Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
[Illustration: 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
[Illustration]
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
I. THE CLUB CONFERS 9
II. VARLEY GETS ACQUAINTED 24
III. UNCOMFORTABLE GLORY 39
IV. SAM’S COUNSELLOR 60
V. SNOW-SHOES 73
VI. A LITTLE LUNCH 92
VII. THE SHARK LECTURES 105
VIII. POKE’S MYSTERY 117
IX. SAM GETS A REMINDER 133
X. THE BLOW DESCENDS 148
XI. THE GREAT MINCE PIE OF SUGAR VALLEY 163
XII. EXPLORING THE VALLEY 185
XIII. THE SHARK DEMONSTRATES 202
XIV. THE HUNT 220
XV. THE HOUSE OF REFUGE 237
XVI. BLIND TRAILS 256
XVII. THE RISING FLOOD 272
XVIII. THROUGH THE LONG NIGHT 288
XIX. WHAT BEFELL POKE AND STEP 309
XX. THE PRIZE SNATCHED FROM THE FLOOD 326
XXI. POKE OUT OF BONDAGE 346
Illustrations
PAGE
HIS NEW COMRADE WAS RACING ACROSS THE FIELDS _Frontispiece_
“GRIN AND BEAR IT” 70
“YOU CAN’T RAISE THE MONEY” 160
ANOTHER OF HIS PRECIOUS MATCHES 248
“WE’LL HAVE TO DRIFT ASHORE SOMEWHERE” 320
* * * * *
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.