Read Ebook: The Safety First Club and the Flood by Nichols William Theophilus Anderson Frederic A Illustrator

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Ebook has 1544 lines and 57236 words, and 31 pages

"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?"

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.

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.

"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.

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.

"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.

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