Читать книгу The Safety First Club and the Flood - William Theophilus Nichols - Страница 8

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Sam Parker was disposed to think little and say less of the incident of the runaway horse. He had come out of the affair with some credit and a slightly sprained wrist, but he made no mention of either at home or at the Safety First Club. At school a somewhat vague report was circulated that there had been a frightened horse and a very good “stop”; but none of the pupils happened to have been about at the time of Sam’s exploit, and the story went the rounds without bringing in his name. Sam was quite content with this; and as he did not see Paul Varley for several days, he regarded the episode as a closed chapter.

Meanwhile he was working hard at his books. He stood well in his classes, though he headed none of them; and he had an incentive for study.

Sam expected to spend the last year of his preparation for college at St. Mark’s, a famous school for boys. He was to go there in the autumn, after completing the third year of his course at the town high school; and inasmuch as his father’s consent to this arrangement had not been easily won, he prized it all the more highly. It had been granted, indeed, only after a series of adventures had satisfied Mr. Parker that his son was possessed of certain valuable qualities of self-reliance and discretion. Sam, reasonably, was greatly pleased with the outcome, and his satisfaction was increased by the fact that both Step and Poke were to be sent to St. Mark’s with him, while it was by no means impossible that one or two others of the club might join the colony. He looked forward eagerly to his year at the big school, but with a sensible understanding that good scholarship would be much to his advantage.

Sam lacked the mathematical talent of the Shark, just as he had no such peculiar knack as Step showed in Greek. The tall youth shone in translations from the tongue of Xenophon and Homer in a manner which was wholly inexplicable to his friends—as they frequently remarked with much feeling. In Latin Step was a mediocre performer; his French left much to be desired, but when it came to Greek—“Why, he eats it alive!” was Poke’s admiring declaration. Sam, being without such special genius, found none of his studies very easy—and, no doubt, profited the more in mental drill because he had to work for what he gained. His class rank was good, if not distinguished; and he stood well with the school principal and the other instructors, who saw that he was an influential fellow among his mates, including many who were not of the charmed circle of the club.

Trudging to school one morning—it was several days after the affair of the runaway—Sam fell in with Poke, who appeared to be in a curious mood. Ordinarily, Poke was a cheery soul, and good-natured, but this day gloom was upon him. He answered Sam’s hail with something very like a growl; and when they fell into step, he groaned unmistakably as response to the other’s remark that it “wasn’t such a bad morning.”

Sam looked at him wonderingly.

“What’s the row?” he asked.

Poke dug his hands deeper into his pockets, and sank his chin in his coat-collar.

“Oh, nothing!” He said it as dismally as if everything had gone wrong.

“Don’t you feel well?”

“Well enough—that isn’t it.”

“But what is, then?”

Poke hesitated; he seemed to be struggling between eagerness and reluctance.

“I—I—well, something’s going to happen.”

“What?” Sam demanded.

“Just wish I knew!” cried Poke fervently.

Sam took him by the shoulder, and shook him vigorously.

“Wake up, Poke! You’re dreaming.”

Oddly enough, Poke caught at the suggestion.

“It was a dream, all right, but it wasn’t a common dream. I tell you, it was a—er—er—it must have been a warning!”

“What sort of warning?”

Poke wagged his head heavily. “My! but I wish to-day was safely over!” he said ominously.

Sam laughed. It was a skeptical laugh, but it had a trace of uneasiness.

“Go on! You’re joking!”

Poke heaved a tremendous sigh. “Well, I guess you wouldn’t be talking about joking if you’d had that dream yourself!”

“What was it about?”

“Everything—all mixed up! Course I can’t remember it all—you never can. But we were in it—all the fellows in the club were. And the way it went—Geeminy! first thing I knew I was sitting up in bed and yelling like an Indian. And I couldn’t get to sleep again, and the thing has been hanging over me ever since. It won’t go away. That’s why I feel in my bones that something is going to happen, and why I wish this day were over. Why, Sam, that was the meanest dream, the scariest dream—the—the——”

Poke broke off; for round a corner came the Shark and Step Jones. And, of a sudden, it had occurred to the seer of visions that the Shark was the last person of his acquaintance who was likely to show sympathy for such a tale. But the newcomers had caught part of his speech.

“What you driving at, Poke?” Step inquired. “Talking about dreams, weren’t you? Go ahead!”

“Oh, it’s nothing of any importance,” said Poke hastily.

“Huh! Seemed to be important enough a minute ago,” Step remarked. “What was the yarn, Sam?”

Poke preferred to do his own explaining, if explanation there had to be.

“I was telling Sam a story—yes; a story about a dream I had last night. And—well, I was telling him, too, that it worried me. It wasn’t a common dream—not by a long shot! And—and if you’ve got to have the whole thing, it is worrying me a lot! There’s trouble brewing for somebody, a heap of trouble.”

Step regarded Poke with wide-opened eyes and sagging jaw, but the Shark’s lip curled scornfully.

“Nonsense!” he jeered.

“I tell you, it was a warning!” Poke insisted.

“Warning of what?”

“Why—why, I don’t know; that’s just the trouble.”

The Shark was regarding the prophet of evil very steadily. “Poke,” said he, “what did you eat last night before you went to bed?”

“Noth—that is, nothing to speak of.”

“Let’s hear about it, all the same.”

Poke wriggled, but the Shark’s eye held him. “Well, I was sort of hungry, so I went out to the pantry, and had a nibble.”

“At what?”

“Oh, anything I came across. But it was just a bite.”

“How many bites?”

“Oh, a few, I suppose. It was only a snack.”

“Crackers?”

“No.”

“Cake?”

Poke reddened. “’Twa’n’t cake—it was a piece of pie, if you’ve got to know. But I don’t see——”

The Shark gave a queer, barking laugh. “Ho, ho! Pie, eh? Mince pie, I’ll bet you!”

Poke tried to assume an air of offended dignity. “Well, it was mince, if that’s any comfort to you.”

“Ate a whole pie, didn’t you?”

“No, sir!” shouted Poke indignantly. “It had been cut.”

The Shark turned to the other boys. “Oh, come along!” said he. “Guess we’ve treed the ghost that sat on the foot-rail of Poke’s bed and made faces at him. We’ll be late at school if we don’t wake up.”

Sam and Step moved on with the Shark, Poke following dejectedly.

“All right—have it your own way!” he called after them. “You don’t have to believe anything’s going to happen, but you just wait and see! I tell you, this day is going to be a bad one for somebody!”

It cannot be said that either Sam or Step attached much more importance than did the Shark to Poke’s forebodings; and the morning’s work proceeded in a manner to remove all traces of uneasiness. Things went well for all the members of the club. None of them was tardy. Lessons appeared to be well learned, and teachers were in good humor. Even Poke himself shone in recitation, though he droned through his translations in mournful fashion, and declined to be consoled by approving words from the instructors.

At the opening of the Junior class’s English period the principal of the school entered the room, and after a whispered word or two with the teacher took the platform.

“I have an announcement to make,” he said. “I have chosen this time and place because it deals with something more or less directly connected with the work of this class in English. And to go straight to the point, the announcement deals with a very desirable prize, to be awarded in a competition open to all of you, and in which I hope many of you will take part.”

A rustle ran through the assembled class. Everybody was interested, with the exception of the despondent Poke, who merely slumped a little lower in his seat.

The principal cleared his throat, and went on. A friend of the school, who was engaged in local historical research, was ready to pay one hundred dollars to the pupil who should produce the best essay on the settlement and early days of the town. Industry in the collection of facts would be given quite as much consideration as the style and finish of the essays.

“In short,” the principal added, “the conditions will be such that all of you will find this a fair field of rivalry. It is not the intention to limit any contestant rigidly in the matter of space; though I must warn you that waste of words will count adversely. You can have room for all the facts you gather, but this means room for concise statement. The contest will close on the first of April, when the essays must be handed in; and the winner will be announced as soon thereafter as possible. A detailed statement of the conditions of the competition will be posted at once on the bulletin-board.”

Then the principal walked out of the room, and the class broke discipline for a little to discuss this great news in eager whispers. A hundred-dollar prize for a composition! That was the way most of them put the matter. And a hundred dollars seemed to be most inviting. Besides, there was hardly a boy or girl there who didn’t feel convinced that in some old aunt or uncle, or, better yet, grandfather or grandmother, was possible source of just the information that would win the competition. And style and finish were not to determine the result—there was a condition much to the general liking; this wasn’t to be a contest practically limited to the half dozen Juniors with a known knack for writing. Even the Shark wagged his head approvingly, though he had no notion of entering the lists, white paper used for composition instead of figuring being more or less wasted, to his way of thinking. Only Poke remained indifferent, and sunk in gloom.

The teacher, presently, called the class to order, and the recitation proceeded. At its close came recess, and the Juniors, flocking into the corridors and out to the school yard, fell to discussing the contest in all its bearings. Sam and his chums happened to be standing near the foot of the stairs when the principal came down from his office on the second floor, accompanied by a youth at whom the boys stared in surprise. For the youth was Paul Varley.

Paul stopped to speak to the boys, and the principal checked his pace, as if waiting for the visitor to have his little talk with the others.

“Maybe I’ll be with you fellows,” Varley said. “Some things I want to brush up on. I’ve been going over the business with Mr. Curtis”—he glanced at the principal—“and he thinks he can fix it for me.”

“But we’re Juniors, and you’ll be a Senior,” Sam remarked.

“No; more of an unclassified special student. I’ve had a pretty ‘spotty’ preparation, you know; and it struck me it would be a good thing to look after some of the weak spots while I’m here. So I made up my mind to—— I beg your pardon, madam!”

Varley, as it chanced, was the only one of the group who was facing the entrance. This fact accounted for his sudden change of tone.

A woman had come into the hall. She was a comfortable, middle-aged, plump person, whose hat was a trifle awry, and whose manner indicated much earnestness.

None of the others had seen her come in, and none suspected her presence till Varley spoke. Then everybody turned quickly.

“I’m looking for somebody,” said the woman briskly. “I guess he’s somewhere round this school. Only—only I ain’t quite as sure as I ought to be. And—and——” she hesitated, peering at the faces before her. Compared with the light out-of-doors, the hall was somewhat dim. “No, I don’t know whether he’s here or not,” she concluded.

“And his name——?” It was Varley who put the question; for Sam and his friends appeared to be tongue-tied, while the principal chanced to be in the background.

“Mercy me, but I don’t know! That’s the trouble—they didn’t seem to know, either, any of them—the men, I mean.”

“Ah!” said Varley courteously, but uncertainly.

The principal stepped forward. “I’m afraid we don’t understand, madam,” said he. “If you’ll kindly explain——”

The visitor laughed. “Dear me, but somehow I always do manage to get the cart before the horse! But the men, they said they thought—— Wait a minute, though!” She moved nearer Varley, and studied his face intently. “Wait a minute! I vow, but this one looks like the fellow. Yes; he’s the one.... No, he isn’t, either. He’s the boy that tried, and went rolling head over heels.”

Varley gave a sudden laugh. “I get it! You’re talking about the runaway. And you’re right—I was the fellow who took the tumble.”

“The runaway?” Two or three of the boys spoke in chorus, wonderingly. Sam Parker instinctively began to edge away. The movement caught the woman’s attention. A sharp glance at Sam, and her expression brightened.

“Here he is, sure enough!” she cried. “He didn’t tumble, and he held on like grim death till the colt stopped, and the men came running up to help. And then he slipped off before I could get my breath or my manners back enough to say ‘Thank you!’ But I’m going to say it now, and say it out loud!”

With that, she briskly pursued the retreating Sam, overhauled him, and cast an affectionate arm about his shoulders. Then, holding him prisoner, she addressed all within hearing.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard or haven’t heard about this, and I don’t care. I’m going to give my testimony. This boy”—she gave Sam a vigorous hug—“this boy did a brave thing. He took the chance of breaking his neck, when my colt was frightened by one of those pesky automobiles and made a bolt. This boy”—another hug—“stopped him, and saved me from being killed, or getting an awful spill. And I’ve come here to look him up, and thank him good and proper—so there!”

Now, to tell the truth, Sam at the moment looked anything but a hero; for he was wriggling and struggling vainly, and blushing furiously and unhappily. So public and so demonstrative a display of gratitude overwhelmed him.

“I—I—oh, ’twasn’t anything,” he stammered.

“I tell you, it was a whole lot to me!” declared the woman. “And I’ve been racking my brains how to show how I feel about it.” Again her arm tightened, and for a panic-stricken second Sam thought she was about to kiss him then and there, and in the presence of the crowd. He made a frantic effort for freedom, and his captress, who may have had some notion of boyish diffidence, released him, her eyes twinkling.

Sam would have given much for the privilege of instant flight; but luckily kept his wits and held his ground. To run away would be merely to add fuel to the fire of ridicule to which he believed his mates would subject him. So he tarried, and miserably attempted to smile, thereby deceiving nobody, and least of all the visitor.

With a degree of tact she turned to the principal.

“You’re Mr. Curtis, aren’t you? I thought that was your name. Mine’s Grant—Mrs. John Grant. I live over in Sugar Valley. I guess that’ll do for introductions, though you might as well tell me this boy’s name, if you please.”

“Samuel Parker,” said Mr. Curtis.

“I won’t forget it, or what its owner did for me. I’ve tried to thank him, but I ain’t sure that I’ve exactly tickled him in doing it.” She smiled whimsically, and Sam, in spite of himself, winced. “But what I hope he’ll understand, and all of you will understand, is that I’m his friend for life. I’d like to do something to show how I feel about it. And I will do something!” Suddenly she wheeled to face Sam. “Come now! All boys I ever heard of liked good things to eat. It may strike you as not amounting to much, but I’ll send you one of my mince pies——”

“Oh, but you mustn’t!” Sam protested. “It—it’ll be too much trouble.”

Mrs. Grant paid scant heed to the objection. “I guess you don’t know the kind of pie I mean. There’s pies and pies, young man. And you won’t forget the one I send you.”

Poor Sam feared that this was likely to prove a very mild statement. Forget? Would that he could forget the whole affair, or better yet, that his chums might forget this most embarrassing episode! But while he grinned feebly, and strove to contrive a fitting speech, Mrs. Grant came to his rescue by bidding everybody a cheery farewell and taking herself off, apparently well pleased with the results of her visit to the school.

“Well, I feel like old Columbus when he sighted America—he’d come a long way to find something, and he’d found it. And ’tis quite a drive in from Sugar Valley, but ’twas worth the trouble. I’ve found out things. So it’s a good day’s work for me—and, Master Parker, I’ll try to make it a good day for you, too. You’ll hear from me again and—no; you wait and see what’ll happen. So good-bye, everybody, good-bye!”

Out of the door and down the steps she went, smiling broadly, while behind her silence reigned for seconds. All eyes were on Sam, as he was most miserably aware. Other pupils had come up in time to hear her closing remarks, and there was quite a little crowd in the corridor, including some of the girls.

One of the latter ended the silence. She tittered nervously rather than mischievously. There was a ripple of laughter; then some of the boys set up a shout in the very presence of the principal.

Poor Sam would have blessed his stars had a trap-door opened beneath his feet and permitted him to drop out of sight. But the stout floor remained intact. The principal raised a warning hand, and shook his head at some of those who were giving way to mirth; but Sam did not wait for order to be restored. He turned, and blindly forcing a way through the press, retreated as best he might, but in most unheroic fashion. He had not been afraid of a runaway horse, but with all a boy’s diffidence he dreaded the sort of celebrity his exploit unexpectedly had brought him.

On the outskirts of the group Poke tugged at the Shark’s sleeve.

“There now! What did I tell you?” he demanded.

The Shark peered through his glasses at his friend. Poke was no longer gloomy. He was grinning with a queer effect of utter complacency.

“One time or another you’ve told me a lot of idiotic things,” growled the Shark. “Which particular one do you mean now?”

“That warning—warning of trouble for somebody.”

“Rats!”

Poke wagged his head. “Look here, Shark! I said it, and you heard me say it. I told you I was sure a heap of trouble was coming to somebody. Well, it came! Old Sam caught it. I wouldn’t have been in his shoes just now for—for—for I don’t know what. Neither would you. So the warning made good!”

The Shark rubbed his chin with an unusual manner of doubt. “Why—why—well, it was fierce for Sam. But I—I’d hate to admit——”

“Course you would!” Poke interrupted. “You’re prejudiced. You don’t believe in anything unless you can put it in figures.”

The taunt swept away the Shark’s indecision. “Warning—nothing!” he snapped. “Too much mince pie, that’s all!”

Poke’s grin was triumphant. “All right! Call it too much mince pie, if you want to. But wait till Sam gets that pie that’s promised him, and the crowd hears about it! Then I guess you’ll think I was right all through.”

“Huh!” grunted the Shark skeptically.

Poke laughed aloud. “Ho, ho, ho! I don’t beat you often, Shark, but when I do, I beat you all to pieces. Talk about mince pie, if you want to. I’ll talk about it, too, and when we get through, we’ll see who hits nearer the truth. Just you wait and see, and——”

But the Shark was moving away. For once, at least, he found it impossible to maintain argument against Poke, the unmathematical philosopher and seer of strange visions.

Sam’s good deed had brought him most embarrassing reward. Of this the Shark was quite as convinced as Poke could be, or Sam himself.