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?”
“No--no, thank you.”
“Umph! Maybe you’d like some pudding, then?”
“No, thank you,” Sam repeated, and pushed back his chair.
“Better think twice about it,” Maggie urged. “It’ll be a long time
before supper.”
Sam snatched up his cap, and hurried out, calling back a third “No,
thank you,” over his shoulder.
There was a big, old-fashioned barn on the Parker place, part of which
was now in use as a garage. Just outside its wide door stood a touring
car, the cover of its hood raised. A clean-shaven man in overalls, who
had been pottering about the motor, caught sight of Sam, and hailed him
cheerily:
“Hi there! Where’s the fire?”
Sam pulled up. “Fire? What are you talking about, Lon? I haven’t heard
any alarm.”
Lon Gates, man-of-all-work, coachman, gardener, chauffeur, and general
factotum, chuckled. He studied Sam for a moment. They were great
friends, were these two, and more than once the man had proved a tower
of strength for the boy in time of trouble.
“No fire, eh? Thought you must be goin’ to one, way you was speedin’.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
“So?” Lon appeared to reflect briefly. “Huh! Then you must ’a’ been
like a feller I seen goin’ over a dam one freshet time--lots o’ hurry
and no special intention.”
“What happened to him?”
Lon shook his head. “Dunno. Guess he got out of it all right, somehow.
Turns out that way now and then.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Sam.
Again Lon surveyed his youthful friend. “Huh! Something botherin’ you,
eh?”
“Yes--bothering me a lot.”
There was a pause. Lon, perceiving that Sam was not disposed to explain
his trouble, respected his reticence, and asked no questions.
“Guess, mebbe, I made a mistake to stop you,” he remarked at last. “Old
Dr. Shanksmare cures a heap o’ misery--him and his open air treatment.
Feelin’ as you do, guess you might as well run along.”
But Sam, having been halted, seemed to be in no haste.
“Hang it! there’s nowhere to go,” he complained.
“What’s the matter with goin’ swimmin’?”
“Too cold yet.”
“Try a hike, then.”
“Too hot.”
Lon laid down the wrench with which he had been working; he made quite
a ceremony of wiping his hands on a bunch of waste.
“Sam, you kinder remind me o’ the old lady with the plate o’
half-melted ice-cream--she said it was too soft to eat and too hard
to drink. Yet it was pooty good ice-cream, at that; so’s this a pooty
good spring day, if only you’ll take it right. And so long’s you
ain’t feelin’ moved to sob out the sorrows o’ your young life on this
sympathizin’ bosom, why don’t you walk ’em off? Get your crowd. Go
somewhere. See something.”
“What is there to see?”
“That depends a lot on your eyes.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there’s a heap of difference between keepin’ your eyes shut and
havin’ ’em open and lookin’ for new things.”
“What’s new in this old town?”
Lon took thought. “There’s Crescent lake, for one thing.”
“Crescent lake?”
“Yep. That’s the new name. Used to be Mudgett’s pond. Then some o’
the folks got to readin’ poetry, and tried to call it Half-Moon. Now
there’s a syndicate openin’ it up, puttin’ in roads, and sellin’ sites
for cottages and camps. And it’s Crescent lake on the advertisements.”
Sam was not enthusiastic. “That doesn’t sound very exciting, Lon,” he
observed.
“Gives you something to see, though. They’re goin’ to have a good deal
of a place, one way and another--dancin’ pavilion, roller skatin’ rink,
swimmin’ beach, all the reg’lation didoes. Got most o’ the buildin’
done now. Why don’t you round up your pals and tramp out to have a look
at things?”
“H-m-m!” Sam’s enthusiasm did not increase.
“Old Mudgett’s pond used to be fine for fishin’,” Lon went on. “Nat’ral
pickerel ground at the lower end--lily pads--lots of ’em. Then at the
upper end there was plenty o’ deep water and rocks for bass. And I
guess the new artificial attractions ain’t interfered with that part
of it. And what with the woodsy shores--say, Sam, there’s a heap wuss
spots than Crescent lake, nay Mudgett’s pond, as the fashionable folks
would say.”
“‘Nay’?” Sam repeated doubtfully.
“Yea--nay!” Lon chuckled. “Gettin’ too proud of your Latin to recognize
your old French friends when you meet ’em? Or mebbe you’re used to
callin’ that special old crony ‘knee.’”
Sam laughed. “I’m afraid to say just what I might call it. But I
didn’t know, Lon, that you were such a linguist.”
“Oh, I’m like old Peter Hunker, buyin’ a new slate for his boy. ‘Give
me the best ten-cent slate you got in the store,’ says Peter to the
clerk. ‘I believe in a liberal eddication.’ And that’s jest my case,
Sam. And believin’ in bein’ liberal with it, I spend my French same’s
my English--get the idee?”
“Yes,” said Sam, “I grasp it.”
Lon picked up his wrench, and began to busy himself with the motor.
“Think you’ll take a dose o’ Dr. Shanksmare’s medicine?” he inquired.
Sam meditated briefly. A long walk with his chums would give
opportunity to discuss the case of the Trojan, his own predicament,
and the plight of the club. And even a nominal purpose in a tramp was
better than aimless wandering. He felt no burning curiosity about the
improvements at Crescent lake, but was willing enough to look them
over. Still, the lake was seven or eight miles from town. He mentioned
the circumstance, and Lon responded promptly:
“That’s all right--jest distance enough. And I’ll see that you don’t
have to walk back. How’s that? Simple enough. I’ve got to take a
package for your Ma out to Mis’ Haskins at the Ridge, and comin’ back,
I’ll swing round by the foot o’ the lake and pick you up. That’ll be
’long about half-past five. The car’s big enough to load all your
crowd, and I’ll have the lot o’ you home in time for supper. What say?”
Sam reached decision. “I say yes. I’ll telephone to the fellows, and if
they’ll join in, we’ll make the hike.”
“Now you’re talkin’ sense,” quoth Lon heartily.
“Oh, I guess the scheme is all right.”
“Of course it is,” Lon encouraged. “It’ll do you good to stretch your
legs, and mebbe you’ll manage to do a stroke o’ business, somehow. You
never can tell, Sam, what’s waitin’ for you round the next turn in the
road.”
“I guess that’s so,” Sam admitted.
“Sure it is!” said Lon with conviction. “That’s what makes travelin’
the roads worth while, sonny!”