It was Friday evening, and the Safety First Club was in full session.
Sam, Step and Poke were gossiping about school affairs, and with them
was Herman Boyd, a new member and a brother junior. Willy Reynolds
and Harry Walker, otherwise known as “Trojan,” a recently admitted
classmate, were playing checkers in a corner.
The Shark, who was human enough to have his little affectations,
pretended to care not at all for the game, holding it to be a poor and
trifling substitute for chess; but it was to be observed that he was
doing his best to win. Moreover, when he did win, he chuckled gleefully.
“Hew-ee! You ought to have known that last move was coming,” he told
his opponent. “But you gave me the opening, and then I had you.”
Trojan Walker laughed. “I’d have known all about it if I could see
around two corners at once as you do. Never mind, though! I’ll win yet.
Set up your men, Shark.”
Poke strolled over to the players while they were ranging their pieces.
“Fellow who wears glasses like the Shark’s ought to be able to see
everything,” he remarked idly. “All the same, Trojan, you’ll notice he
isn’t making out much about Orkney’s schemes.”
“Humph! What can Tom do?” objected Herman Boyd. “That row of his with
Step is ancient history.”
“Sure! And the time for a come-back was right after the row,” chimed in
Trojan.
Poke wagged his head sagaciously. “Don’t fool yourselves!” said he.
“Orkney is a sticker. He’s got it in for Step, and for Sam, for that
matter. We haven’t had the last of the business, not by a long shot.”
“Hear that, eh, Sam?” asked Herman.
Sam rose from his chair, and crossed to the checker players’ corner.
“I heard it,” said he.
“Well, do you agree?”
“Yes,” said Sam brusquely.
For a moment nobody spoke. All his friends realized that he was taking
the matter seriously.
“Why--why--you must have some reason, of course?” Herman ventured.
Sam hesitated. “Maybe it’s more hunch than reason.”
“But what gave you the hunch?”
“Oh, one thing and then another.”
“Huh! That sounds like some of my answers in history!” quoth Poke.
“It’s specially like those I make when I’m meeting a total stranger of
a question, and trying to be polite, if not communicative.”
The Shark wriggled in his chair; he was growing impatient to resume
play.
“Your move, Trojan!” he snapped.
“Wait a minute!” said his opponent. “Sam’s going to elucidate.”
“Well, things have happened and kept on happening,” Sam began; “things
that can’t be explained except----But I say, Shark! What on earth’s the
matter?”
Young Reynolds, who had turned from the table in disgust at the delay,
of a sudden had uttered an exclamation and started to his feet.
“Speak out! What is it?” Sam demanded.
The Shark pulled off his spectacles; held the lenses to the light;
inspected them closely; shook his head.
“No; they’re not clouded,” said he, half to himself. “Very curious, I
do declare!”
“What’s curious? And what are you driving at?”
“Of course, it might have been a tricky reflection,” mused the Shark.
“Or, maybe, it was just an optical illusion.”
Sam caught him by both shoulders. “Wake up! What are you talking about?”
“Then, again, the doctor tells me eye-strain works queerly sometimes.”
Sam shook the slender youth vigorously. “Get back to earth! Let’s have
some sense out of all this. Thought you saw something, didn’t you?
Well, what was it?”
“Man looking in the window!” said the other calmly.
“Oh!” cried Sam, and whipped about. Certainly no face now was pressed
against the pane. He ran to the door, opened it, and sprang into
darkness, closely followed by all the other members of the club except
the Shark, who was busying himself in polishing his glasses and
replacing them on his nose. This task was completed to his satisfaction
when the boys came straggling back. Their search had been utterly
without result.
They crowded about the Shark, and rained questions upon him. Just what
had he seen? How long had he seen it? What had he to say for himself,
anyway?
The Shark waved them back. “Here! Don’t walk all over a fellow!”
he cried. “What I saw--or thought I saw--was a head. I had just a
glimpse--there one instant, gone the next--presto, change business!
Looked like a human head.”
“You said it was a man’s,” Sam reminded him.
“Well, it might have been a boy’s--I couldn’t make it out clearly, you
understand. It was vague, shadowy.”
“Then, of course, you didn’t recognize the face?”
“No,” said the Shark. “And you’ll understand, too, that I don’t insist
that I really saw anything. You know, these glasses of mine--chance of
freak of refracted light--all the rest of it. What’s the good, though,
of getting all stirred up about it? If anybody was outside, he’s far
enough away now. I’ll bet he’s running yet if he heard the crowd
galloping out after him. Sit down, Trojan! You haven’t won a game.”
Walker plumped himself into a chair. “Well, you are a cool hand!” he
said, with a touch of admiration. “But I’m going to beat you this time,
all the same. Whose move is it?”
Step lounged across the room, but the others stood watching the play,
which went on briskly, and to the advantage of the mathematical genius.
The Trojan, beaten rather disgracefully, pushed back his chair.
“Tackle him, Poke,” he urged. “Or you take him on, Sam. This isn’t my
night, I reckon.”
Poke grinned. “Age before beauty! Go ahead, Sam.”
But there was to be no more checker play in the club just then. For,
while Sam paused, debating his chance of coping with the skilful Shark,
there was a loud crash of a breaking window pane, a little shower of
fragments of glass fell to the floor, and a big stone shot across the
room, just missing the boys standing by the table, which it struck with
great force. Over went the table with a crash, rivaling that of the
window. Over, too, went the Shark, untouched but thoroughly startled by
the bombardment.
Sam and Poke, Step and the Trojan and Herman Boyd poured out of the
club like bees sallying forth to defend the hive. Around the corner
of the building they raced, eager to detect the enemy. Prompt as they
had been, however, they were too late. The night was very dark; there
was much shrubbery about, which, even in its leafless state, afforded
cover. The stone-thrower was gone. The boys could not detect a darker
shadow betraying his whereabouts, and there was no sound of fleeing
feet.
Sam and Poke turned to the right, and the others to the left, spreading
out as they neared the barn. The course taken by Sam and his comrade
led toward the house, round which they worked their way as rapidly as
possible. Strain their eyes as they might, they saw nothing to arouse
suspicion; nor were they better rewarded when they moved to the
street, and peered up and down road and sidewalk.
“Clean get-away,” Poke said reluctantly. “Fellow must have bolted just
as soon as he let drive. And it must have been the chap the Shark saw
at the window, of course. What a pity he hasn’t a decent pair of eyes!”
“It’s the biggest kind of a pity,” Sam agreed. “This affair is no joke,
Poke. If that stone had struck one of us--whew!”
Poke laid a hand on Sam’s arm. “Come now!” He dropped his voice almost
to a whisper. “Fellow who threw that stone was pretty savage, or crazy,
or--or revengeful. And--and you won’t need maps or foot-notes to
understand who I reckon he is.”
“I wouldn’t ask but one guess,” said Sam.
Poke was silent for a moment, listening intently. “The others have
had no better luck than we,” he reported. “Might as well go back, I
suppose.”
“All right,” Sam agreed, and they moved toward the club-house.
Meanwhile the Shark, who had picked himself up from the floor and
found that he was none the worse for his upset, had been making an
investigation on his own account. First, he raised the big stone,
shifting it meditatively from one hand to the other, as if he were
estimating its weight. Then he crossed to the window and measured the
height from the floor of the jagged hole in the glass. This done, he
furrowed his brow, pulled out pencil and note-book from his pockets,
and fell to making a calculation of some sort. He was still engaged in
this when Sam and Poke entered.
“No luck!” Poke informed him. “The fellow got away.”
The Shark didn’t look up. “Hm-m! Thought he would.”
“So that’s why you didn’t try to chase him?”
“Partly. ’Nother reason was that I wanted to do some figuring.”
“On what?”
“Oh, don’t bother me!” snapped the Shark. “I’m right in the midst of
things.”
Poke frowned. “You needn’t be so snippy. Sam and I have done some
figuring, too, and we’ve been quicker about it than you. And we
know--what we know.”
The Shark raised his eyes. “Umph! Don’t be too all-fired sure,” he
counseled.
Poke took a step toward him. “See here, you owl! Our figuring has made
us certain--morally certain, that is--that we know who threw that
stone.”
Usually the gaze of the Shark was unwavering, but now he was blinking
rapidly.
“Go slow, Poke,” said he. “Moral certainty doesn’t answer problems in
mathematics.”
“Bosh! This isn’t mathematics.”
“’Deed it is!”
“Hold on, boys!” said Sam. “You’re getting nowhere. Now, Shark, listen!
Poke and I believe that Tom Orkney did this thing. We hate to think he
would, but we believe it because----”
“Because you’re wrong. Tom couldn’t have done it--at least, I don’t
admit that he could. It won’t work out that way.”
“Work out?”
The Shark nodded. “Of course, I have to depend on estimates, and I
don’t pretend that I can show exact results,” he began; but paused as
Step strode into the room, closely pursued by Boyd and the Trojan.
In the middle of the floor Step halted. Not a word said he, but raised
a hand dramatically.
The hand held an object, recognized at sight by every boy there. It
was the cap, owned by Tom Orkney, which had figured in the celebrated
quarrel.