[HIS NEW COMRADE WAS RACING ACROSS THE FIELDS]

THE
Safety First Club
and the Flood

BY
W. T. NICHOLS

Author of “The Safety First Club”

Illustrated by
F. A. Anderson

THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
1917

COPYRIGHT
1917 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

The Safety First Club and the Flood.

Introduction

The one school which never needs a truant officer is the School of Experience. Whether we like it or not, we have to go to this school, all of us; but whether we shall profit by its lessons or waste the instruction is wholly a matter of our own choice. In this story Sam Parker and his friends, some of whose experiences have been earlier set forth in the first volume of this series, “The Safety First Club,” take a new course, so to speak, with resultant profit to themselves. “The Safety First Club and the Flood” finds this group of boys, and especially its leader, Sam, worried, beset and tried by problems new to them, perplexing, baffling; not very grave problems, at first glance, but serious enough in the eyes of the boys and not unimportant in their consequences—a phase of life, in short, which has very direct concern to young or old.

Sam learns his lesson; his mates learn theirs. Incidentally, they undergo trials of the flesh and of the spirit, and are the better for both. They meet adventure which, it is hoped, will be found to the taste of the friends the chums have made and may make through this volume and those which are to follow it.

Contents

Illustrations

The Safety First Club
and the Flood

CHAPTER I
THE CLUB CONFERS

It was not a cheerful afternoon. Overhead were heavy, gray clouds, and underfoot was snow, long fallen, crusted by alternate thawing and freezing, dingy with the queer winter dust, which comes from nobody knows exactly where. In the beaten track of the roadways was an icy surface, made still more slippery by a thin coating, at once grimy and greasy, offering easy traction for the sledges, piled high with wood, which now and then came crunching along the streets. But it was full of peril to the motor cars, a few of which were abroad, skidding wildly at corners in spite of chained tires and careful driving. Out in the fields the snow was perhaps a foot deep. Where paths had been shoveled the long mounds beside the walks rose almost to the waist of a man of average height. Altogether, it was a typical February scene in Plainville, a town well to the north, accustomed to hard winters and making the best of one of them, scarcely enjoying the experience but accepting it as inevitable.

Sam Parker, muffled to the chin, mittened and rubber-shod, appeared to be imitating the example set by the town. He trudged along, whistling bravely if not blithely; and quickened tune and pace a trifle when he came in sight of a little building in the lee of a big house. Turning in at the gate, he hurried up the path to the smaller building; rapped thrice upon the door—there was hint in the performance of hasty observance of a customary rite; and, without awaiting a response, opened the door and strode in.

It was a curious room he entered, low-ceiled, rough of wall and floor, furnished with the most miscellaneous collection imaginable of discarded chairs, tables and lounges from half a dozen homes. There were rugs which showed signs of long and hard wear; there were old pictures in frames still bearing the dust they had gathered in years of retirement in garrets and storerooms. Other pictures, unframed and evidently cut from newspapers and magazines, were tacked here and there on the walls. Nevertheless, in spite of the confusion and disorder the place had a certain attractiveness and an air of easy-going comfort, with a suggestion that here one might do as one pleased. A visitor, skilled in such matters, might have more than suspected that once upon a time this had been a stable, but now anybody who could read must quickly grasp its present uses; for boldly chalked on an old blackboard was inscribed in capital letters

“The Safety First Club.”

Sam pulled off his cap and overcoat, and tossed them into a corner. His overshoes followed them. Then, being relieved of his out-of-door toggery, he crossed to the stove, and stood beside it, rubbing his hands in the grateful warmth. A plump youth moved aside to give him a place by the fire; and a boy, tall and thin and quaintly sharp-angled of knee and elbow, hailed him from the depths of a dilapidated steamer-chair.

“Huh, Sam! Know anything?”

“Nothing new, Step,” Sam answered.

The boy in the low chair grunted dismally. “Ugh! Confound it, there never is—this time of year, anyway!”

Sam did not attempt to debate the point. For a moment he regarded Step thoughtfully—“Step,” it may be explained, was a contraction of “Stepladder,” a nickname bestowed by his mates upon Clarence Jones because of a degree of resemblance in his physical make-up to that useful article of household equipment. Then Sam’s glance went to the plump boy, Arthur Green in official records, but “Poke” to those honored with his intimate acquaintance. One could poke a finger almost anywhere into the well-rounded Arthur; hence the sobriquet.

“Poke” Green appeared to be meditating. His lips were pursed, and there was a line in his forehead. He loved his bit of philosophy, did Poke; but it took time for him to put his meditations into words.

Sam’s gaze traveled to a group about a table, on which were scattered magazines and a number of well-thumbed books. Two of the boys nodded. They were Herman Boyd and Harry Walker, more often called the “Trojan”; and they were good fellows and tried and true members of the Safety First Club. So, for that matter, was a bespectacled youngster, who from his place at the Trojan’s elbow was regarding Sam with a peculiar air of solemnity. Sam, meeting his eye, gave him greeting.

“Hullo, Shark! What are you trying to figure out now?”

“Nothing,” said the other curtly.

“Then you’re wasting time, you old wizard!” quoth Sam.

The Shark made no reply. Doubtless, it seemed to him that none was needed. So he merely continued to peer through his spectacles at the newcomer, with a characteristic intentness which was all his own.

Willy Reynolds, indeed, was often referred to as an “odd stick.” He had a mind of marked mathematical bent, and had proved himself so proficient in algebra, geometry and trigonometry as to puzzle and amaze his comrades, toiling along paths of learning which appeared to offer him only entertainment. So they dubbed him the “Shark,” because he always seemed hungry for mathematics.

The door opened, and in came a thick-set, sturdily built chap.

“Hi there, Orkney! Glad to see you!” Sam sang out. It might have been noted, too, that the others gave the latest arrival a welcome, each in his own way, even the Shark thawing temporarily. One acquainted with boys and their ways would have understood that there was some reason why they wished Orkney to feel himself among friends.

The thick-set lad answered each in turn, his face lighting as he spoke. It was clear that he appreciated his reception, as well he might. Time had been—and not very long before—when Tom Orkney and the Safety First Club had been at swords’ points, and when each had woefully misjudged the other. A chapter of accidents had served first to increase the bitterness on both sides, and then to remove it by revealing how thoroughly it was due to mistakes and misunderstandings. And in the end, helped on by sharing common adventures and dangers, had come reconciliation and respect. In proof of its new and genuine regard the club had admitted Tom to its jealously guarded circle of membership.

They were, it may be said, a good lot of boys; healthy youngsters in their teens—the Shark was the youngest and physically the weakest; well intentioned but not wise beyond their years; fond of fun and activity and no prophets of possible consequences of their escapades. But, as the title of their club indicated, they were learning their lesson in the school of experience. The wisdom of a policy of “Safety First” was impressed upon them, though as yet they were not too skilled in the application of the rule.

While Tom Orkney was settling himself by the table, Step Jones again raised his voice in lamentation.

“I tell you, fellows, this is the meanest, logiest, slowest, stupidest time of all the year. There’s nothing to do. The snow spoils the skating, and more than half the time the snow-shoeing and skiing are no good. Sleighing’s a bore, and coasting’s no use except for kids. And where does that leave you? Ugh!”

Nobody answered Step’s question. There was a long silence, broken by that youth himself.

“Worst winter I ever saw—yah!”

Sam Parker shook his head doubtfully. “Oh, I don’t know about that, Step. Seems to me this is a good deal like all the rest of ’em.”

“And if you want something to keep you busy, there’s always school,” put in the Trojan with a chuckle.

“School? Oh, thunder!” snapped Step with scorn.

Poke Green waved a hand, an oratorical hand; thereby signifying that he had reached a readiness to address the meeting.

“Listen, you fellows! You don’t know what you’re talking about, because you start in and say things first and think about ’em afterward. So you get ’em about half right and half wrong.”

“Go it, old Solomon!” Herman Boyd encouraged.

Poke needed no spur. “Here’s Step calling this the worst winter that ever was, which it isn’t. And here’s Sam trying to make out that it’s just like any other winter, which it isn’t, either. If this climate ever got as monotonous as all that, it’d go out of business. There have been better winters that I can remember, and there have been worse. The trouble with all of them is that there is too much of a muchness about them.”

Then the Shark spoke crisply: “Applying that to school, too?”

“I am,” said Poke solemnly. “This term’s the long pull—no holidays to break it—no Thanksgiving—not even Washington’s birthday.”

“They have it in lots of places,” the Trojan put in.

“Well, we don’t—and I’m talking about us. So right through to the Easter recess we have to pound away, and it gets tiresome, I tell you. And what’s true of school is true of the weather. Winter’d be all right if it ended along in January. Everybody’d feel braced up and ready for spring. But does it happen that way? No, sir! Winter keeps on doing business along into March or April—yes, or into May.”

“Our furnace was going last June,” Herman Boyd contributed.

Sam’s expression was thoughtful. “Well, Poke,” he said, “I follow your argument—if it is an argument. But what does it lead to?”

“To my conclusion,” quoth Poke with all possible gravity.

“What is it?”

Poke ran his glance over his club-mates; all were attentive.

“What is it?” he repeated. “Can’t you see for yourselves that it can be only one thing? The trouble with us is that we need variety!”

“But you said the weather was varied,” objected Sam.

“But it’s winter weather all the time, just as school’s school, no matter whether you’re reciting Greek or trigonometry. Then there’s another point. In summer people are coming and going, and making visits; in winter everybody’s shut up more or less. We don’t get enough human variety.”

Sam rubbed his chin. “Why—why, I don’t know but there’s something in your notion, after all,” he admitted.

“There’s a lot!” Poke insisted triumphantly.

It was not often that the Shark laughed; but he laughed now in a fashion which made his friends turn to him in surprise.

“Ha, ha! You chaps seem to forget that we have with us in this town one Paul Varley. If he isn’t a queer variety of human, I’ll square the circle for you—and that’s something nobody has done yet.”

“Oh, Varley!”

“What! That dude?”

“What have we got to do with him?”

“Say! Isn’t he the limit?”

The Shark listened calmly to these remarks of his friends.

“Well, I said he represented variety, and I stick to it,” quoth he drily.

Sam turned to Poke. “Do you mean that we ought to take in Varley?” he demanded a bit hotly.

There was a murmur of dissent. Membership in the Safety First Club was not lightly granted, and Paul Varley was not high in favor.

“I didn’t mean anything of the sort,” said the Shark. “But if anybody wants entertainment in this town this winter—why, there’s Varley to look at.”

“Yes; and listen to,” Herman Boyd chimed in.

“Huh! You talk as if you really knew him,” Step commented.

“I do—after a fashion. But Orkney knows him better.”

Tom Orkney shook his head. “Guess I’ll refer you to Sam; he knows him best of all.”

“Oh, Varley’s a——” Sam began impatiently, but quickly checked himself. “I dare say he’s a very good fellow,” he added after a little pause.

“Hang it, Sam, finish what you started to tell us!” cried Step.

Sam hesitated. Among the lessons he had been learning was that Safety First might be as advisable in speech as in action. Besides, he wished to be fair. It might not happen that any of the club would have a great deal to do with Varley, but he was well aware that a few careless words might prejudice all of them against the newcomer.

“Why—why, I’ve talked hardly half an hour with him altogether. He seemed to be good-natured.”

“Didn’t he ride his high horse for you?”

“Not much—very little,” said Sam. “Of course, he comes from a big city. And he’s been at big ‘prep’ schools. And he’s used to the rush, and crowds, and all that sort of thing. I don’t know, though, that he tried to rub it in—that we aren’t crowded here, I mean. And he did seem friendly—got to say that for him.”

“Up here for his health, isn’t he?” queried Step. “Gay life knocked him out, didn’t it?”

“He didn’t put it that way. He said he was rather run down, and so his folks shipped him up here to visit the Bateses—Mrs. Bates is his aunt, you know.”

“How long is he going to stay?”

“I don’t believe it’s settled.”

“Huh! He’s rigged out as if he were on a polar expedition.”

Sam’s lips twitched. “Well, he is outfitted pretty gorgeously.”

“I should say he was!”

“That’s nothing against him, though.”

Poke wagged his head sagely. “No; fine feathers don’t make fine birds, or spoil ’em either. When you take time and think about it——”

“You wait your turn, Poke,” Step objected. “Let Sam finish.”

“I’m through,” said Sam.

“Oh, I guess we’re all through with Varley before we really begin with him,” quoth Step. “We’ve got our crowd. I don’t see how he can make much difference to us. We’re all of us right here now, and——”

Herman Boyd, who had been looking out of the window, whistled sharply, sprang to his feet, peered through the pane, then retreated swiftly.

“Whew! Talk about angels or people!” he exclaimed. “Great Scott! but he must be coming here. I saw him turn in at the gate and——”

“Who turned in?”

“What are you driving at?”

“Who’s coming?”

They rained questions upon him; but Herman had no need to answer. Indeed, before he could do so, a hand was laid on the knob, and with no preliminary knock the door was swung. And there in the opening stood Paul Varley, quite at his ease and with a complacent smile on his face.

CHAPTER II
VARLEY GETS ACQUAINTED

There were seconds in which amazement held the members of the Safety First Club speechless and almost motionless.

This open invasion of the privacy of the club was something wholly outside their experience. A boy who didn’t belong might call there, of course, if he wished to see one of the members; but he would be expected to halt outside and hail the club with a shout, or, at the most, to knock at the door and pause outside. And he would be quite as anxious to observe this code as the members would be anxious that he should observe it. A fellow didn’t care to enter where he was not wanted, and if he had been wanted, he would have been elected to membership. That was the way the matter was reasoned out. The conclusion was accepted by everybody in interest. So for one of the town boys to walk up to the door, and throw it open, and look in at the assembled coterie, and do these things calmly and unconcernedly—well, none of the town boys would have thus conducted himself. But there was Paul Varley doing these things quite as a matter of course, thus proving himself not of the town and at the same time bringing embarrassment to the club.

Varley stepped into the room. “Hullo, everybody!” he said cheerily. “Thought I’d drop in for a minute—I’ve heard a lot about this joint of yours, you know.”

There was no response; surprise still held the members of the club.

Varley smiled genially. He was perhaps a year older than any of the Safety First boys, and a great deal more practised in some of the ways of the world. He ran his eye over the room, and spoke again:

“Pretty nifty—what! Snug as a bug in a rug, aren’t you?”

Oddly enough, it was the usually reticent Shark who first found tongue.

“We like it.” He threw an emphasis on the “we,” to which Varley might have taken exception, had he been disposed to be critical. But the caller was not looking for trouble.

“I should think you would,” he said smoothly. “Fixed it up yourselves, didn’t you? Thought so. More fun to do it.”

It did not seem to occur to the Shark that it was his business to make reply, and nobody else volunteered. Varley took off his cap. It was a handsome cap of fur. He unbuttoned his overcoat; it was fur-lined. In fact, from head to heels he was outfitted for very cold weather, as if his garments had been selected for wear in semi-Arctic regions. Plainly enough, somebody had told him wonderful tales of winter temperatures “up country.”

The evidences that Varley intended to make a stay of some length stirred Sam to his duties as unofficial head of the club. Somehow, the rôle of spokesman seemed to fall to him, in times of emergency, by a sort of common consent.

“Er—er—why, how do you do?” he stammered. “Won’t you take a seat?”

Varley shook his head. He was still smiling in his friendly fashion.

“Why, no; I’d rather look about a bit, if I might,” said he. “I’d heard so much, one way or another, about this den of yours, that I made up my mind I’d make a call. Thought, too, I’d find you all in about this time of day. Say, you’ve got a cracking good hang-out! Said you fixed it yourselves, didn’t you?”

Then up spoke the Shark, testily: “Nobody said that.”

“But it’s the fact, all the same,” Sam hastened to remark. “Yes; what’s here we did, or made, or whatever you choose to call it.”

“Smooth work, too,” said Varley quickly. “Garage once, wasn’t it?”

Inasmuch as the club-house was the property of Step’s father, Step felt called upon to make reply.

“No—stable.”

Varley turned to the tall youth. “Whatever it began with being, it’s all right now. And it’s a bully good scheme you fellows have. Great place to loaf, this is!”

Now this was said affably enough, and with no trace of the condescending note for which the boys were listening keenly. A chap—an older chap—from a big city might be disposed to be patronizing; and the Safety First Club did not care to be patronized. But no fault was to be found with Varley’s manner. Sam felt moved to explain the plan the crowd had followed.

“Oh, we got together what we could,” said he. “Each one contributed. Somebody brought an old sofa, and somebody else a table his folks weren’t using any more, and so it went on. And if anybody had a picture he liked, he hung or tacked it up. That’s the way it went, and—er—er—that’s about the whole story.”

Varley nodded, and crossed the room to examine an old engraving. From this he went to inspection of a very modern cartoon from a newspaper.

“Liberty hall—I get the idea,” quoth he. “And I like it. Gives variety. By the way, it’s like the plan they have in some of the big clubs. Members contribute odds and ends—curios—they pick up. It’ll make quite a museum after a while.”

“Or quite a junk shop!” interposed the Shark. He was staring hard at the visitor through his spectacles, and his expression was dubious, if not hostile. The other boys moved uneasily. They had begun to recover from the surprise of the visit, and to understand that Varley felt himself on a purely friendly errand. Therefore there should be allowance for his ignorance of the local code, and avoidance of controversy. The Shark’s speech embarrassed them, but not Varley. He laughed, lightly and good-naturedly.

“You’re on the mark, at that. Museums and junk shops are a lot alike; but that doesn’t prevent ’em from being interesting. Why, I went into a queer old shop one day, and there was an old machine, with all sorts of rings and pivots, and hung on ’em was a—a—well, it looked like an oblong sphere and——”

“What!” shouted the Shark.

Varley glanced at him questioningly. “I beg your pardon?” he said with a touch of formality.

The Shark drew a long breath. “An oblong sphere!” he repeated slowly. “Jee-whippiter!”

Again it was Sam’s duty to explain. “Don’t let the Shark bother you. He means well, but he’s a bug on mathematics—and cones, and circles, and cubes, and spheres, and—er—er—and all that sort of thing. But he’s harmless.”

Once more Varley’s laugh saved the situation. “I understand. And he’s right, at that. What I meant was, that the thing was egg-shaped—almost, but not quite. And that little difference in shape, the inventor figured, was just what would make it a perpetual motion machine, that would keep going forever, once you started it. Of course, it didn’t work. But I say!”—he was looking straight at the Shark—“I say! If you’re up in the ‘math’ I envy you. It’s my stumbling-block—gets me every time.”

“Umph!” said the Shark non-committally. In his experience the world was strangely crowded with beings woefully deficient in the mathematical sense. He was learning to make allowances for their shortcomings. The visitor, by frank confession of incapacity, won a degree of toleration, if not of approval.

“Yes; it gets me every time,” Varley went on. “I’ve had half a notion to see if I couldn’t go into the senior class at your high school, just to brush up on the mathematical review—maybe I shall yet. But first I want to get better acquainted with the town and the people. That’s why I dropped in on your crowd. And now that I’ve said ‘Howdy,’ I’ll move along.”

“Oh, don’t be in a hurry,” said Sam politely.

For the first time the blackboard, with its boldly chalked inscription, caught Varley’s eye.

“Hullo! What’s that? Safety First Club? Say, that’s a funny name for a lot of boys to pick out!”

“Well, it pleases us,” said Sam, a little curtly.

Varley’s ready smile was in evidence. “So I supposed, or you wouldn’t have chosen it. But it’s an odd name, all the same.”

Sam hesitated an instant. “It—well, maybe it is odd. But some things happened to impress us with the need of looking before we leaped. So we agreed on the name. Then other things happened to impress us some more, and we kept it.”

“I see,” said Varley; but then he repeated, “Safety First Club, Safety First?” as if he were still puzzled. “Somehow, that seems to bar a lot of fun.”

“Oh, we manage to get along.”

“Where do you draw the line between what’s safe and what isn’t?”

Again Sam hesitated. “Why—why, I guess there isn’t any general rule. You have to settle each case as it comes.”

“But what’s the rule for settling it?”

The Shark came to Sam’s assistance. “Law of chances,” he said curtly.

“Meaning——?”

“Can you get away with it? Can’t dodge all risks, can you? But when you have to take one, isn’t there a safer way than the first way you think of? Just stop and figure. It pays!”

Varley shook his head. “That’s all right for mathematical sharps,” he said laughingly; “but I’m not in that class. The tree would fall on me, or I’d drown, or the bull would toss me over the fence, long before I could cipher out what the chances were.”

“Pays, all the same, to try,” the Shark insisted.

Varley glanced a little inquiringly at Sam. As has been explained, he was older than the club’s members, and more versed in the ways of the world; and now he had an intuition that the boys, while satisfied with their club’s title, were not eager to discuss it with a comparative stranger. He looked at Sam, but Sam said nothing.

The visitor buttoned his overcoat. “Guess I’ll be running along,” he remarked. “Mighty glad to have had a look at your den.”

“We’re glad you like it,” said Sam, reminded of his manners.

Varley moved toward the door. He was quite aware that nobody had asked him to call again, and for the first time since his arrival began to feel a trifle of embarrassment.

“Fine place—bully!” he said. “I—er—er—I don’t suppose anybody is going my way?”

Now, there was something in the other’s manner which brought a sudden change in the plans of Sam Parker. Maybe his instinct of hospitality stirred; he might at least escort this unbidden guest whom he had failed to welcome warmly.

“Guess I’ll trot along, too.” He caught up his cap and overcoat, put them on, and slipped into his overshoes. “Ready, when you are,” he added.

Varley said, “Well, so long, you fellows!” and said it jauntily; but he was silent while he walked away from the club-house with Sam. The latter also seemed to be tongue-tied. Indeed, the pause threatened to become awkward for both of them, when Varley, with an effort, ended it.

“Great winters you have up here!” he said jerkily. “Must be no end of sport, when you get the hang of things. Can’t say I’ve quite done that yet.”

“You’ll get it quickly enough,” Sam assured him.

“Hope so,” said Varley. “I’d like——” he broke off abruptly. “Hear that? What’s happening up the street?”

Sam didn’t answer. Indeed, he had no need to do so. Like Varley, he had heard the sharp “honk, honk!” of an automobile horn rising above the jingle of sleigh-bells, and then a woman’s shriek of alarm, and the quick beat of hoofs on the icy roadway. A horse, drawing a light cutter, had taken fright at a passing motor car, had got out of control of the woman who held the reins, and was making a frantic bolt. Turning, the boys had a glimpse of a wiry bay, neck outstretched, ears back, red nostrils distended; of a sleigh swaying wildly; of a woman tugging vainly at the reins.

“Runaway!” gasped Varley. Then he did the instinctive thing, and the plucky thing. The horse was very near, and coming fast. Varley sprang into the street. Promptly as he acted, though, there was a second in which his eyes were on Sam; and in that instant he had a queer impression that his companion was about to do as he was doing. But Sam suddenly appeared to change his plan, for he wheeled, and ran down the street, approaching the track of the runaway, not directly but on a long diagonal.

There flashed on Varley an ugly doubt of Sam’s courage. Then for a little he forgot everything but the galloping horse, and the part he meant to play in stopping the maddened animal. He leaped over the piled up snow lining the sidewalk, and gave a great bound for the horse’s head. He was not reckoning risk, or chances—or conditions, for that matter. It had not occurred to him that just at this point the frozen road, with its thin, greasy coating was extraordinarily slippery and treacherous under foot. He hardly realized what was happening, when, as he was about to grasp the bridle, his feet shot from under him. The shoulder of the runaway struck him. Luckily, it was only a glancing blow, but it sent him reeling back, out of danger of contact with plunging hoofs or lunging sleigh. Down he went in a heap, sorely shaken and with the breath half driven from his body; and there he lay, recovering his wits and his wind, while he watched Sam, twenty yards away, score success where he had failed.

Sam sprang much as Varley had sprung; but he caught the reins close to the bit, and was not shaken off. Not that he was able to check the runaway’s career at once—as a matter of fact, he was dragged a considerable distance. He forced the horse, though, out of the beaten track and into the deeper snow, and little by little he reduced the speed. The animal struggled hard, but Sam kept his hold. Two or three men came running up; and in a moment more the horse was at a standstill, trembling like a leaf, but again under control; his driver had been assisted from the sleigh, and was thanking Sam so warmly for his timely help that the boy, blushing hotly, was glad to beat a retreat and return to Varley, who by this time had picked himself up, and was brushing the snow from his overcoat.

“Great Scott! but that was a star job of yours!” was his greeting.

“Oh, it was just luck,” Sam answered modestly.

“Luck?”

“Yes; luck to find better footing than you had.”

Varley gave a queer little groan. “Thunder! I didn’t think about that.”

“Well, right here’s one of the smoothest places you can find anywhere; you need spiked shoes to stand on it. Farther on, though, it is rougher—rough enough to give you half a show, anyway. I saw how it was and ran along a bit. If you’d thought to do that, you’d have been all right. You made just as good a try as I did.”

Varley glanced at the other keenly. “Look here! First off, you were starting straight out just as I did. Then you stopped, and changed your scheme. You had the real hunch. I was stood on my head, and you got away with things. And all the difference was, you took time to think.”

“I tried to,” said Sam quietly.

“It was a clever plan. But I say!” Varley paused an instant, his expression half admiring, half uncertain. “Come now! You talk about belonging to a Safety First Club, yet you pile in in a case like this——”

Sam interrupted him. “Our kind of Safety First doesn’t mean wrapping yourself up in cotton wool and stowing yourself away on a shelf. It doesn’t mean dodging all risks—you’ve got to take some. But it does mean finding the best way to take them, if they seem to be necessary, and cutting them out, if they’re not necessary. That’s all there is to it.”

Varley finished his task of brushing the snow from his coat. He straightened himself, and looked at Sam.

“Somehow or other, Parker, it strikes me there’s a lot to be said for that notion of yours,” he remarked with conviction.

CHAPTER III
UNCOMFORTABLE GLORY

Sam Parker was disposed to think little and say less of the incident of the runaway horse. He had come out of the affair with some credit and a slightly sprained wrist, but he made no mention of either at home or at the Safety First Club. At school a somewhat vague report was circulated that there had been a frightened horse and a very good “stop”; but none of the pupils happened to have been about at the time of Sam’s exploit, and the story went the rounds without bringing in his name. Sam was quite content with this; and as he did not see Paul Varley for several days, he regarded the episode as a closed chapter.

Meanwhile he was working hard at his books. He stood well in his classes, though he headed none of them; and he had an incentive for study.

Sam expected to spend the last year of his preparation for college at St. Mark’s, a famous school for boys. He was to go there in the autumn, after completing the third year of his course at the town high school; and inasmuch as his father’s consent to this arrangement had not been easily won, he prized it all the more highly. It had been granted, indeed, only after a series of adventures had satisfied Mr. Parker that his son was possessed of certain valuable qualities of self-reliance and discretion. Sam, reasonably, was greatly pleased with the outcome, and his satisfaction was increased by the fact that both Step and Poke were to be sent to St. Mark’s with him, while it was by no means impossible that one or two others of the club might join the colony. He looked forward eagerly to his year at the big school, but with a sensible understanding that good scholarship would be much to his advantage.

Sam lacked the mathematical talent of the Shark, just as he had no such peculiar knack as Step showed in Greek. The tall youth shone in translations from the tongue of Xenophon and Homer in a manner which was wholly inexplicable to his friends—as they frequently remarked with much feeling. In Latin Step was a mediocre performer; his French left much to be desired, but when it came to Greek—“Why, he eats it alive!” was Poke’s admiring declaration. Sam, being without such special genius, found none of his studies very easy—and, no doubt, profited the more in mental drill because he had to work for what he gained. His class rank was good, if not distinguished; and he stood well with the school principal and the other instructors, who saw that he was an influential fellow among his mates, including many who were not of the charmed circle of the club.

Trudging to school one morning—it was several days after the affair of the runaway—Sam fell in with Poke, who appeared to be in a curious mood. Ordinarily, Poke was a cheery soul, and good-natured, but this day gloom was upon him. He answered Sam’s hail with something very like a growl; and when they fell into step, he groaned unmistakably as response to the other’s remark that it “wasn’t such a bad morning.”

Sam looked at him wonderingly.

“What’s the row?” he asked.

Poke dug his hands deeper into his pockets, and sank his chin in his coat-collar.

“Oh, nothing!” He said it as dismally as if everything had gone wrong.

“Don’t you feel well?”

“Well enough—that isn’t it.”

“But what is, then?”

Poke hesitated; he seemed to be struggling between eagerness and reluctance.

“I—I—well, something’s going to happen.”

“What?” Sam demanded.

“Just wish I knew!” cried Poke fervently.

Sam took him by the shoulder, and shook him vigorously.

“Wake up, Poke! You’re dreaming.”

Oddly enough, Poke caught at the suggestion.

“It was a dream, all right, but it wasn’t a common dream. I tell you, it was a—er—er—it must have been a warning!”

“What sort of warning?”

Poke wagged his head heavily. “My! but I wish to-day was safely over!” he said ominously.

Sam laughed. It was a skeptical laugh, but it had a trace of uneasiness.

“Go on! You’re joking!”

Poke heaved a tremendous sigh. “Well, I guess you wouldn’t be talking about joking if you’d had that dream yourself!”

“What was it about?”

“Everything—all mixed up! Course I can’t remember it all—you never can. But we were in it—all the fellows in the club were. And the way it went—Geeminy! first thing I knew I was sitting up in bed and yelling like an Indian. And I couldn’t get to sleep again, and the thing has been hanging over me ever since. It won’t go away. That’s why I feel in my bones that something is going to happen, and why I wish this day were over. Why, Sam, that was the meanest dream, the scariest dream—the—the——”

Poke broke off; for round a corner came the Shark and Step Jones. And, of a sudden, it had occurred to the seer of visions that the Shark was the last person of his acquaintance who was likely to show sympathy for such a tale. But the newcomers had caught part of his speech.

“What you driving at, Poke?” Step inquired. “Talking about dreams, weren’t you? Go ahead!”

“Oh, it’s nothing of any importance,” said Poke hastily.

“Huh! Seemed to be important enough a minute ago,” Step remarked. “What was the yarn, Sam?”

Poke preferred to do his own explaining, if explanation there had to be.

“I was telling Sam a story—yes; a story about a dream I had last night. And—well, I was telling him, too, that it worried me. It wasn’t a common dream—not by a long shot! And—and if you’ve got to have the whole thing, it is worrying me a lot! There’s trouble brewing for somebody, a heap of trouble.”

Step regarded Poke with wide-opened eyes and sagging jaw, but the Shark’s lip curled scornfully.

“Nonsense!” he jeered.

“I tell you, it was a warning!” Poke insisted.

“Warning of what?”

“Why—why, I don’t know; that’s just the trouble.”

The Shark was regarding the prophet of evil very steadily. “Poke,” said he, “what did you eat last night before you went to bed?”

“Noth—that is, nothing to speak of.”

“Let’s hear about it, all the same.”

Poke wriggled, but the Shark’s eye held him. “Well, I was sort of hungry, so I went out to the pantry, and had a nibble.”

“At what?”

“Oh, anything I came across. But it was just a bite.”

“How many bites?”

“Oh, a few, I suppose. It was only a snack.”

“Crackers?”

“No.”

“Cake?”

Poke reddened. “’Twa’n’t cake—it was a piece of pie, if you’ve got to know. But I don’t see——”

The Shark gave a queer, barking laugh. “Ho, ho! Pie, eh? Mince pie, I’ll bet you!”

Poke tried to assume an air of offended dignity. “Well, it was mince, if that’s any comfort to you.”

“Ate a whole pie, didn’t you?”

“No, sir!” shouted Poke indignantly. “It had been cut.”

The Shark turned to the other boys. “Oh, come along!” said he. “Guess we’ve treed the ghost that sat on the foot-rail of Poke’s bed and made faces at him. We’ll be late at school if we don’t wake up.”

Sam and Step moved on with the Shark, Poke following dejectedly.

“All right—have it your own way!” he called after them. “You don’t have to believe anything’s going to happen, but you just wait and see! I tell you, this day is going to be a bad one for somebody!”

It cannot be said that either Sam or Step attached much more importance than did the Shark to Poke’s forebodings; and the morning’s work proceeded in a manner to remove all traces of uneasiness. Things went well for all the members of the club. None of them was tardy. Lessons appeared to be well learned, and teachers were in good humor. Even Poke himself shone in recitation, though he droned through his translations in mournful fashion, and declined to be consoled by approving words from the instructors.

At the opening of the Junior class’s English period the principal of the school entered the room, and after a whispered word or two with the teacher took the platform.

“I have an announcement to make,” he said. “I have chosen this time and place because it deals with something more or less directly connected with the work of this class in English. And to go straight to the point, the announcement deals with a very desirable prize, to be awarded in a competition open to all of you, and in which I hope many of you will take part.”

A rustle ran through the assembled class. Everybody was interested, with the exception of the despondent Poke, who merely slumped a little lower in his seat.

The principal cleared his throat, and went on. A friend of the school, who was engaged in local historical research, was ready to pay one hundred dollars to the pupil who should produce the best essay on the settlement and early days of the town. Industry in the collection of facts would be given quite as much consideration as the style and finish of the essays.

“In short,” the principal added, “the conditions will be such that all of you will find this a fair field of rivalry. It is not the intention to limit any contestant rigidly in the matter of space; though I must warn you that waste of words will count adversely. You can have room for all the facts you gather, but this means room for concise statement. The contest will close on the first of April, when the essays must be handed in; and the winner will be announced as soon thereafter as possible. A detailed statement of the conditions of the competition will be posted at once on the bulletin-board.”

Then the principal walked out of the room, and the class broke discipline for a little to discuss this great news in eager whispers. A hundred-dollar prize for a composition! That was the way most of them put the matter. And a hundred dollars seemed to be most inviting. Besides, there was hardly a boy or girl there who didn’t feel convinced that in some old aunt or uncle, or, better yet, grandfather or grandmother, was possible source of just the information that would win the competition. And style and finish were not to determine the result—there was a condition much to the general liking; this wasn’t to be a contest practically limited to the half dozen Juniors with a known knack for writing. Even the Shark wagged his head approvingly, though he had no notion of entering the lists, white paper used for composition instead of figuring being more or less wasted, to his way of thinking. Only Poke remained indifferent, and sunk in gloom.

The teacher, presently, called the class to order, and the recitation proceeded. At its close came recess, and the Juniors, flocking into the corridors and out to the school yard, fell to discussing the contest in all its bearings. Sam and his chums happened to be standing near the foot of the stairs when the principal came down from his office on the second floor, accompanied by a youth at whom the boys stared in surprise. For the youth was Paul Varley.

Paul stopped to speak to the boys, and the principal checked his pace, as if waiting for the visitor to have his little talk with the others.

“Maybe I’ll be with you fellows,” Varley said. “Some things I want to brush up on. I’ve been going over the business with Mr. Curtis”—he glanced at the principal—“and he thinks he can fix it for me.”

“But we’re Juniors, and you’ll be a Senior,” Sam remarked.

“No; more of an unclassified special student. I’ve had a pretty ‘spotty’ preparation, you know; and it struck me it would be a good thing to look after some of the weak spots while I’m here. So I made up my mind to—— I beg your pardon, madam!”

Varley, as it chanced, was the only one of the group who was facing the entrance. This fact accounted for his sudden change of tone.

A woman had come into the hall. She was a comfortable, middle-aged, plump person, whose hat was a trifle awry, and whose manner indicated much earnestness.

None of the others had seen her come in, and none suspected her presence till Varley spoke. Then everybody turned quickly.

“I’m looking for somebody,” said the woman briskly. “I guess he’s somewhere round this school. Only—only I ain’t quite as sure as I ought to be. And—and——” she hesitated, peering at the faces before her. Compared with the light out-of-doors, the hall was somewhat dim. “No, I don’t know whether he’s here or not,” she concluded.

“And his name——?” It was Varley who put the question; for Sam and his friends appeared to be tongue-tied, while the principal chanced to be in the background.

“Mercy me, but I don’t know! That’s the trouble—they didn’t seem to know, either, any of them—the men, I mean.”

“Ah!” said Varley courteously, but uncertainly.

The principal stepped forward. “I’m afraid we don’t understand, madam,” said he. “If you’ll kindly explain——”

The visitor laughed. “Dear me, but somehow I always do manage to get the cart before the horse! But the men, they said they thought—— Wait a minute, though!” She moved nearer Varley, and studied his face intently. “Wait a minute! I vow, but this one looks like the fellow. Yes; he’s the one.... No, he isn’t, either. He’s the boy that tried, and went rolling head over heels.”

Varley gave a sudden laugh. “I get it! You’re talking about the runaway. And you’re right—I was the fellow who took the tumble.”

“The runaway?” Two or three of the boys spoke in chorus, wonderingly. Sam Parker instinctively began to edge away. The movement caught the woman’s attention. A sharp glance at Sam, and her expression brightened.

“Here he is, sure enough!” she cried. “He didn’t tumble, and he held on like grim death till the colt stopped, and the men came running up to help. And then he slipped off before I could get my breath or my manners back enough to say ‘Thank you!’ But I’m going to say it now, and say it out loud!”

With that, she briskly pursued the retreating Sam, overhauled him, and cast an affectionate arm about his shoulders. Then, holding him prisoner, she addressed all within hearing.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard or haven’t heard about this, and I don’t care. I’m going to give my testimony. This boy”—she gave Sam a vigorous hug—“this boy did a brave thing. He took the chance of breaking his neck, when my colt was frightened by one of those pesky automobiles and made a bolt. This boy”—another hug—“stopped him, and saved me from being killed, or getting an awful spill. And I’ve come here to look him up, and thank him good and proper—so there!”

Now, to tell the truth, Sam at the moment looked anything but a hero; for he was wriggling and struggling vainly, and blushing furiously and unhappily. So public and so demonstrative a display of gratitude overwhelmed him.

“I—I—oh, ’twasn’t anything,” he stammered.

“I tell you, it was a whole lot to me!” declared the woman. “And I’ve been racking my brains how to show how I feel about it.” Again her arm tightened, and for a panic-stricken second Sam thought she was about to kiss him then and there, and in the presence of the crowd. He made a frantic effort for freedom, and his captress, who may have had some notion of boyish diffidence, released him, her eyes twinkling.

Sam would have given much for the privilege of instant flight; but luckily kept his wits and held his ground. To run away would be merely to add fuel to the fire of ridicule to which he believed his mates would subject him. So he tarried, and miserably attempted to smile, thereby deceiving nobody, and least of all the visitor.

With a degree of tact she turned to the principal.

“You’re Mr. Curtis, aren’t you? I thought that was your name. Mine’s Grant—Mrs. John Grant. I live over in Sugar Valley. I guess that’ll do for introductions, though you might as well tell me this boy’s name, if you please.”

“Samuel Parker,” said Mr. Curtis.

“I won’t forget it, or what its owner did for me. I’ve tried to thank him, but I ain’t sure that I’ve exactly tickled him in doing it.” She smiled whimsically, and Sam, in spite of himself, winced. “But what I hope he’ll understand, and all of you will understand, is that I’m his friend for life. I’d like to do something to show how I feel about it. And I will do something!” Suddenly she wheeled to face Sam. “Come now! All boys I ever heard of liked good things to eat. It may strike you as not amounting to much, but I’ll send you one of my mince pies——”

“Oh, but you mustn’t!” Sam protested. “It—it’ll be too much trouble.”

Mrs. Grant paid scant heed to the objection. “I guess you don’t know the kind of pie I mean. There’s pies and pies, young man. And you won’t forget the one I send you.”

Poor Sam feared that this was likely to prove a very mild statement. Forget? Would that he could forget the whole affair, or better yet, that his chums might forget this most embarrassing episode! But while he grinned feebly, and strove to contrive a fitting speech, Mrs. Grant came to his rescue by bidding everybody a cheery farewell and taking herself off, apparently well pleased with the results of her visit to the school.

“Well, I feel like old Columbus when he sighted America—he’d come a long way to find something, and he’d found it. And ’tis quite a drive in from Sugar Valley, but ’twas worth the trouble. I’ve found out things. So it’s a good day’s work for me—and, Master Parker, I’ll try to make it a good day for you, too. You’ll hear from me again and—no; you wait and see what’ll happen. So good-bye, everybody, good-bye!”

Out of the door and down the steps she went, smiling broadly, while behind her silence reigned for seconds. All eyes were on Sam, as he was most miserably aware. Other pupils had come up in time to hear her closing remarks, and there was quite a little crowd in the corridor, including some of the girls.

One of the latter ended the silence. She tittered nervously rather than mischievously. There was a ripple of laughter; then some of the boys set up a shout in the very presence of the principal.

Poor Sam would have blessed his stars had a trap-door opened beneath his feet and permitted him to drop out of sight. But the stout floor remained intact. The principal raised a warning hand, and shook his head at some of those who were giving way to mirth; but Sam did not wait for order to be restored. He turned, and blindly forcing a way through the press, retreated as best he might, but in most unheroic fashion. He had not been afraid of a runaway horse, but with all a boy’s diffidence he dreaded the sort of celebrity his exploit unexpectedly had brought him.

On the outskirts of the group Poke tugged at the Shark’s sleeve.

“There now! What did I tell you?” he demanded.

The Shark peered through his glasses at his friend. Poke was no longer gloomy. He was grinning with a queer effect of utter complacency.

“One time or another you’ve told me a lot of idiotic things,” growled the Shark. “Which particular one do you mean now?”

“That warning—warning of trouble for somebody.”

“Rats!”

Poke wagged his head. “Look here, Shark! I said it, and you heard me say it. I told you I was sure a heap of trouble was coming to somebody. Well, it came! Old Sam caught it. I wouldn’t have been in his shoes just now for—for—for I don’t know what. Neither would you. So the warning made good!”

The Shark rubbed his chin with an unusual manner of doubt. “Why—why—well, it was fierce for Sam. But I—I’d hate to admit——”

“Course you would!” Poke interrupted. “You’re prejudiced. You don’t believe in anything unless you can put it in figures.”

The taunt swept away the Shark’s indecision. “Warning—nothing!” he snapped. “Too much mince pie, that’s all!”

Poke’s grin was triumphant. “All right! Call it too much mince pie, if you want to. But wait till Sam gets that pie that’s promised him, and the crowd hears about it! Then I guess you’ll think I was right all through.”

“Huh!” grunted the Shark skeptically.

Poke laughed aloud. “Ho, ho, ho! I don’t beat you often, Shark, but when I do, I beat you all to pieces. Talk about mince pie, if you want to. I’ll talk about it, too, and when we get through, we’ll see who hits nearer the truth. Just you wait and see, and——”

But the Shark was moving away. For once, at least, he found it impossible to maintain argument against Poke, the unmathematical philosopher and seer of strange visions.

Sam’s good deed had brought him most embarrassing reward. Of this the Shark was quite as convinced as Poke could be, or Sam himself.

CHAPTER IV
SAM’S COUNSELLOR

Sam took the matter of Mrs. Grant’s gratitude and the promised pie much to heart. He was, as it happened, a sensitive fellow, and he was of the age at which dread of ridicule is perhaps keenest. So he readily imagined that the whole school was laughing at him and the picture he must have presented with Mrs. Grant’s stout arm about his shoulders; and made himself miserable by suspicion of amusement in every glance he caught and of personal application in every laugh he heard.

He had been reasonably satisfied with the manner in which he had stopped the runaway, and might not have objected to a certain amount of publicity, provided it could have come in the right way. If some man, who had been a witness of the affair, should have met him on the street, and clapped him on the shoulder, and growled “Clever job you did, youngster!” or “Good work, son!”—why, that would have been all right, and quite in accord with his idea of the proprieties. But to be hugged and patted, and promised a pie, with his club-mates and others looking on, to say nothing of the principal—truly, Sam felt that his was a hard and undeserved fate.

His behavior was somewhat like that of most stricken creatures; that is, he sought solitude. He shunned the club. From school he went straight home, and there, curled up in a corner of the library, read or studied industriously. Even to his father and mother he said little, and to neither did he confide a syllable of his unhappy experience. This sort of thing went on for two or three days, with the natural result that by much brooding upon his troubles he magnified them out of all proportion, and made himself so genuinely miserable that, at last, he was driven in desperation to seek diversion. He tried to find it at the club, and again his luck was bad.

Trojan Walker had the gift of mimicry, and Herman Boyd liked to devise little dramatic scenes. Sam walked in upon the assembled club, just in time to behold the Trojan, with a shawl wrapped about him to increase his resemblance to Mrs. Grant, presenting a lump of dough on a toy pie-plate to Herman, to the extreme delectation of the spectators. Step and Poke were roaring with laughter, and even the solemn Shark was chuckling.

“Heroic youth, accept this slight trifle as a testimonial of my deep and undying gratitude and affection,” the Trojan was reciting. “You risked your life to save me, and now you can risk it again. This is no common pie. It’s a—a—a——”