It is not to be supposed that Sam Parker, in spite of his exhibition of
new self-control in the affair of Step and Tom Orkney, had taken on the
gravity of years. There was, indeed, a change in the boy, but it was
subtle rather than manifest. Sam worked a little harder than before,
but played with no lack of zest. It was to be noted, however, that
there was a decrease in the number of scrapes into which he fell.
Perhaps Hannibal, Sam’s bull terrier, was first to perceive, if not to
understand, the change. Hannibal was a sagacious animal, beyond the
follies of puppyhood, but still full of interest in the doings of his
master and his friends; fond of a long tramp in their company; and very
pleased to doze comfortably in a corner of the club room. The new days
were much to Hannibal’s liking. Sam never had been cruel to him, but at
times may have been a bit thoughtless. Now, though, Hannibal enjoyed a
degree of consideration quite unparalleled in his experience.
Lon Gates, shrewdly observant, began to remark that Sam’s visits to the
barn resulted in less disturbance of its orderly arrangements.
“Ain’t had a hedgehog day lately, have you, Sam?” he queried. “World
don’t seem to be so all-fired uncomfortably crowded as it was, eh? And
I dunno’s there’s so much genooine solace in kickin’ over buckets as a
feller might think there was.”
“True enough, Lon,” said the boy soberly.
The hired man grinned cheerfully. “They say nobody has to hunt for
trouble, and I guess there’s sense in that. Still, it’s amazin’ how
often trouble’ll let you alone if you don’t go stirrin’ it up. There’s
that wuthless scamp, Peter Groche, now. He wouldn’t ’a’ been locked up
over night if he hadn’t been so cantankerous. Course, they really took
him in on suspicion, and I must say Groche is about the suspicionest
nuisance that infests these parts. And all he got out of bein’ ugly was
a sleep behind the bars.”
“That’s so,” said Sam.
“Funny how close-mouthed the Major is ’bout the whole business,” Lon
went on. “If only he’d talk he’d make things easier for quite a lot of
the chaps that was out gunnin’ that day.”
“Yes?”
Lon chuckled. “Te he! There’s always a reg’lar bargain sale rush
when the season opens, but this year it was wuss than usual. Seems
as if everybody was sort o’ venison hungry; so it turns out there’s
about a dozen fellers who ain’t been able to prove what you’d call a
water-tight alibi. That is, they can’t bring witnesses to show that
they didn’t pot the Major; and they’re bein’ joshed half out o’ their
lives, some of ’em. You see, first and last, a sight o’ folks must
have been prowlin’ through Marlow woods that mornin’, and none of ’em
happened to think to keep a time register. The huntin’ crowd’s all tore
up about it.”
“No doubt,” said Sam. If he had cared to meet Lon’s eye, he might have
noted a twinkle, suggesting that the hired man had theories of his own
as to the identity of the careless sportsman. But Sam avoided Lon’s
gaze, and Lon chose not to make direct inquiry.
“Well, this world does see a heap of entertainin’ things, comin’ and
goin’,” he observed. “Good scheme, too--keeps folks from stagnatin’ and
gettin’ as dull as ditch water. Plainville’s perkin’ up a lot because
of the Major and his unknown party o’ the second part, as we’d be
sayin’ if you and me was lawyers.”
Here Lon spoke within the truth. The town was making a nine days’
wonder of the affair; and what the town talked, the school talked, and
the club.
Sam, so far as he could, kept out of the discussions; permitted his
chums to speculate as they pleased; and watched and waited for the
interest in the matter to wear itself out.
Oddly enough, Peter Groche appeared to be following the same policy. He
was about town as usual, doing odd jobs when work was unavoidable. No
improvement was reported in his habits, but even in his cups his tongue
was not loosed, so far as his feud with Major Bates and its recent
development were concerned. He grumbled and made threats, to be sure,
but he had been grumbling and threatening people for years; and from
his incoherent growls his cronies gained no information. If he had an
inkling of the secret of Marlow woods, he was keeping it to himself.
Step’s quarrel with Tom Orkney seemed to have led to nothing, even
in the way of reprisals. There was no second demand upon Master
Jones to recover the cap, nor was there formal notice that he should
repay the owner for the seized property. In debates at the club the
probability of the latter course had been stoutly upheld by Poke Green,
who developed such concern in the outcome that he made a searching
expedition, from which he bore back tidings that the cap was not to
be found where it had fallen. Step insisted this merely went to show
that Orkney, when the coast was clear, had returned to the scene and
regained possession of the cap, thus avoiding loss and “saving face.”
“But he’s wearing another bonnet,” Poke pointed out.
“Oh, that’s because he’s too stuffy to admit the truth,” Step declared.
“He’s as stubborn as a mule--that’s the whole case in a nutshell.”
The club agreed with this opinion of Orkney more heartily than it
endorsed Step’s performance, which was held to be juvenile, albeit
not without provocation. Sam’s interference was accepted with respect
rather than warm approval. As Poke put it, somebody, sooner or later,
would have to thrash Orkney; and Step might as well have tried his
hand. Whereat the Shark spoke up from his corner.
“Say, that’s nice doctrine to be preaching at the Safety First Club!”
For an instant Poke was abashed. “Why--why, there’s something in that.
I guess I wasn’t thinking of our new name.”
“Well, Sam was,” said the Shark crisply.
“Huh!” grunted Poke. He glanced thoughtfully at Sam; seemed to be about
to continue; changed his mind, and let the subject drop.
Sam went home that afternoon to find Lon in uncommonly bad humor.
Somebody, it appeared, had opened a faucet in the barn, and left the
water running in a merry stream. As a result, half the floor had been
flooded, and annoying, if not heavy, damage had been caused. Lacking
evidence to the contrary, Lon was disposed to hold Sam responsible.
“But I had nothing to do with it,” the boy explained. “I don’t know how
it happened.”
“Foolin’ ’round here, wasn’t you, after school?”
“Yes--but I didn’t touch the faucet.”
“Guess you’re gettin’ absent-minded.”
Sam reddened wrathfully, but kept his head. Very clearly he realized
that he had a deal at stake. A youth on probation, as he was, must shun
rages as well as keep his record clean.
“Look here, Lon!” he said. “I’m not joking--I’m in earnest. And I tell
you I’m not to blame. I mean it--honor bright!”
Lon rubbed his chin. “I swan, but it plumb beats my time! You’re sure
you didn’t do it, and I’ll swear I ain’t been walkin’ in my sleep and
cuttin’ up didoes for more’n a year. Yet here was the water goin’ like
all possessed! Now, who set it goin’?”
“I didn’t,” said Sam decidedly.
“Hanged if I believe you did!” Lon had been studying the boy keenly.
“You’ve got as much of Old Nick in you as the next ’un, generally, but
you _have_ been behavin’ pretty well lately. And you ain’t a liar any
time. So it looks as if we’d got to add this to the list o’ mysteries,
’long with who struck Billy Patterson. Only I do wish I could lay hands
on the skunk that made all this mess, and argy with him a while on
the error of his ways.” And Lon frowned as he turned his gaze to the
water-soaked planks.
Sam went on to the house, but only to find himself again in the rôle of
defendant. The complainant this time was Maggie, who swooped down upon
him when he entered the kitchen. She caught him by the arm, dragged him
across the room, and pointed tragically to a tub, in which were soaking
several mud-stained garments.
“See all the trouble you’re makin’ me, you imp!” she cried. “How do
you s’pose I’m a-goin’ to do all the work of this big house, with you
snoopin’ round, and breakin’ my clothes-line, and lettin’ down half a
wash into the dirt? All them things to be put to soak and done over! I
tell you I just won’t stand it, I won’t! We’ll see, Mr. Sam, what your
mother’ll have to say to such tricks!”
Sam wriggled free. “But, Maggie, you’re all wrong,” he protested. “I
didn’t break the clothes-line.”
Maggie sniffed incredulously. “Course not! Must have been Hannibal or
the cat! Go ’way with you, tryin’ to bamboozle me with such talk!”
Poor Sam felt like throwing up his hands in despair, or bursting into
vehement denials. But once more he was reminded of the stake for which
he was playing.
“Honestly, Maggie, I had nothing to do with dropping the wash,” he
declared so emphatically that she could not but be impressed. “I didn’t
even notice that you’d hung it out. And as for breaking the line----”
“Well, somebody broke it!” said Maggie tartly. “Look at it!” And she
snatched a coil of rope from a shelf above the tub.
Sam gravely inspected the parted strands.
“Well, it is broken, fast enough,” he began. “That is”--he was peering
hard at the end of the line--“that is, it isn’t broken--I was mistaken;
this has been cut.”
“What do you mean?”
“Cut with a knife--and a sharp knife, at that. Made a clean gash. No
accident there, Maggie!”
The cook took time to make careful examination.
“My stars, Sam Parker, but you’ve got a head on you, after all!” she
declared. “Who’d ’a’ thought it! No; I don’t mean the head--it’s the
miserable meanness of the job. But who on earth would be so ugly?”
“I don’t know,” said Sam. “Anyway, though, I’m not the fellow.”
“Well, puttin’ it that way, I don’t suppose you are,” Maggie admitted.
“But I’d give a pretty penny to be able to figure out who is.”
“So would I,” Sam agreed gravely.
He had cause to repeat the statement in the next few days. Things went
wrong about the Parker place with peculiar persistence. Valuable young
trees were broken down; gates, supposed to be kept closed, were found
open; Hannibal, for whose care Sam was responsible, was missing over
night and came limping home in the morning in badly battered condition.
And in each instance it appeared to be incumbent upon the son of the
house to prove his innocence. It is an old rule of the books that
there is much difficulty in establishing a negative proposition. Sam’s
patience was sorely tried, but he kept his wits about him, remembered
the demands of his situation, and did his best to win confidence by
deserving it.
He had his suspicions, of course, that there was something more than
mere coincidence in the succession of troubles. Also he had a theory
as to their cause. In amateur fashion he undertook detective work. In
other words, so far as he could, he maintained a close, if unobtrusive,
watch upon the doings of Tom Orkney.