contemplation of misfortunes.

“I’ve been thinking things over,” he declared. “I’ve got an idea. It isn’t the thing itself that bothers, but the consequences. Look here, now! Mother had promised to make two angel cakes—takes eleven eggs for each cake. And she’d promised one for the church supper, and Jennie was to have the other for her club. And now Mother has got to disappoint the supper committee, and they’d told her they set ’special store by her angel cake. And she’s hot! And Jennie—say, Sam, if you had a sister, you’d know the fix I’m in. Jennie’s just sizzling. So I’m keeping away from the house. Gee, I’d never go home if I could help myself!”

Step waved a long and pitiful hand. “Company for dinner to-morrow!” he said simply. “I’m lying low myself.”

Sam meditated briefly. Since that terrible moment on the ridge he had gone through half a dozen phases of emotion. He had ranged from terror to exultation. His plans had varied from full confession to absolute silence. Now he was disposed to follow a course of inaction, based on a belief that the man had not been badly hurt, and that perhaps nothing ever would be heard of the affair. Of course, if report should be made; or if it should prove that the wounds were serious; or if the victim should turn out to be a poor man unable to pay a doctor’s bill—well, he wouldn’t cross bridges till he came to them. And, meanwhile, he would try to bear himself as if nothing untoward had happened—and thank his lucky stars that he could keep his secret, even for a time.

“Well, that was hard luck!” he said again, and put more heart in the speech.

Poke returned to the blackboard. “Might as well learn a lesson when there’s a lesson to be learned,” he rumbled. “Struck me, too, we ought to post something here to remind us that it pays to keep out of trouble. I’d like to give the club a name that’d mean something—see? I can think of mottoes enough—‘Look before you leap, and then go ’round,’ and ‘You never can tell when it’s loaded,’ and a lot of others—but I’m stumped for a name. Now, if I——”

There he broke off. Sam, elbowing him out of the way, stood before the board. For a second young Parker hesitated. Then he caught up a piece of chalk, and scrawled in big letters:

The Safety First Club.

Poke clapped his hands. “Jiminy! but that’s just the idea I was groping for. Prime, ain’t it, Step?”

Step nodded gloomily. “Fa-fair,” he admitted.

Sam laid down his chalk. He dusted his hands a trifle theatrically.

“Like the name, do you?” said he. “Came to me all of a sudden.”

“It’s a crackerjack!” declared Poke warmly. “Hits the nail right on the head. But that makes me think, Sam—where’s that deer you were going to hit? Haven’t got that haunch in your pocket, have you?”

“No,” said Sam curtly.

“Bet you didn’t see a deer!”

“I—I didn’t.”

Poke was beginning to recover his spirits. “Huh! Knew you wouldn’t,” said he, and chuckled fatly. “This country’s hunted to death. Why, so many men with guns were out to-day that one of ’em had to let drive at another, just for something to shoot at.”

“What!” gasped Sam. “What’s that? What do you mean?”

“Just what I say.”

Sam pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped drops of cold sweat from his forehead. “But—but——” he faltered.

“It isn’t a case of ‘but’ or ‘if.’ Step there knows all about it. He saw them bringing him in.”

Sam’s brain was reeling. “Bring-bringing him in?” he quavered. “Then—then he was badly hurt, after all! And who—who was he?”

Poke was staring in bewildered fashion at Sam. “What’s upsetting you? Why, you’re white as a sheet!”

“Never mind me! Who—who was it?”

“Peter Groche.”

“Pe-Peter Groche? And—and he—he’s wounded—maybe dying?”

Poke laughed explosively. “Not he! Old rascal was never born to be shot.”

“But you said they—they were bringing him in?”

“Yes—to the lock-up!”

Sam dropped into the nearest chair. “I don’t—don’t under-understand,” he said weakly.

“It’s clear enough. Peter shot somebody else—or tried to.”

Step joined in the conversation. “Well, he did wing him,” was his contribution.

“Where?”

“Oh, grazed his head, and plunked him in one hand,” said Step.

Sam dug his finger-nails into his palms. “I don’t mean that—at least, that wasn’t what I tried to ask about. Where did the shooting take place?”

“Out beyond Marlow hill somewhere. But you steered that way, didn’t you?”

“In that general direction.” By a mighty effort Sam controlled his voice.

“Then you may have been within a half mile of Peter Groche,” Step went on. “Maybe you heard his gun. Well, if you didn’t, he fired it, anyway. And he ’most got his man for keeps. But the Major wasn’t hurt badly, and he had had a glimpse of Peter a little earlier, and knew about where he was. So he beat it through the woods after him, and overtook him near the back road. And just then, by luck, along came Sheriff Whaley. So the sheriff and the Major asked Mr. Peter a question or two; and, getting no satisfaction, loaded him in the Whaley wagon and brought him in. And there’s going to be a trial Monday morning. And I guess it’s going to go hard with Groche. You see, he’s had a quarrel with the Major, and there are witnesses to testify that he made threats to get even. Then, too, there was an empty shell in one barrel of his gun, and he wouldn’t give any explanation of how it happened to be there. So I reckon he’ll get all that’s coming to him. The Major’s a bad man to have on your trail—hardest man in town, by thunder!”

“Maj-Major——?” Poor Sam’s tone was that of one whose hopes are dwindling fast.

“Yes siree! Hardest man in Plainville is Major Bates!” declared Step. “Anybody that harms him’ll be put through the works, I tell you!”

Sam got upon his feet. With trembling limbs he moved to the door.

“Why, what’s the matter?” Step called after him.

“What’s your burning hurry?” asked Poke.

Sam opened the door. “That stove makes it too stuffy in here,” he told them. “I—I’ve just got to have fresh air.” And out he went, closing the door behind him with a force suggesting that he did not care for company in his rambles.

CHAPTER V
SAM FACES THE MUSIC

Almost every town has the misfortune to include among its residents a few persons perhaps best described as “undesirable citizens.” In the case of Plainville by far the most undesirable of these was Peter Groche, idler, sot, brawler, and petty thief. On several occasions vigorous efforts had been made to rid the community of his presence; but Peter, unchastened by thrashings or jail sentences for robbing hen roosts or clothes-lines, persisted in turning up like the worst of bad pennies. There was, therefore, general satisfaction in the town when news spread that, at last, he had been caught in an offense so serious that Plainville reasonably could hope to be relieved of him for a term of several years; especially as the irascible, determined and energetic Major Bates was directly interested in his prosecution.

Mr. Parker, returning from his trip to Epworth, heard the news down-town, and brought it home with him. Across the supper table he discussed the matter with his wife, and found her quite of his opinion that a shining example should be made of Peter Groche. The topic, in fact, fairly shared their attention with the annoying absence of the son of the house. Sam had not been home for dinner, Mrs. Parker announced; and now he appeared to have forgotten the supper hour.

“I don’t know what has come over the boy,” she said. “He went out right after breakfast, and nobody but Maggie has seen him since. She says he came in about two o’clock and had lunch; and then went out again. I think you’d better talk to him seriously. He doesn’t understand how important it is to a growing boy to have his meals regularly.”

“Very well; I’ll take him in hand,” said the father.

Mrs. Parker gave a little sigh. “Ah! I feel, sometimes, as if Sam were growing away from me. He’s getting to be such a big fellow, you know. Now and then I can’t but have my doubts that I’m capable of managing him.”