The junior class of the Plainville High School probably was neither
much better nor much worse than the classes which had preceded it,
and the other classes which were following it, along the paths of
knowledge. It had its bright boys and girls and its dullards; its
examples of industry and of idleness; its workers and its shirkers; its
happy-go-lucky members, who made the most of the day without thought
of the morrow, and its budding politicians, who laid wires and pulled
them with an eye to future advantage. Perhaps the most distinguishing
peculiarity of the class, however, was the influence exerted by a group
of boys, with some of whom we have become acquainted.
Just why the Safety First Club (lately the Adelphi) should have been
so potent a factor was not easily explained. The faculty, which
had suspicion rather than understanding of the fact, did not try
to explain it, while certain ambitious youths, not of the charmed
circle, insisted that it could not be made clear. The club did not
include the coming valedictorian or salutatorian; it had none of the
most distinguished athletes; yet the truth remained that its backing
was a prime necessity to secure success in any class undertaking. If
there were a fund to be raised for the ball team, or if a picnic were
planned or a Christmas jollification, wise promoters at once sought the
endorsement of the club. As it usually was given in generous measure,
there was little general criticism of the coterie, though, as was
inevitable, there were envious ones who lost no opportunity privately
to say unpleasant things about the members, singly and collectively.
In this, of course, jealousy figured. Several of the boys deeply
resented the failure of the club to invite them to become members; and
the feeling was bitterest in the case of one Thomas Orkney.
Now and then one comes upon a striking example of the square peg
in the round hole. Orkney did not fit. He was comparatively a new
boy in Plainville, having lived there but two or three years, and
having come with some very firmly established notions of his own
importance. At bottom he had his virtues--plenty of them, no doubt;
but they were overlaid and concealed by a highly unfortunate manner.
His early study had been under tutors, who had helped him to better
knowledge of his text-books than to preparation for what may be called
the rough-and-tumble experiences of recitations in a large class. If
he blundered, and the division laughed, that was a black day in his
calendar; and he scowled and sulked, and cherished a grudge against
those who had led in the merriment. Worst of all, he often found
means to settle these scores, and so had contrived to make himself
exceedingly unpopular among his classmates; though, as it happened,
he also drew to himself a few supporters and adherents from among the
discontented element, which is so frequently to be observed in any
organization.
While it could not be said that the juniors were sharply divided into
factions, it was certainly true that the relations of the club and of
the Orkney “crowd” were strained. Recently there had been two or three
incidents, trifling in themselves, but together doing a good deal to
increase the rivalry.
Oddly enough, Step Jones, one of the most peaceful of mortals, had
succeeded in enraging Orkney. Step, as a rule, was no shining star of
scholarship; but by some mental twist he was a very planet in Greek. In
Latin he was merely fair, and in French not quite so good, while the
less said of his algebra and geometry the better; but, in the speech
of his friends, he took to Greek as a duck takes to water. Poke Green
accused him of “reading ahead” in Xenophon for the fun of the thing;
and declined to withdraw the charge in spite of his almost tearful
denials, holding, indeed, that it was confirmed by Step’s success in
translating a “sight” passage, which Tom Orkney had stumbled over. Poke
forgot all about the episode in an hour, but Tom added another to his
growing list of grievances against the club. His average for the term
was far above Step’s, but he begrudged the lanky youth even a trifling
triumph. And then came the matter of Willy Reynolds.
It may throw light upon the personality of Master Reynolds to explain
that he was equally well known as Willy and the “Shark,” neither
being used offensively, though one had a suggestion of mildness and
the other of ferocity. He was, in fact, a little fellow, slender,
stoop-shouldered, and physically the weakest boy in the class. Yet
no other junior was less teased or picked upon. Practical jokers
passed by Willy Reynolds. There was a gravity about him, not owlish,
but distinctly discouraging to frivolity; and an almost hypnotic
influence in his meditative and unwavering gaze. He had the prominent
eyes of the near-sighted; and he had, too, the unconscious trick of
staring steadfastly at man or thing of whose very existence he was
barely conscious; and as he stared through big, round lenses, set in
a heavy black frame, the effect was impressive, if not terrifying.
Consequently, even the most mischievous of his mates preferred to let
him alone, especially as they had honest respect for his signal ability
in his specialty.
Young Reynolds was a mathematician born. Languages he endured as
unavoidable subjects of study; but he reveled in equations and
demonstrations, made child’s play of the required algebra and
geometry--thereby earning his nickname of the “Shark”--and carried on
advanced work under the eye of the principal, himself an adept of the
mathematical brotherhood. Willy, of course, was destined for scientific
courses at college; but meanwhile, tarrying with the junior class, he
filled his contemporaries with wonder and admiration. For example, he
solved at sight a problem to which Tom Orkney had devoted vain and
wearisome hours. It was all in the day’s work for the Shark, but Orkney
noted another score to be repaid with compound interest.
Sam Parker had been a witness of Tom’s discomfiture on both occasions;
but, as may be imagined, was not concerning himself deeply with the
sullen youth’s moods. As he himself would have put it, he had troubles
enough of his own, and was fully occupied with his own affairs when he
went to school on Monday morning. On the way he fell in with Step and
Poke. The latter was full of the mystery attending the release of Peter
Groche.
“It’s mighty queer--our folks were talking it over at breakfast,” said
he. “Course, there was a mistake somewhere, or Major Bates never would
have let him go. But Peter didn’t let out a word--just growled, and
grumbled, and took himself off, shaking his head. He wouldn’t deny that
he shot the Major. The police asked him about it, but he gave them no
satisfaction. He’s a bad one, I tell you! Regular Indian, if he gets
down on anybody!”
“All the more wonder that the Major dropped the case,” declared Step.
“He knows Groche from A to Z.”
Poke wagged his head. “There you are! Makes the business all the
queerer. Each of them is a sticker, in his own way. And the Major had
Groche just where he wanted him. And then, all of a sudden, he let up!
What do you make of that, now?”
“Beats me,” Step confessed.
“What’s your notion, Sam?”
Sam did not meet Poke’s inquiring glance. “I think,” he said slowly,
“that something must have happened to show the Major that Groche hadn’t
shot him.”
“Huh! How do you make that out?” queried Step.
“That’d mean somebody else did the shooting,” observed Poke, the
philosopher. “The Major was hit, fast enough--peppered in the head and
in one hand. And he didn’t do it himself.”
“Of course not,” said Sam.
“Therefore, some one else did. The Major was sure Groche was the some
one. Then he wasn’t sure. In between he’d found out something. Q. E.
D.--as the Shark would remark.”
“Q. E. D.,” repeated Sam, for want of anything better.
Step grunted. “Huh! Bet you he’d found out who was who and what was
what! But that just thickens the fog.”
“How so?”
“Why didn’t he have the other fellow locked up in Groche’s place?”
“Jiminy! that’s a good point!” cried Poke.
Sam said nothing, and for a moment the three trudged on in silence.
“Oh, well,” said Poke at last, “the Major knows now, but we’ll know
sooner or later.”
“How’s that?” Sam asked quickly.
Poke shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, things are bound to come out. They
always do. It’s just like a dog burying a bone--if he doesn’t dig it
up, some other dog will.”
“Don’t you believe a secret can be kept?”
“Well, I can’t remember keeping many myself,” chuckled Poke. “And they
say murder will out, you know. This wasn’t murder, of course, but it
came uncomfortably near it.”
“It sure did!” agreed Step.
Sam dug his hands deeper in his pockets. Being human, and
companionable, and very fond of Poke and Step, he had been sorely
tempted to confide in his friends. But the Major had warned him
not to gossip about the affair, and the Major’s wish naturally had
great weight. As for Poke’s theory that the story would become known
generally, sooner or later--well, Sam had his doubts. So far as he
knew, only his parents and the Major shared with him knowledge of what
had happened in the woods.
In school that day Sam studied hard and paid close attention to the
recitations. That was part of his plan for proving to his father that
he could deserve confidence. When the class was dismissed, he made
careful selection of the books he would need for home study, and so was
a little behind his mates in leaving the building. Within a hundred
yards of the school-ground gates, however, he overtook a group of boys,
clustered closely about two disputants. One, as he saw, was Step; the
other, Tom Orkney.
From a little distance the Shark was regarding the squabble through his
big glasses.
“What’s the row about?” Sam asked as he came up.
“Nothing!” said the Shark. “That’s why they’re making such a fuss.”
Sam laughed, but quickly grew serious. Both Step and Tom were talking
loudly, each hurling threats and defiance at the other; Step’s long
arms were going like a windmill’s, while Orkney’s fists were doubled.
From his acquaintance with the methods of adolescent controversy it
appeared to be probable that words were about to lead to blows.
“Just one of Orkney’s grouches,” the Shark went on indifferently. “He’s
been ruffling his feathers at Step ever since that business in Greek
the other day.”
Sam nodded. “That, eh? But they’re going too far--they’ll be mixing it
up.”
“Well, Step’s got the reach by fully four inches.”
“Maybe, but Orkney’s a tough customer.”
The Shark turned, and deliberately inspected Sam from head to foot.
“You could do him up,” he said with cold-blooded calmness.
“Perhaps. That isn’t saying Step could, though. He hasn’t weight
enough.”
At this instant Orkney, catching sight of Sam in the background,
changed his tactics. He moved away from Step, and lowered his hands.
“So that’s the game, is it?” he taunted. “Keep blustering, but be sure
not to hit a fellow till your gang’s here to back you--that’s your way,
Step Jones. Had to wait for Sam Parker, didn’t you?”
Step’s anger was that of the patient man, slow to kindle but hard to
extinguish. He struck at his opponent, but long as his arm was, missed
him by inches.
Sam instinctively started forward, and forced a way through the ring.
Tom fell back a pace.
“That’s right! Pile on--the whole gang of you!” he shouted.
Step, for his part, was more than ready to accept the challenge; but
Sam intervened. Impulse--he was willing enough to fight Orkney--had
yielded to sobering second thought. It behooved a young man, intent
upon establishing his self-control and common sense, to avoid brawling
over a trifle on the public street. Sam’s hand caught Step’s collar.
“Here! Drop the fighting!” he commanded.
Step wriggled, but the grip on his collar did not yield.
“Oh, let me at him!” he begged. “We might as well have it out--he’s
been pestering me for a week.”
“Never mind! He’ll stop it now.”
“Oh, I will, will I?” snarled Orkney. “I’d like to know who’s going to
make me!”
“I might,” said Sam simply.
“Bah! Dare you to try--alone!”
“That’s the way I will try it--some day,” Sam told him. “But not now;
no, not now.”
“That’s right--safety first!” sneered the other.
Sam grinned; and it was an odd grin. “Certainly; safety first!” said he.
Step ceased to struggle; but, twisting his neck, stared at his friend.
And then the Shark chose to advance.
“Sam’s right,” he announced coolly. “This is no place for a scrap.
Besides, there’s no reason for one. Orkney, you’re a chump to be peeved
at Step for doing you up in Greek, or at me for putting you out at
geometry. See here! You’re a pretty good, all-round performer, but you
can’t beat specialists at their own specialties. Get that? And there’s
no use in being a general sorehead.”
It was eloquent tribute to the Shark’s moral influence that Orkney
appeared to be impressed. At all events, though he scowled fiercely,
he received the advice in silence. Two or three boys on the outskirts
of the group began to move off. To Sam it seemed to be probable that
the storm had blown over. He released his hold upon Step’s collar;
whereupon Step, still wrathful, took two long strides; found himself
beside Orkney; plucked off his opponent’s cap, and sent it flying
through the air. It sailed over a fence, struck the trunk of a tree,
and dropped to the ground.
Orkney bristled, but Sam already had laid hands upon Step, and was
dragging him back.
“Here! Quit all this foolishness!” the peacemaker ordered.
“Make him get that cap, then!” Orkney insisted.
“Won’t!” cried Step, and struggled to break from Sam’s hold.
Again the Shark intervened. “No; it was a kid trick, but now that it’s
done, we’ll let it stay done. Orkney, if you hadn’t bulldozed Step,
and started the whole thing, the cap would still be on your head. So I
guess it’s up to you to put it back there--or let it stay where it is.”
“Sure! It was a six-year-old’s performance, but the Shark has the right
notion,” Sam agreed.
There was an instant in which Orkney hesitated between war and peace.
Then he reached a decision which was compromise--and as unsatisfactory
as compromises often are. He neither gave battle nor retrieved his
headgear. Instead, with a parting scowl, which included all the allies,
he wheeled, and marched away, bareheaded.
“You, Step, you bring that cap to my house, or you’ll be sorry!” he
called back over his shoulder.
“Never!” shouted Step defiantly.
The Shark stared at the retreating figure. “I’ll be hanged if the whole
bunch oughtn’t to be back in the kindergarten,” was his comment. “Of
all idiocies! You plumb make me tired, Step--you and that runaway pal
of yours!”
“But you wouldn’t get his cap for him if you were in my place,” Step
insisted.
“But I’m not in your place,” said the Shark drily.
Sam shook his head. “Let’s stop this squabbling, fellows. One row’s
enough at a time. Or, better yet, let’s end one without starting
another.”
The Shark’s expression was thoughtful. “If we have ended one,” said he.
“Orkney’s a queer duck. There may be more to this ridiculous affair
than we dream.”