Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
[Illustration: “CAN YOU TELL US ANYTHING ABOUT THIS?”]
THE SAFETY FIRST CLUB FIGHTS FIRE
BY
W. T. NICHOLS
Author of
“The Safety First Club,”
“The Safety First Club and the Flood.”
Illustrated by
W. V. CHAMBERS
THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
1923
* * * * *
COPYRIGHT 1923 BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
[Illustration]
The Safety First Club Fights Fire
Made in the U. S. A.
Illustrations
“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.