THE SAFETY FIRST CLUB

BY W. T. NICHOLS

Illustrated by F. A. Anderson

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY PHILADELPHIA 1916

COPYRIGHT 1916 BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY

The Safety First Club

To M. H. M.

A youthful critic with the precious art of combining frankness and friendliness, this book is appreciatively dedicated

[5]

Introduction

The Safety First idea, along with some other sound rules of conduct which have been hammered out by hard experience of the race, is often easier to put into words than into practice. Like other brakes on machines or men it sometimes seems to cause too much friction, with resulting protest, especially from youngsters impatient of warnings of dangers possible rather than presently pressing.

The fact is, however, that these objectors fail to recognize the true spirit of the rule. Nobody expects active boys and girls to be wrapped in cotton wool and stored away out of all harm’s reach. They have their work to do in the world, and in doing it must take certain risks as the rest of us do. But there are unnecessary risks, just as there are other risks which are not to be avoided; and it is in shunning these unnecessary risks, in learning that reasonable caution is not cowardice, that recklessness is no proof of bravery, and[6] that the way to redeem a mistake is not to repeat it, that the rule is to be truly honored.

In “The Safety First Club” and the volumes which are to follow it are set forth certain adventures of boys who have to deal with problems such as confront healthy young Americans, boys well intentioned but not wise beyond their years, fond of the open, restive under restraint. It is the author’s hope that in their haps and mishaps they may be found likably human.

[7]

Illustrations

The Safety First Club

[11]

The Safety First Club

CHAPTER I “HEDGEHOG DAY”

Sam Parker stepped out upon the side porch of his father’s house, closing the door behind him with a slam. There was a frown on his face, which by no means became it; and the corners of his mouth drooped sulkily. He was, as a matter of fact, in a fit of temper, which did not lessen as he surveyed the dull, gray sky, and saw its promise of a dismal day.

“’Nother spoiled Saturday!” he grumbled. “Nowhere to go and nothing to do—oh, thunderation!”

Now, to tell the truth, it may be that the weather had much to do with Sam’s pessimism, just as it often influences persons a great deal older and wiser than this boy of sixteen. Sam, commonly, was good-natured enough.[12] This day, though, things had seemed to go wrong from the very start. He had overslept; one of his shoes had contrived to hide itself under the bureau; his necktie stubbornly had declined to slip into a smooth and even knot; he was late at breakfast, and the oatmeal was cold, and the eggs were as hard as the Fate which he was beginning to suspect was pursuing him. He had attempted criticism, and his father had checked him rather sharply with the reminder that the breakfast hour was 7:30 and not 7:50. His mother had not hastened to his defense; and even Maggie, the cook, frequently his ally and dispenser of consoling doughnuts and cookies, had failed him when he sought sympathy in the kitchen.

“You got up wrong foot foremost,” she told him. “Get along with you now! This is bakin’ day, and I can’t be bothered.”

Sam, thus repulsed, had clumped out of the kitchen; stormed into the hall; snatched up his cap and reefer; stamped across the dining-room, and flung himself out of the house, without visible improvement in his spirits or his condition. If it was dark within, it was[13] gloomy without. He looked up the street and down; nobody was in sight. He buttoned his coat to the neck, and thrust his hands into his pockets: the world, he perceived, was chilly as well as lonely. Then, of a sudden, he grinned, fleetingly and reluctantly, at vagrant memory of the old story of the child that threatened to go out and eat two smooth worms and three fuzzy fellows because nobody loved it. The baby’s troubles were ridiculously like his own, and for a trying second he realized the resemblance. Then he was frowning harder than ever, with mouth drooping still more sulkily.

In sunnier moods Sam Parker was a good-looking boy. Nobody would have called him pretty; he wasn’t of the “pretty” type, being, indeed, rather wholesome and hearty, with plenty of color in his cheeks—and not a few freckles. For a youth who was rapidly adding to his inches, in the process known as getting his growth, he carried himself well; though, as everybody knows, this period in a boy’s life is not that at which grace of figure or movement is most marked. In other words, there were times when Sam did not know[14] what to do with his hands or his feet, and impressed the painful fact upon all beholders, especially because of a certain impulsiveness, which led him now and then into embarrassing ventures.

Standing on the porch and glowering at all he beheld, Sam was not attractive. Hannibal, his bull terrier, trotting from the barn, noted the storm signals his master was flying, and halting at a safe distance, made great pretense of scratching for a flea which did not exist. Sam whistled, and Hannibal grew busier than ever. The boy took an impatient step, and the dog stopped scratching and bolted for the barn.

Sam, striding after him, pulled up abruptly. A thick-set man in cap, and overalls, and boots, and with a carriage rug in one hand and a brush in the other, appeared in the big doorway.

“H’lo, Sam!” was his greeting. “Good day, ain’t it?”

“Good for nothing!” snapped the boy. “Rotten weather!”

The man’s eyes twinkled. They were pleasant eyes, with little fans of fine wrinkles[15] at the corners, and they lighted up his smooth-shaven, weather-beaten face amazingly.

“Huh! Guess you ain’t looked at the calendar lately. This ain’t June; it’s the fust day of December. And I’m tellin’ you this is pretty good weather for December. What if there ain’t no snow? The wheelin’s all right—your daddy took the car out this mornin’.”

Sam nodded. “I know—he went over to Epworth.”

“Why didn’t you go along?”

“What’d be the use?”

Now, this was not strictly ingenuous. Possibly because of his sulks, Sam had not been invited to accompany his father.

“Sure enough! What’d ’a’ been the use?” said the man with an odd grin.

Sam reddened. “Look here! Bet you I could have gone if I’d wanted to, Lon!”

Lon, otherwise Alonzo Gates, hired man and general factotum, made no response to the challenge, but fell to dusting the rug vigorously. Sam, gloomy browed, drew nearer.

“Tell you, Lon, I could have gone. No[16] fun, though—ride’s too cold. That’s the trouble with this weather—no coasting, no skating, no football, nothing!”

“So?” said the man non-committally.

Hobe, the barn cat, sauntered out of the door. Sam kicked at the animal, which took refuge behind a wooden bucket standing just inside the sill, and from this cover snarled defiance. Whereupon Sam kicked again. This time his foot struck something—the bucket. Over it went, and out shot a gallon or two of soapy water. Hobe darted back into the barn. Lon moved aside nimbly, but not nimbly enough. Splash! went the water upon his boots.

“Wal, now, but you have gone and done it!” he ejaculated. “Nice mess to clean up, ain’t it?”

In Sam’s perverse mood the one thing he cared for was to hide the regret he felt.

“Huh! Oughtn’t to have stuff standing round like that. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Lon paused in his labors. “My! but this world’s awful crowded this mornin’, ain’t it?” he remarked. “First there wasn’t room for you ’n’ Hobe; then you jest couldn’t stand for[17] that bucket treadin’ on your toes. Wal, wal!”

Sam snorted wrathfully. What wouldn’t he have given for speech so cuttingly sarcastic that Lon must throw up his hands and beg mercy! But, effective words failing him, he could do no better than offer sounds which were disagreeable rather than intelligible.

Lon chuckled; then grew serious. “See here, Sam!” said he. “I kind o’ guess this is hedgehog day for you, ain’t it?”

“Huh?”

“When you come to think it over,” Lon went on, “a hedgehog’s about the one critter you can’t think of as ever snugglin’ up nice and cozy to anything or anybody. Now, I knew a feller once that had a tame woodchuck that liked to be patted; and I’ve seen the tigers and big cats in circuses purrin’ round their trainers; but I never heard tell of a hedgehog actin’ real sociable and wantin’ to sit in anybody’s lap. And, so far’s I can rec’lect, I never run across a hedgehog that you’d call all-around popular with the neighbors. Whenever one gets close to anybody, he sticks his spines into him. And when a[18] human gets to actin’ like a hedgehog—why that’s when he’s havin’ a hedgehog day—see?”

“Huh!” said Sam again.

Lon gave the rug another flick with the brush.

“By and large, son,” he remarked, “it ain’t good business to have hedgehog days. I know, I know! When you’re feelin’ that way, that’s the way you feel, as the fox said to the bear in the trap. But you ain’t doin’ yourself no good, and you ain’t any perticular help to the rest of the community.”

“Hang the community!”

“Jest what the hedgehog says,” quoth Lon tranquilly. He carried his rug into the barn; brought out another; brushed skilfully for a minute.

“Hunt up some of the boys, Sam,” he advised. “Try lowerin’ your spines, and see if they won’t keep down after a while.”

“Don’t want to.”

“Bad as that, eh?”

Sam disdained to make reply. Lon pursed his lips.

“Sonny, this won’t do. It’s bad medicine.[19] Say, where’ll you be at if you behave like this when you go to St. Mark’s?”

“I’ll get along all right.”

Lon brushed furiously for a little. “I—I dunno’s there’s but—but one way—for some folks to learn things,” he said jerkily. “When you’re there—jest one among two-three hundred boys—it’ll be different, now I tell you! We put up with you; they won’t.”

“Huh! Who’s afraid?”

“I’d be—if I was you.”

“Bah!”

Lon shook his head. “Sam,” he said, “if I thought this was a real in-growin’ attack, I’d be worried a heap wuss than I am. But I’m worried enough as it is. Now, I’ll give you a good tip. If you don’t want to see the other boys, go for a good, long tramp. Walk it off! That’s jest what the real hedgehog can’t do—his legs ain’t long enough.”

“No fun walking—day like this.”

Lon was a patient soul. “Wal, why don’t you go huntin’, then?”

“What for? Rabbits?”

“If you can’t get anything bigger. But you might land a shot at a deer. ’Member[20] what day this is? First of December! Law on deer goes off, and stays off till the fifteenth.”

“Oh!” said Sam. In the new interest he almost forgot, for an instant, that he had a grievance against the universe. But it was only for an instant. “But I wouldn’t have the luck to get a shot at a buck, or a doe, either. The crowd will have started out early, and scared every deer within ten miles of town,” he concluded pessimistically.

“Don’t be too sure of that.”

“’Tis sure!” Sam insisted. “Then what’ll I do for a gun?”

“Got your own, haven’t you?”

“What! Try for a deer with a ‘twenty-two’?”

“Why not? It’s big enough, if it gets to the right spot.”

Sam fell back to his second line of defense. “Well, there’ll be no deer anywhere near town.”

“Who says so?”

“I do!” snapped the boy.

Lon bent toward him, and lowered his voice. “Sam, a feller was tellin’ me last night[21] about a herd that’s been feedin’ in close—right back of old Bill Marlow’s barn—big buck and three-four more. Old orchard in there, you know. And that’s so nigh to town most folks won’t look for ’em there. But there they be—or there they were as late as yesterday, anyhow. And, by gum! if I was you, I’d scout out that way on the chance—that is, if your mother says it’s all right,” he added hastily.

In spite of himself, Sam’s ambition was fired. A shot at a deer! That would be worth while.

“You—you’re certain they were there yesterday?” he asked.

“Bill Marlow told me himself. And you can be sure of one thing—he didn’t tell many other folks. Bill ain’t no gossip.”

Sam nodded. He knew something of Mr. Marlow’s habit of taciturnity. Doubter though he might be, the prospect was brightening. He had heard old hunters tell stories of cases in which deer had been killed almost in the outskirts of the village, while sportsmen ranging farther afield had been rewarded with sight of neither buck nor doe.

[22]

“Well, I suppose I might as well have a look,” he said not too graciously.

“Of course you might!”

Sam took a step toward the house. “Of course, with my luck——”

“Oh, you never can tell,” Lon reminded him.

“Still, I might as well be wasting time that way as any other,” said Sam sourly, and quickened his pace.

“Don’t forget to tell your mother!” Lon called after him.

Sam waved a hand in reply, and went on to the house.

[23]

CHAPTER II SAM TAKES CHANCES

In simple fairness it should be said that Sam Parker meditated no breach of parental authority. Indeed, as he was permitted to own a little rifle, and to hunt for small game, it was possible that no serious objection would have been raised to his quest for deer, though there might have been scant faith in his success. But Sam, as it was fated, was not to secure permission for his expedition.

Mrs. Parker was not in the dining-room. Sam saw that the room was unoccupied, and went on to the library. It, too, failed to reward him for his search. So did the living-room. He strode into the hall, and took station by the foot of the stairs.

“Mother! Oh, Mother!” he called. “Say, Mother! Mother!”

There was no reply from above stairs or below.

“But I say, Mother!” His voice rose[24] shrilly in his impatience. “Where are you? Oh, Ma, Ma, Ma!”

A door at the back of the hall opened, but the head which appeared was that of Maggie.

“Don’t make such a racket, Sam!” she cautioned. “What do you want, anyway?”

“Where’s Mother? I’ve got to see her—right off!”

“Well, she ain’t here.”

“Why not?” demanded the boy hotly.

Maggie tossed her head. “Because she can’t very well be in two places at once. And she’s run over to see Mis’ Lake for a minute.”

Sam stamped his foot. “Minute—nothing! I know what that means. She’ll stay half an hour.”

“Well, why shouldn’t she, if she wants to?” said Maggie coolly. And then, being busy, she closed the door and went back to her work.

Sam scowled; hesitated briefly; reached resolution; marched into the library. His little rifle stood in its appointed place against the wall, beside his father’s double-barreled gun. “The armory corner” of the library was a family joke; for though Sam’s rifle was[25] frequently in use, the shotgun had not been taken out of the room in years. It was a fine weapon, of a noted make, and highly prized by its owner, who, however, had not hunted for many seasons; though regularly he planned expeditions in the woods, and bought a fresh stock of ammunition.

Sam laid eager hold upon his rifle; then, of a sudden, seemed to be seized by scorn of it. After all, it was never meant for big game. Why, with its short cartridges and light charges of powder, it was hardly more than a toy! Really, it was intended for target practice.

“Yet, for all that, it’s a rifle,” said the boy to himself. It was odd how, once his prejudice was aroused, arguments presented themselves to strengthen his objections. “And the law says you can’t hunt deer with rifles.”

Here he was speaking by the book. The statute, which provided an open season from December 1st to December 15th, also forbade the use of rifles by sportsmen. Possibly a very lenient judge might have held that Sam’s “pop-gun” hardly classed with the high-power, long-range weapons against which[26] the law was aimed, and might have deemed it annoying rather than dangerous to two-footed or four-footed creatures; but Sam, at the moment, was not disposed to be liberal in his interpretation. He restored the piece to its place. He picked up the shotgun.

Temptation was strong upon him. Wasn’t it true that if he had not been told that he could use the gun he also had not been expressly forbidden to lay hands upon it? Nothing had been said about it either way. And didn’t his father wish him to have some knowledge of firearms? Of course he did! Oh, but it was a wonderfully persuasive voice, which seemed to be whispering in his ear! It was so seductive that it frightened him—a very, very little.

Sam hastily put down the gun. Yet he lingered in its neighborhood. Half absently he opened a drawer in his father’s desk. There, in a corner, was a paper box, labeled “3 1/4 drams, smokeless; shot 00.” Cartridges for deer shooting! Surely here was Fate’s own finger pointing the way.

The boy drew a long breath. He lifted the cover of the box; took out half a dozen of the[27] cartridges; thrust them into a pocket. Then he caught up the shotgun, and strode out of the library.

There was nobody to halt him or question him. Maggie was fully occupied in the kitchen, and his mother had not returned. Leaving the house by the front door, he avoided chance of observation by Lon Gates, who still was at work in the barn. Not that Lon would have stopped him; for the hired man would have supposed him to be sallying forth with his mother’s permission. Nevertheless, Sam preferred to have his going unnoted. He turned the corner of the house—the corner away from the barn; stole back through the yard; climbed a fence, and found himself in a narrow lane. It led to a side street, which, in turn, brought him to a road running into the country.

His gun tucked under his arm, Sam walked briskly; and as the Parker house happened to be on an edge of the town, it was but a very few minutes before he had open fields on either hand. Ahead of him was the low hill on which the Marlow farmhouse stood; and farther on were loftier wooded summits. In[28] summer the scenery of the region was pleasantly picturesque, but on an overcast December day a stranger might have found the prospect somewhat dreary. Sam, cheered by the spirit of adventure, and the better for the exercise, began to shake off his sulkiness; and he was whistling almost blithely when, at a bend in the road, he saw two boys approaching. Physically, they were in marked contrast. One was tall and thin, with a peculiarly angular effect at elbows and knees; the other was short and plump, with a round, good-humored face. Both hailed Sam eagerly.

“Hi there! Where are you going? What you doing with that artillery?” sang out the tall lad.

“Don’t fire! I’ll surrender,” chuckled his companion.

Sam halted. He brought his gun to parade rest. An onlooker might have suspected that he was not seeking secrecy regarding errand or armament in the case of these two friends.

“Hullo, Step!” said he. “Same to you, Poke! And what am I doing? Oh, just looking around on the chance of bagging something.”

[29]

The tall youth was carrying a package, wrapped in a newspaper. He laid it on the ground, and took the gun from Sam’s hands, balancing the weapon lovingly and finally raising it to his shoulder.

“Gee, but what a daisy!” he exclaimed. “Whose is it? Yours?”

“Oh, it isn’t exactly mine, Step, but I’m using it,” said Sam.

Any boy could have told how Clarence Jones came by his nickname. “Step” was an abbreviation of “Step-ladder”; and undeniably Master Jones did bear a resemblance to that valuable, if not graceful, article of household equipment.