Sam, following his enemy at a more moderate pace, was burdened by a
peculiar sense of helplessness. He was troubled by no doubts of the
justice of his cause; but he was annoyed and perplexed by the obstacles
Fate threw in his way. They were the harder to consider philosophically
because he was quite sure that he was obeying his new rule of Safety
First, and that Orkney’s guilt was clearly established. At the same
time he had to admit that Tom had offered valid grounds for delaying
combat. Altogether the case struck him as one of difficult application
of entirely sound principles.
As he turned a corner, however, he forgot Orkney for a little; for
within a dozen yards of him he beheld two men in conversation. And one
of the men was Major Bates. The other was Peter Groche.
Sam almost halted. He gazed in surprise at the two. The Major had
never appeared to be straighter, or fiercer, or more bristling; while
Groche’s slouch was never more pronounced. The ne’er-do-well was
listening sulkily to the Major’s very energetic remarks, occasionally
growling a brief reply to the veteran.
As it chanced, Sam had not met the Major since the night he had made
confession. A glance was enough to show that he had nearly recovered
from the effects of his wounds; and the ear testified that the vigor of
his speech was in no wise abated.
After a second’s hesitation Sam advanced. As he neared the men, Groche,
seeming, of a sudden, to catch sight of him, wheeled and shuffled off,
growling as he went. The Major swished his cane, as if he regretted
that it might not descend upon the retreating legs. Then he, too, saw
the boy, and the severity of his expression lessened a trifle.
“Ah, young man!” he said. “Ah, good-morning!”
“Good-morning, sir,” said Sam.
The Major tapped the sidewalk smartly with his cane. “I’m out of
hospital. Am I to regard myself as in receipt of your felicitations?”
“’Deed you are, sir!” Sam assured him with unfeigned warmth.
The Major’s eyes twinkled. “Mutually satisfactory state of things, eh?
I’m pleased myself. Fact is, I’m so overflowing with good will this
morning that I’ve been trying to improve that vagabond.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sam.
“By Jove! but I fancy I made it clear even to his befuddled wits that
there is no profit in persistently remaining a social liability. I
warned him that if he didn’t mend his ways he’d end in state’s prison.
Big, hulking brute like that’s liable, some time, to commit a felony.”
Sam glanced at the retreating Groche. The fellow _was_ big and hulking,
and brutish as well--an ugly customer, in short.
“Has he been bothering you again, sir?”
“No,” answered the Major. “I rather anticipated some of his
characteristic attentions, but he has quite neglected me. Not that I
complain--certainly not! Only I took occasion to point out to him the
exceeding unwisdom of again annoying me. Odd, too, how he took the
advice. Leered at me, and mumbled, but made no distinct threats. But
I must not detain you, young man. You, I infer, are on your way to
school?”
“Yes, sir,” said Sam again.
“Then proceed. A moment, though!” The Major’s bushy eyebrows met in
a frown, which wholly lacked ferocity. “Your holidays are at hand, I
believe. Some day, when you’re at leisure, I should be glad to show you
my modest collection of weapons of war and the chase. Ought to interest
you, as a budding sportsman with a promising record of large game!”
The Major’s eyes were twinkling once more. Sam blushed hotly.
“I’ll be very glad to come, sir,” he said.
“Then I have the honor to wish you a very good morning,” quoth the
Major; and they parted in friendly fashion.
* * * * *
Both Major Bates and Peter Groche soon lost first place in Sam’s
consideration. The school session promptly put the Orkney affair to the
fore.
The Lester prize for declamation was one of the great honors of the
course, and competition always was keen. The contest covered a full
term, two boys and two girls entering the lists each Monday. Usually
they were seniors, elocution being part of the required work of the
final year, but sometimes juniors volunteered, often with a notion of
“working off” the requirement ahead of time, but occasionally with a
hope of winning.
There could be no doubt that Tom Orkney did his best to win. As it
happened, he was fortunate in his competitors. The other boy was a
senior, who took the platform simply because he had to take it, and who
raced through his selection with an eye single to ending the ordeal
in a minimum of time. Then two girls performed conscientiously but
ineffectively. And then came Orkney, junior and volunteer.
Tom had chosen an ancient favorite “speaking piece,” so ancient,
indeed, that a giggle ran through the hall when the principal
announced, “The Parting of Marmion and Douglas.” But the merriment
quickly died, as the boy swung into Scott’s stirring verse.
“Good work!” was the involuntary and whispered tribute of Step Jones,
who sat beside Sam. “Awfully good work, confound him!”
Sam nodded. Orkney was revealing unexpected dramatic fire; and,
unpopular as he was with his audience, was capturing its admiration.
One might suspect that he had had professional coaching, but one could
not deny that it had been worth while.
There was loud applause--not the customary ripple of hand-clapping but
a spontaneous and hearty demonstration--and Tom was smiling when he
made his bow to his schoolmates, and another bow to the principal, and
came down the steps from the stage. It was not a pleasing smile, for
there was in it more than a trace of supercilious triumph.
“Hang the chump! Look at the smirk of him!” complained Step.
Sam made no answer. Orkney was approaching, and for an instant the eyes
of the rivals met. Sam’s expression did not change, but the other’s
smile lost the little charm it had. Sam found it bitterly taunting; it
seemed to say to him, “This was what you schemed to prevent, eh? Well,
you didn’t do it, did you?”
Step drove an elbow into his ribs. “You can’t spoil that mug by
pounding it! Say, though! When are you going to get at it?”
“Soon as I can,” said Sam simply.
“Date with him?” whispered Step eagerly.
“Not exactly.”
The classes were rising to march out of the hall, but Step found time
to make a suggestion.
“Maybe you can catch him down at the pond this afternoon. They say the
ice is at last strong enough to hold.”
“I’ll be there,” Sam promised.
Mild as the season had been, the temperature had been falling steadily,
if slowly; and the skim of ice on the big mill-pond on the outskirts
of Plainville had thickened until it had been for some days in rather
perilous use by venturesome skaters. Now, however, Sam believed it
was reasonably safe; and when he descended the slope to the pond, its
surface was dotted with swiftly gliding figures.
Directly in front of him a lively game of hockey was in progress. To
the right, and safely removed from the rushes of the players, were boys
and girls, skating singly, or in pairs, or in long lines, hand in
hand. To the left, near the dam, were a few youngsters.
Sam shook his head as he observed them. The ice always was thinner
there than in other parts of the pond, and there was seldom a season
in which somebody did not regret rashness in straying too close to
air-holes. At a time like this there was more or less danger anywhere
in the neighborhood of the dam.
“It ought to be roped off,” he told himself; but as there appeared to
be no means to carry out this precaution he sat down on the bank and
began to put on his skates. This he did leisurely, pausing now and
then to run his glance over the skaters. At a little distance up the
shore some of the larger boys were building a fire, and were having
trouble, their fuel consisting chiefly of long boards torn from an
abandoned ice-house. Here a little crowd clustered. Sam thought he had
a glimpse of Orkney, but was not certain. As he tightened his last
strap, however, and stood up, Step came along, arms and legs flying in
an effort to recover the partly lost art of the Dutch roll. At sight
of Sam the lanky youth went through some extraordinary contortions,
checked his speed, and glided alongside his friend.
“Say! It’s all right--he’s here!” was his greeting.
“Who’s here?” asked Sam, quite unnecessarily.
“Humph! Who you s’pose? Deacon Pender?”
“No,” said Sam coolly. “I don’t imagine you were thinking of the
deacon.”
“You bet I wasn’t!” rapped Step. “I was thinking of Tom Orkney.”
Sam peered at the crowd by the fire. “Queer I can’t make him out,” he
remarked.
“He’s down at the lower end--along with those kids.”
“Oh!”
Step was grinning. “Oh, he tried to butt into the hockey game, but the
fellows gave him the cold shoulder. So he had to flock by himself till
he saw the young ’uns. He’s with ’em now, teasing and tormenting ’em, I
reckon.”
Sam struck out with the experimental feeling of one on runners for the
first time in months; made a wide circle, and came back to Step.
“Bit rusty, but I’ll get the swing all right in an hour or so,” he
reported.
Step brought him back to the previous question, so to speak.
“What do you want? Don’t mean to fight him on skates, do you?”
“Certainly not,” said Sam testily. “What put such a notion in your
head?”
“Well, what are you here for?” demanded Step pointedly.
“Don’t expect to have a fight before all this crowd, do you?”
“Seems to me you’re getting awful fussy.”
“I am, if ‘fussy’ consists in objecting to scrapping with half the town
rubbering.”
Step looked hurt. “Don’t you want anybody but yourself to have any fun?”
“I don’t intend to entertain Plainville in a body.”
Step’s expression was bewildered. “Say--say, you ain’t crawling, are
you?” he queried.
The suspicion stung Sam’s pride. “Crawling? Not on your life! I’m
looking for Tom Orkney, and when I find him I’ll ask him to walk back
in the woods with me--he’ll know what for. And you can come along, and
one or two of the others, but----”
The cloud vanished from Step’s brow. “Oh, that’s all right!” he said
heartily. “Can’t have a mob trailing along, of course. But I say!
There’s Orkney now--just shooting out from behind the point. He’s
chasing one of the kids.”
Sam’s glance followed the direction of Step’s extended arm.
“Yes, that’s Orkney, fast enough. But what’s he doing?”
“Pestering the youngster!” snapped Step. “Can’t you see? And I declare,
if it isn’t Little Perrine he’s worrying!”
Sam watched the swiftly moving figures, one short and slender, the
other tall and stout. Little Perrine, barely in the lead, seemed to be
hard pressed, for he dodged frequently without being able to throw off
his pursuer.
Suddenly Step cried out sharply: “The miserable bully! Look, Sam! he’s
driving the kid right down to the dam, where the ice won’t hold him for
a minute!”
“Confound it all!” fumed Sam. “Why won’t people think of Safety First?
Why won’t----”
There he broke off, aghast at the catastrophe he beheld, but Step’s
voice rose shrilly:
“Great Scott! it’s happened! They’re in--both in!”
With appalling swiftness the ice had yielded beneath the weight of
the two, and Little Perrine, vanishing as if through a trap-door in a
stage, had been followed almost instantly by Orkney.
Step started to the rescue, striking out wildly and shouting as he
raced down the pond at top speed. Sam, about to join in the dash,
checked himself. He knew well enough how the thin ice near the dam,
once broken, would crack and crumble under even slight pressure.
“Safety First!” was the thought which flashed upon his brain; safety
not so much for himself as for the pair struggling in the water.
Other skaters were speeding after Step: but Sam, turning, hurried to
the heap of boards near the fire. He caught up the longest plank on
which he could lay hands, and skated down the pond with all the speed
his burden permitted. Before him other would-be rescuers, halted by
the widening circle of open water, were moving about aimlessly, if
pluckily, getting in one another’s way, and risking a general break-up
of the ice under their weight. One youth, indeed, had slipped over the
edge, but luckily had been dragged back, suffering no more serious
consequences than a drenching to the waist.
Orkney was clutching desperately with one hand at the crumbling edge of
the ice. At first Sam saw nothing of Little Perrine, but as he dropped
his board and thrust its end over the water, he had a glimpse of the
boy’s head, pressed close to Orkney’s breast. So Tom, having caused the
disaster, was doing what he could to save an innocent victim! Such was
Sam’s belief, and the belief of Step and the rest.
The long plank swung nearer and nearer to Orkney. He grasped it, drew
himself forward, threw an arm over it; his other arm was still about
Little Perrine. Sam, kneeling on the board with Step anchoring its end
to the thicker ice, got a firm grip on Orkney’s coat collar. Then came
the tug of war. It lasted for thrilling seconds, of which Sam was to
have only confused memories, in which were mingled the ominous cracking
of the ice, the shouting of the spectators, his own cries of warning
to the crowd to move back, Orkney’s struggles, the ghastly pallor of
Little Perrine’s face. Slowly, by inches, they gained. Then with a
report as sharp as that of a pistol a foot or two of the edge gave
way; Orkney dropped back till his shoulders were submerged; Sam’s arms
were plunged in water to the elbows. Then Tom made a mighty effort.
Sam exerted all his strength. What had been lost was recovered and
retained. Then there was another clear gain; and, in an instant more,
Orkney and Little Perrine had been dragged to safety.
Tom was able to raise himself on an elbow, but Little Perrine lay
unconscious and motionless.