Transcriber’s Notes:

“Can You Tell Us Anything About This?”	[Frontispiece]
	PAGE
Something Shot Into View	[79]
Sam Began to Wriggle Out of His Jacket	[150]
Poke Clung to His Seat	[215]
The Boys Felt as if They Stood Before an Enormous Furnace	[278]

The Safety First Club Fights Fire

The Safety First Club
Fights Fire

CHAPTER I
SAM BEARS WITNESS

Sam Parker was studying under difficulties. His intentions were of the best; his industry, as a rule, was proof against distractions. This day, though, there was something in the very air which seemed to interfere with his work.

It was a fine day, a beautiful day. The sun shone brightly; a pleasant breeze was blowing; beyond the open windows of the big assembly hall on the third floor of the high school tree tops were swaying gently. In spite of his efforts Sam’s gaze strayed to them, and lingered on them, to the sad neglect of the instructive remarks on the English paragraph, offered by the text-book lying open on his desk. Topic sentences, somehow, had lost their hold; “proofs” no longer appealed to his reason; conclusions didn’t matter in the least. Sam felt the spell of the spring in his blood, and, to do him justice, fought against its influence.

As a student, the boy had to earn what he gained. He didn’t lack brains by any manner of means; and he stood well in his classes, but this was the result of application rather than of inspiration. He had come up to the hall for a study period because it was quieter than his “home” room, where a recitation was in progress; and a score of other pupils had followed the same plan. They were rather widely scattered in the big space of the hall, and the teacher who was charged with maintaining order had the easiest of tasks. Spring fever might not promote industry, but likewise it did not encourage mischief.

From the window Sam’s glance came back to his comrades of the study hour. Nearly all were classmates of his—Juniors—but only two were among his special chums. Over in a corner a slender boy with thick-lensed spectacles was deep in a calculation, being by long odds the busiest person in the room. Sam, surveying him, chuckled. Willy Reynolds, known to his friends as the “Shark” because of his extraordinary appetite for mathematics, cared very little what the weather might be, or whether the season were winter, summer, spring or autumn, so long as he was provided with an interesting problem. At a little distance from the Shark “Trojan” Walker was dallying with an English exercise. Sam grinned sympathetically, while he watched the slow motion of the Trojan’s pencil; he knew just how his friend was longing to be out-of-doors and making holiday. Trojan was a good fellow, rather a quiet chap, neither a dullard nor brilliant at his books; likable, dependable, and a valued member of the little coterie, of which Sam was the acknowledged leader.

Sam’s smile faded as his glance passed from Walker to a brace of his neighbors. He was not fond of Jack Hagle, and he disliked Edward Zorn. In the case of the former he might have found it hard to put the reason for his opinion into words. Hagle never had harmed him; at times he had tried to be friendly; but there was something in Jack’s personality which didn’t appeal to Sam. “Hagle puts a fellow’s teeth on edge, somehow”—so Sam had said more than once, and it would have puzzled him to make the explanation more definite. As for Zorn—well, he was a schemer, an intriguer, a school and class politician, always working for this, that, or the other thing; now fawning, now blustering, but always keeping the personal fortunes of Edward Zorn in mind. Once or twice Sam and his chums had clashed with Zorn and his allies, and the encounters had not left the feeling of respect one sometimes finds for a stout and honest adversary.

Sam turned again to consideration of the English paragraph. He tried to concentrate his attention upon the printed page before him, and so was not aware that the principal and the sub-master had entered the hall and were talking earnestly with the teacher on duty. The conference at the desk went on for several minutes. The sub-master appeared to be excited. His voice rose a trifle, and Sam looked up. By this time all the pupils were eyeing the group on the platform with varying degrees of interest.

Suddenly the sub-master turned to his chief and put a question. What it was nobody in the body of the hall heard, but everybody saw the principal nod agreement. To Sam at least the agreement did not seem to be at all eager.

“Walker!” the sub-master called out sharply.

The Trojan gave a start of surprise at the summons; rose; went forward. The principal put a query, his tone so low that the words were inaudible a dozen feet from the platform.

“Why—why, I don’t know, sir.”

Sam, straining his ears, barely caught the Trojan’s answer. He quite missed both the next question and the reply. Then the sub-master put in a suggestion:

“Suppose we excuse Walker for a moment. We can—er—er—we can recall him later.”

Again the principal nodded. Sam, closely attentive, was more strongly impressed than before that the head of the school was not enjoying the moment.

The Trojan walked back to his desk. His expression was puzzled. Sam’s guess was that he was racking his memory and failing to recall distinctly something about which he ought not to have been uncertain.

“Hagle!” said the sub-master.

Jack shuffled up the aisle and took his stand before the teachers. His examination was longer than the Trojan’s, but the other pupils heard not a word of it. Then Zorn was called, and again there was an exchange almost in whispers.

The sub-master consulted a list of names written on a card.

“Parker!” he said, after a moment’s reflection.

Sam made his way to the platform. By this time his curiosity was keen enough. Zorn, he noticed, had not gone back to his former seat, but had taken a place well forward, where he hardly could escape hearing whatever might be said.

“That’s a cheeky performance!” Sam told himself—and then forgot Zorn for the moment; for the sub-master was addressing him.

“Parker, perhaps you can help us. There is a point we wish to establish. In a case of—er—er—in a case of disputed ownership of a book, let us say, suppose Walker claimed it——”

“Then I’d say it was the Trojan’s—I mean, Walker’s,” Sam declared without hesitation.

“That is because you are a great friend of his?”

“It’s because Trojan always tells the truth, sir.”

“I see. You give him a general vote of confidence?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sam fancied that the principal moved uneasily, as if he didn’t like the course the examination was taking. Yet the head of the school permitted his assistant to go on.

“Well, Parker, it happens that the ownership of a certain book is a matter of some interest to us. We are anxious to establish it definitely. By the way”—the sub-master pushed aside a paper on the desk and revealed a worn and battered text-book it had concealed—“by the way, [can you tell us anything about this?]”

Sam picked up the book. He glanced at the fly-leaves. They were torn and dog-eared, and bore a dozen scribbled entries. It was plain enough that the book had been handed down from class to class, though it would have puzzled anybody to get much clew to its present ownership from the conflicting scrawls. Then Sam turned to the last printed page, and found there a penciled skull and crossbones.

“If Trojan says this is his Cicero, he’s right, sir.”

“You—er—er—you corroborate him, then?”

Again Sam sensed the principal’s lack of approval of the question; but made mental note, too, that he let the sub-master continue.

“Yes, sir,” said the boy; “though he doesn’t need corroboration.”

“You’re absolutely sure?”

“I ought to be—I drew that picture on the last page. Did it one day when I’d borrowed the book from Trojan.”

“Long ago?”

“Two or three months.”

The sub-master frowned. “That is somewhat remote, Parker. If you have a weakness for decorative effects, there has been time since then for you to adorn other texts. And if you haven’t seen this book in months——”

“But I have seen it, sir!” Sam broke in. “When? Last Friday. Just before our class went in for its Latin test I borrowed the book from Trojan to look up a passage. It—it’s pretty freely marked with notes on hard places, you know.”

“So I perceive,” said the sub-master drily.

Sam coughed. “Ahem, ahem! Well, the fellows who’ve had it have written in a lot of things, sir. And—and they help, when you’re in a hurry. And there was one ‘sticker’ I did want to get straight before we tackled the examination.”

“Very much of an eleventh-hour performance, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. We were in the corridor—just before we went in.”

“And you are sure you returned the book?”

“Perfectly sure, sir. Trojan wanted it back—he had something to look up, too.”

“And you gave it to him?”

Sam smiled faintly. “‘Gave’ is hardly the word, sir—he grabbed it.”

“That was the last you saw of the book—in Walker’s hands, in the corridor, outside the examination room?”

“Right there, sir.”

“But you had your own Cicero with you?”

“I guess all the fellows had theirs. But we left them in the corridor—that’s the way we always do, you know.”

The sub-master turned to the principal. “Well, some things seem to be established,” he said. “Do you care to take the witness?”

The principal seemed to hesitate. “No, Mr. Bacon,” he said at last. “You’re quite right—some things we can now accept as established.”

Sam might have considered himself dismissed, but he lingered.

“If there’s anything else I can tell you——” he began; but the sub-master shook his head.

“No; that’ll do for you, Parker,” he said curtly.

Sam, still very much in the fog of uncertainty and wondering greatly that there should be any doubt of the Trojan’s claim to his book, turned away from the platform. As he did so, he caught Zorn’s eye, and was reminded that that youth must have overheard all he had said. Well, he didn’t care; it was all true—so Sam told himself, even as a sense of resentment filled him. It wasn’t Zorn’s affair; playing eavesdropper was a contemptible trick. Sam amended his statement to himself: he did care; he objected strongly to Zorn’s action. At the first opportunity he would say so, forcefully and as publicly as might be. He glared at the other, who, truth to relate, returned the attention in kind. Then, Sam had passed by and was taking his seat at the back of the hall.

The Trojan appeared to be in a brown study. His brow was furrowed, and he was gazing at the wall in the fixed fashion which suggests seeing very little. Jack Hagle had developed sudden absorption in his work, and was bent over the text-book on his desk. The Shark was still deep in his calculation. Nobody else in the room, though, was ignoring, or pretending to ignore, the peculiar affair which had interrupted the study period.

The instructors had their heads together in a consultation which continued for several minutes. Then the principal and sub-master rose, and walked to the door; halted; exchanged a word or two.

“Walker!” the sub-master called, and the Trojan, his manner of perplexity remaining, again went forward. This time he did not return to his seat, but followed the two men into the corridor.

The pupils left in the hall exchanged questioning glances. Every boy there—with the exception of the Shark—felt that something out of the usual run was happening; and most of the number, including Sam Parker, groped vainly for the secret. Sam had a notion that Zorn, and perhaps Hagle, had clew to the mystery, and it is to be confessed that the suspicion annoyed him. Therefore he awaited eagerly the reappearance of the Trojan.

But Trojan Walker did not come back to the hall.

A gong clanged, marking the end of the period. Sam and the others gathered up their books, and streamed out into the corridor, there dividing and going on to their own rooms. In each of these there was the stir of preparation for home-going, for the period closed the day’s work; then came the little pause, while the rows of boys and girls sat quietly, awaiting the dismissal signal. Sam noted that Trojan was not in his accustomed place; but hardly had he made sure of this when the gong clanged again, and the school session was over.

Sam marched out with his classmates, but lingered in the yard. So, as it chanced, did a dozen other boys, among them several of his special chums. There was the Shark, blinking behind his big spectacles. There was “Step” Jones, so called because in height, and thinness, and angularity he suggested a stepladder. There was “Poke” Green, who was so plump that a finger could be poked into him anywhere. There was Tom Orkney, sturdy, reserved, not an ingratiating fellow but sound to the core on better acquaintance. And, finally, there was Herman Boyd, long a member of the clan and possibly the Trojan’s most intimate friend. These boys grouped themselves about Sam as about a leader, and waited, as he waited, for the coming of Trojan Walker.

“Something queer is on,” Sam told them. “I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out. All I know so far is this.” And he sketched rapidly the incidents of the masters’ visit to the hall.

There was a murmur of surprise, followed by many questions. Sam shook his head.

“Somehow Trojan’s Cicero is mixed up in it—how, I can’t guess,” said he. “I knew the book as soon as I saw it. Every one of the crowd would know it on sight.”

“That’s right,” Step agreed. “I’ve borrowed it a hundred times—got the best lot of written-in notes that ever happened—regular life saver sometimes. Yes, I’d know that bully old book as far as I could see it.”

“Same here!” said Poke Green; then turned to the Shark.

“Look here, old polyhedron, you were in the hall—what’s your theory? What’s all the row about?”

“No theory,” said the Shark calmly. “Wasn’t noticing—had something better to do.”

“What?”

The Shark shrugged. “I could tell you in thirty seconds, but you couldn’t understand in thirty years.”

“I believe you!” chuckled Poke cheerfully.

Zorn, who had drawn near the group, laughed cynically.

“Ho, ho! If I’m not mistaken, you fellows will hear something pretty soon that you can’t help understanding in three seconds instead of thirty. And you won’t like it, at that!”

The friends stared at him; finally Step spoke:

“What is it we’re not going to like?”

“Wait and see.”

“Rats!” said Step scornfully.

Zorn scowled. “Your gang has been putting on a lot of side lately, but you won’t feel so high and mighty after this.”

“How do you know we won’t?” It was the Shark who put the query, though, as a rule, he took small part in such verbal clashes.

“How—how do I know?” Zorn appeared to be staggered by the demand. Suddenly, however, his expression changed, and he pointed to a figure framed by the arch of the great doorway.

“There he is! Let him do the talking for a while.”

The Trojan slowly descended the steps. His face was pale; he moved heavily.

Sam met him and caught his arm.

“What’s the row?” he asked eagerly.

The Trojan hesitated. “I—I—there’s a mistake, a mix-up, somehow. It’s over my Cicero. They—somebody, that is—found it in the desk I sat at when we had the test the other day. Or they say that was where they found it. And the way the thing worked out—that was the worst of it—made me look as if I were lying about it. They began by asking where my Cicero was, and I said I supposed it was with the rest of my books. I thought it was; I hadn’t missed it—you know we’ve had no Latin recitation since the test. Then they sent me back to my seat, and—and”—he hesitated again, glancing almost apologetically at Sam—“and when they afterward took me to the principal’s office, they said they had evidence identifying the book as mine. They hadn’t shown it to me before then. If they had, I’d have claimed it, of course, no matter how they happened to get hold of it. But the way everything happened, you see, seemed to make it a pretty black case against me—lugging a text-book into an examination, and then trying to lie out of it, and——”

Step broke in hotly. “You say somebody identified the book as yours? Who was mean enough to do that?”

Once more Zorn laughed, and it was a taunting laugh. “Ho, ho! Don’t ask Walker that! Get it first-hand!”

Tom Orkney’s hand fell on his shoulder, and Tom spoke sternly:

“You’re aching to make trouble, somehow—anybody can see that. Cut it out! This isn’t your row, unless you’re the telltale—understand?”

Zorn wriggled free. He retreated a pace or two; for Orkney’s hand had been heavy.

“You’re a nice crowd!” he sneered. “They say you call yourselves the Safety First Club. Good name, that! Sure it is! Just fits in with the speed Sam Parker made in saving himself and giving Walker away. Safety First! You bet that’s the rule with every one of you, and the rest can go hang, for all you care!”

Orkney would have charged the enemy, but Sam held him back. The last minute or two had been a trying time for Parker, as any time must be which brings revelation that one has fallen into a most embarrassing predicament. Sam had had his flash of illumination. He saw, all too distinctly, the complications in which he had become involved. Innocently enough he had fallen into the rôle of chief witness against his friend and club-mate. And Zorn had not played eavesdropper without result. That the knowledge thus gained would be used for the annoyance and discomfiture of the clan, Sam had no doubt; but he realized that a fight then and there would in no wise mend matters.

“Easy there, Tom, easy!” he counseled. “We won’t have any scrapping just now.”

Orkney yielded, reluctantly.

“Might as well let me polish him off,” he grumbled. “It’ll have to be done sooner or later.”

“Very likely—but better not now,” said Sam quietly.

“Sure! Always Safety First!” jeered Zorn; and walked away, grinning wryly.

CHAPTER II
THE SAFETY FIRST CLUB

The Safety First Club, to which Zorn had alluded so cynically, bore its name for what its members regarded as good and sufficient reasons.

The club had come into existence in the most natural fashion imaginable. That is, a little group of boys who liked one another had gathered about Sam Parker, had reached a simple but effective organization, and had been permitted to take possession of an unused stable on the premises of Step Jones’s father. This they had fitted up as headquarters, furnishing the place as best they might. Then had happened a series of incidents, of adventures and misadventures, which had served to impress upon the chums the penalties life exacts for heedlessness and carelessness. They had woefully misjudged Tom Orkney, for example—Tom, it may be explained, was not of the original band—and before they came to understanding of the sterling qualities which eventually won him an election to the club, they had undergone experiences well calculated to drive home the lesson of the danger in overhasty thought or action.

Now, it is not to be understood that old heads had been put upon young shoulders. The boys still conducted themselves as healthy, active, well meaning but fallible lads of seventeen or thereabouts, and not as world-worn philosophers of seventy-one. They made mistakes—lots of mistakes. They formed their judgments not on great knowledge but on such knowledge as they had—and when a blunder was made, they tried not to repeat it. And they strove to play the game fairly. Doubtless you know a dozen boys like these, and fancy them not the less because you find them very human.

Sam Parker had put into effect the guiding rule of the club in averting hostilities between Orkney and Edward Zorn, but he had by no means avoided the complications growing out of the affair of Trojan Walker’s Cicero.

The Trojan himself was in serious trouble. Sentence had not yet been passed in his case, but apparently he stood convicted of violating the rule against taking text-books into rooms where examinations were held, and of committing the still graver offense of “trying to lie out of it,” as the school phrase ran.

Sam seemed to be likely to fall heir to the unhappy reputation of being the chief witness against his friend. The story spread rapidly. He could observe its effects when he went to school the next morning. A group of girls fell to whispering as he approached them, and drew aside as he passed; some of the boys nodded stiffly. There was a loud controversy in a corner of the yard, which quieted of a sudden, when he came near. Step, very red of face, said something in a low tone to the youth with whom he had been disputing, and joined Sam, slipping an arm through his and drawing him away.

“Confound a chump, anyway!” he growled. “But I say, Sam! Got anything on for this afternoon? Let’s take a hike somewhere.”

Sam suffered himself to be led out of earshot of the others. Then he spoke crisply:

“What’s the row? Talking about me, are they?”

Step tried to avoid the question.

“There are a lot of idiots in this school. They run away with any fool yarn, or let it run away with them, and——”

“And the yarn this time is about me—about Trojan and me, that is?”

“Why—why, Sam——”

“Yes or no, Step?”

“Well, yes; if you must have it. But I tell you, I put a flea in that fellow’s ear.”

Sam shook his head doubtfully. He was reminded, quaintly, that a flea was a creature of remarkable agility, and he could not but suspect that this flea supplied by the impulsive Step might hop about very busily in the next few days.

“I guess it would be better not to do much talking for a while,” he said soberly.

“What! You’d let all the yapping go on, and say nothing?”

“I’d say as little as I could.”

Step stared at Sam. “Great Scott! If we don’t deny it, everybody will believe it’s all so!”

“Well, deny it, then, and stop there.”

Step whistled softly. “Whe-e-e! Sam, I reckon you don’t know all the trimmings the story is getting. It’s an awful thing for you and for the whole club.”

“I see that,” said Sam. “What hits any one of a crowd like ours hits the whole bunch. That’s the worst of it.”

“But can’t we do anything?” Step demanded impatiently.

Sam’s eyes flashed. There were several things he would have been very glad to do—violent things, some of them. But in the last few months he had learned steadying lessons in the value of self-control. Perhaps it was because he had learned these lessons more thoroughly than had any of his mates that he remained the guiding spirit of the club.

“The first thing to do is to keep our heads. The next is to wait to see just what happens.... Hold on there, Step! Don’t think I’m for lying down and letting everybody trample on us! I’ll fight, and try to fight as hard as any of the rest of you—when the time comes. But I think it hasn’t come yet.”

Step shrugged his shoulders. “Well, if that’s your notion, all right. I don’t believe there’s another fellow in Plainfield who could put it through, but maybe you can.”

“Wait and see,” said Sam very gravely.

The morning session gave plenty of evidence of the spread of the story through the Junior class, and, indeed, through the school. Sam was perfectly conscious of a cooling in the regard in which he was held. At recess the club rallied about him, but other classmates shunned him. It was at recess, too, that the Trojan heard his fate. He came out of the principal’s office, after a five-minute conference, looking as dejected as a boy in physical health could look.

“I get zero on the Latin paper—a clean flunk—to begin with,” he reported. “That’s on a charge of taking a book into the examination. Then I’m laid off, as far as Cicero goes, for the rest of the term. That is on the charge that I tried to squirrel out of the fix and lied about the book.”

“But that’s a half suspension!”

“How’ll you keep up?”

“Where does it leave your standing now?”

“Wouldn’t they give you a chance to defend yourself?”

There was a medley of exclamations and questions. The Trojan made answer in general:

“I don’t know just how it will work out. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“But you can’t drop out!” cried Step hotly.

The Trojan smiled, but the smile had no mirth in it.

“You can’t tell what you can do, Step, till you try,” he said.

“But it would break up the crowd—the club! We’ve been together, and we’ve stuck together since I don’t remember when. And we’ve been in the same class, and we’ve all kept traveling along together through school and——”

“I know all that,” the Trojan interrupted.

The Shark was moved to speech. “Look here, Trojan! Tell me something. They say they found your Cicero where it had no business to be—who found it?”

“One of the Freshmen, I think.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know.”

The Shark snorted. “Huh! Find out!”

“What difference does it make?” asked the Trojan dully.

“All the difference!” snapped the Shark. “Problem, isn’t it? Course it is! How you going to solve it till you have facts to work on?”

“I meant that so long as the book was found in a desk in the examination room, it didn’t matter who found it. The Freshman, whoever it was, gave it to the teacher in charge there.”

“Kid trick!” Step put in.

“Oh, a yearling wouldn’t know any better,” said Herman Boyd. “He wouldn’t intend any harm.”

“Well, now, you can’t be too sure——” Poke began; but the Shark brought the talk back to the main question.

“How do you know, Trojan, it was found in the desk you used that day?”

“How? Why—why, I suppose it must have been.”

“Suppose!” groaned the Shark. “Can’t you fellows ever learn to be exact?”

A little color came into the Trojan’s cheeks at the thrust. “Be reasonable, Shark! If a brick fell from a chimney and hit you, would you—er—er—would you find out, first thing, how tall the chimney was? This—this whole business—well, it just took me off my feet.”

“Huh! Guess it did. But I’ve got my feet under me, and I’d like to get things straight. Now, tell me! What’s the last—the last thing you’re absolutely sure about—about the book, I mean?”

“I left it in the corridor. Sam had borrowed it for a minute, but he gave it back. I had just time to look up a passage before the bell rang. Then I left the Cicero with two or three other books I had—stacked ’em against the wall, just as all the other fellows did with theirs. When we came out, after the examination, everybody was in a rush to get away. I grabbed up my books. I didn’t stop to count ’em. I took it for granted all of them were there. And as we’ve had no Latin recitation since then, it didn’t occur to me to look up my Cicero.”

“Same case here—same to a dot!” testified Poke.

“Nothing to do with the case,” objected the Shark. “We’re figuring on the Trojan’s row. And where did you sit, Trojan?”

“In the back row.”

“Sure of that?”

“Yes.”

“I remember he was there,” Sam corroborated. “I was two rows in front of him.”

“Which desk did you have, Trojan?” the Shark persisted.

“Which? Why—why, one near the middle of the row.”

“Able to point it out surely?”

The Trojan hesitated. “I—I guess so. Only I didn’t notice especially.”

“Umph! Remember your neighbors?”

The Trojan wrinkled his brow. “Let’s see! None of our crowd was very near me.”

“Was Zorn?” Sam queried.

“I think he was over to the left—two or three desks away.”

“And Jack Hagle?”

“Yes, he was near me.”

“How near?” the Shark demanded.

The Trojan shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. Confound it! you fellows seem to forget that I was trying to pass a Latin paper and not mapping the room. I remember Hagle was somewhere around, and Zorn was not very far off. Yes, and Sam was a couple of rows in front of me. But that is all I can recall of what didn’t impress me especially at the time.”

“Umph!” said the Shark, and made no further inquiry.

Here the big gong clanged, and the pupils streamed back into the schoolhouse, the Safety First Club members going with the others. Sam felt a certain relief as he saw the Trojan taking his place in line: he had had disquieting doubts about the course Walker might follow. A fellow smarting under a sense of injustice—Sam’s confidence in the Trojan’s honesty was unshaken—might do something in haste which would lead to deep repentance at leisure. But the Trojan went back to the classroom, and joined in the recitation almost in his usual manner. As it happened, the Latin hour had passed, so that the partial suspension did not interfere with the work he had to do after recess.

Being far from blind, and, in fact, being especially keenly observant that day, Sam gathered more evidence of the spread of the story of the Trojan’s trouble and his own share in bringing it about. Now and then he met glances which were frankly unfriendly: when the divisions changed rooms between periods he made note that some of the girls, passing him in the corridors, took pains to keep as far from him as possible. It was not a pleasant experience for the boy; but for the present, at least, there was nothing he could do but grit his teeth and keep his temper.

Sam’s lessons in self-discipline stood him in good stead. They helped him study his problem, while he resisted temptation to rage against his fate.

Ed Zorn must have been extremely busy in circulating his version of what had occurred in the hall.

That was, to Sam’s mind, a big, outstanding fact. Only Zorn had been near enough to overhear his testimony. The principal and the sub-master would not have spread the story; therefore, Zorn’s responsibility was hardly matter for argument.

Why, though, should he have displayed such zeal in making the affair public property?

Sam shook his head over this question. Zorn was no friend of the Safety First Club; but something more than mere lack of liking was needed fully to explain his conduct. It was still a puzzle to Sam, when the session came to an end, and school was dismissed for the day.

When the Trojan came down the steps, Sam was waiting for him. They walked away together, both keeping silence until they had left the yard. Then, as they turned into a quiet side street, Sam spoke.

“Trojan, there’s just one thing I want you to understand. If I’d dreamed I was getting you into this fix, they couldn’t have pried a word out of me.”

“I know that, Sam,” said the other, evenly.

“But I did get you into it. Somehow, the way things happened, I couldn’t have done more harm if I’d schemed a week! That part of it’s up to me, all right!”

The Trojan kept his eyes straight before him. “Oh, I’m not blaming you,” he said. “What’d be the use? What’s the use now of—of anything?”

“Here, drop that talk!” Sam counseled. “Keep a stiff upper lip! See you don’t get rattled!”

The Trojan stopped short. He turned to his comrade.

“Rattled!” he cried. “Sam, you know what they’ve done to me? It is practically throwing me out of the class! My term marks in Latin are smashed. Pretty chance I’d have to keep up the work outside, even if they’d let me take the final examination! And a clean flunk in Latin would put me down and out. I’d better quit altogether. I’ve been thinking it over. I don’t see anything else to do.”

“It’s the one thing you can’t do—you shan’t do!” Sam protested.

The Trojan’s manner changed; he spoke dully but with a sort of determination.

“I’ve thought it out, I say. You know my case—the case at home, I mean.”

Sam nodded. Trojan’s father, a traveling salesman, was away on a long trip through the West; his mother was a semi-invalid, quite incapable of coming to her son’s assistance in an emergency like this.

“Dropping out’d be the simplest and the best,” Walker went on. “I guess there are other schools—if there aren’t any to take me, I can go to work somewhere.”

“Nonsense! You stay here!”

“I won’t. This is my own affair—I’ve got to settle it for myself.” Then his voice rose. “Sam, they didn’t give me a square deal! It wasn’t fair! They trapped me; they caught me by a trick! I won’t stand it! I’m through with them—I want to be through with anybody that’ll treat me as I’ve been treated!”

Sam stared at him in perplexity. The old Trojan had been easy going, good natured, a fellow who preferred compromise; the new Trojan was curiously grim and determined and unyielding. There was a glint in his eye Sam had never seen there before; his jaw was set stubbornly. The Trojan was in earnest, in deadly earnest. Sam realized this, and his heart sank within him. Nevertheless, he was ready to fight manfully.

“You’re all wrong! It wasn’t a square deal—I’m with you there. But I’m not sure that wasn’t accidental—the way it happened, I mean. There’s something else, though—you can’t go ahead as if nobody but yourself was hit.”

“Oh! Can’t I?” growled the Trojan.

“You can’t, because we’re all in the row. I’m in up to my neck; there isn’t a fellow in the club who doesn’t feel that it’s his fight as well as yours and mine.”

“It’s all right to say that, only you can’t prove it.”

“Why—why——” Sam began; but he was to be spared the need of making his argument.

Around the corner, from the direction of the school, came Poke, walking fast and dabbing at his face with a handkerchief. At sight of the others he pulled up; gave a gasp; betrayed symptoms of a desire to turn and retreat; hesitated; reached decision; strode forward, grinning most unconvincingly. Beneath one of his eyes the flesh was bruised and reddened.

“What’s the matter?” Sam demanded sharply.

The grin on Poke’s usually placid countenance was maintained by patent effort.

“Oh, nothing! Just a—no; nothing’s the matter.”

“Who blacked your eye?”

“’Tisn’t blacked.”

“It’ll be black enough in an hour or two. Who smashed you?”

Poke’s glance went from Sam to the Trojan, but returned swiftly, and a bit appealingly, to the chief of the Safety First Club.

“It’s nothing, I tell you. Can’t a fellow do anything without your holding him up?”

“That depends. When it comes to getting black eyes——”

“Oh, that was just a—a bump that came my way,” Poke put in hastily. “Not worth mentioning. And say! I’m in a hurry, Sam. Can’t stop to talk to you fellows. ’By!”

So speaking, Poke stepped by his friends, taking care to keep out of arm’s reach, and hurried along the street.

The others did not pursue him. Sam looked at the Trojan, and the Trojan met his gaze unhappily.

“You know what that means?” Sam asked with a touch of sternness.

The Trojan nodded. Poke Green, most peaceful of mortals, had been in a fight; moreover, it was to be suspected that Poke neither had shunned nor now repented the combat.

Sam pressed his advantage. “It means that what I told you is true: that this thing brings in every fellow in the club. We’re standing together; the crowd is backing you, and it’ll back me, for I’m going to need friends as you need ’em. We can’t quit cold, either of us. We’ve got to play the game through, clear up this mess, and win out!”

“How can we win?”

“I don’t know yet, but we will win, if it takes all summer.”

“I don’t see what’s to be done.”

“Give me time—give the club time, that is.”

There was a little pause. Then said the Trojan, dejectedly:

“It’ll be no use. Still, if you’re so set about it, Sam—and I suppose it’s only right to stand by the crowd, if it’s standing by me. But what do you want me to do?”

“Promise not to bolt till we’ve had a chance to catch our breath. And promise to let us know—give us fair warning—before you do anything.”

There was another pause.

“Sam,” said the Trojan at last, “Sam, I—I guess I’ll have to promise you so much, anyway.”

CHAPTER III
THE OPEN AIR TREATMENT

Plainfield High School, like most other schools, had its politics. There were, of course, the usual rivalries between the classes; then there were the likes and dislikes of various groups in each class; there was some sharp competition for honors in scholarship, and rather more for the prizes of personal popularity and leadership. In fact, life inside the school was a deal like life outside it, with the same mingling of the ambitious and the indifferent, the industrious and the idle, the prudent and the venturesome, the schemers and the happy-go-lucky souls with never a thought for the morrow.

Taken individually, the boys of the Safety First Club enjoyed popularity above the average, but as a crowd, or a clique, or an organization—whichever you prefer to call it—they had many critics. Frankly, envy had much to do with this state of things. Other “gangs” came together, and flourished for a time, and fell apart: the club continued. Most boys are clannish by instinct, and here was a clan which truly was a standing challenge to less successful organizers. Moreover, it did not try to enlarge its membership; and here again was cause of grievance. There were a dozen juniors who would have prized an invitation to join the Safety Firsts above any reward in the gift of the school. There were several who had made eager overtures to Sam and his allies without result; there were others who had sought entrance to the charmed circle by war, so to speak. Oddly enough, the only one to succeed had been of these open enemies. In his day Tom Orkney had opposed the club bitterly, and so had borne his full share in bringing about complications, from which, as it chanced, nobody suffered so grievously as Tom himself. But the experience had enabled the club to put Orkney to the test. He had not been found wanting, and in the end had gained his place in the clan by the very excellent process of earning it, which, after all, is perhaps the most satisfactory process in the long run.

Sam Parker was under no illusions as to these conditions. He knew the speed with which gossip spreads. He understood perfectly the causes which would prejudice judgment of the trouble in which the Trojan was involved, and in which he himself shared, and from which the other members of the club could not escape wholly. The club would stand together; therefore all the club must feel the effects of the scandal. And Sam, as the head of the club, must justify his leadership.

A year earlier in such a case he might have consulted his father, but now he was bent on working out his problem for himself. Self-reliance was a quality he was trying to develop, and Mr. Parker approved this policy. So Sam, parting at last from the Trojan, went home in thoughtful mood; found that he was late for dinner, and sat himself down at the table to dine alone under the critical eye of Maggie, the maid, a very good friend of his, by the way, but by no means blinded by partiality to his shortcomings.

Sam ate mechanically but with good appetite. He cleared his plate.

“Want some more meat?” Maggie asked curtly.

“Why—why”—he was thinking of anything but his food—“why—why, I guess—not. No, thank you.”

Maggie sniffed skeptically. Moreover, she picked up his plate, disappeared for a moment in the kitchen, returned with a second generous portion.

“Eat that—guess you’ll need it soon enough!” she remarked.

Sam looked up. “Er—er—what do you mean, Maggie?”

“You don’t need telling.... Take your time, though—don’t gobble!”

Sam meekly obeyed. “Oh, all right. I’ve got lots of time. I—I must have been thinking about something else.”

Maggie’s lip curled. “That ain’t what I’d call a secret, exactly. A blind man could see you were wool-gathering.... What scrape you in now?”

“Oh, noth—nothing in particular.”

“Umph! They never are, by your tell.”

Sam, failing to find satisfactory response, made none, and devoted his efforts to his knife and fork. Maggie set her arms akimbo, and surveyed him grimly.

“Well, I must say there’s one comfort: you don’t take out your spite on your victuals.... But how bad is it?”

“It’s—er—er—it’s no killing matter.”

“What are you worrying so for, then?”

“I’m not worrying!”

Maggie smiled oddly. “Well, I do declare! Sam Parker, it’s the first time I ever knew you to be practising to be a play actor!”

Sam wriggled. “Oh, quit your joshing! I’m bothered about—about something. I’ve got to figure out what to do—that’s all.”

“Want any help?”

The Safety First Club fights fire

Transcriber’s Notes:

THESAFETY FIRSTCLUBFIGHTS FIRE

Illustrations

CHAPTER ISAM BEARS WITNESS

CHAPTER IITHE SAFETY FIRST CLUB

CHAPTER IIITHE OPEN AIR TREATMENT

THE
SAFETY FIRST
CLUB
FIGHTS FIRE

CHAPTER I
SAM BEARS WITNESS

CHAPTER II
THE SAFETY FIRST CLUB

CHAPTER III
THE OPEN AIR TREATMENT