The Safety First Club and the Flood

It was not a cheerful afternoon. Overhead were heavy, gray clouds, and underfoot was snow, long fallen, crusted by alternate thawing and freezing, dingy with the queer winter dust, which comes from nobody knows exactly where. In the beaten track of the roadways was an icy surface, made still more slippery by a thin coating, at once grimy and greasy, offering easy traction for the sledges, piled high with wood, which now and then came crunching along the streets. But it was full of peril to the motor cars, a few of which were abroad, skidding wildly at corners in spite of chained tires and careful driving. Out in the fields the snow was perhaps a foot deep. Where paths had been shoveled the long mounds beside the walks rose almost to the waist of a man of average height. Altogether, it was a typical February scene in Plainville, a town well to the north, accustomed to hard winters and making the best of one of them, scarcely enjoying the experience but accepting it as inevitable.

Sam Parker, muffled to the chin, mittened and rubber-shod, appeared to be imitating the example set by the town. He trudged along, whistling bravely if not blithely; and quickened tune and pace a trifle when he came in sight of a little building in the lee of a big house. Turning in at the gate, he hurried up the path to the smaller building; rapped thrice upon the door--there was hint in the performance of hasty observance of a customary rite; and, without awaiting a response, opened the door and strode in.

It was a curious room he entered, low-ceiled, rough of wall and floor, furnished with the most miscellaneous collection imaginable of discarded chairs, tables and lounges from half a dozen homes. There were rugs which showed signs of long and hard wear; there were old pictures in frames still bearing the dust they had gathered in years of retirement in garrets and storerooms. Other pictures, unframed and evidently cut from newspapers and magazines, were tacked here and there on the walls. Nevertheless, in spite of the confusion and disorder the place had a certain attractiveness and an air of easy-going comfort, with a suggestion that here one might do as one pleased. A visitor, skilled in such matters, might have more than suspected that once upon a time this had been a stable, but now anybody who could read must quickly grasp its present uses; for boldly chalked on an old blackboard was inscribed in capital letters

“THE SAFETY FIRST CLUB.”

Sam pulled off his cap and overcoat, and tossed them into a corner. His overshoes followed them. Then, being relieved of his out-of-door toggery, he crossed to the stove, and stood beside it, rubbing his hands in the grateful warmth. A plump youth moved aside to give him a place by the fire; and a boy, tall and thin and quaintly sharp-angled of knee and elbow, hailed him from the depths of a dilapidated steamer-chair.

“Huh, Sam! Know anything?”

“Nothing new, Step,” Sam answered.

The boy in the low chair grunted dismally. “Ugh! Confound it, there never is--this time of year, anyway!”

Sam did not attempt to debate the point. For a moment he regarded Step thoughtfully--“Step,” it may be explained, was a contraction of “Stepladder,” a nickname bestowed by his mates upon Clarence Jones because of a degree of resemblance in his physical make-up to that useful article of household equipment. Then Sam’s glance went to the plump boy, Arthur Green in official records, but “Poke” to those honored with his intimate acquaintance. One could poke a finger almost anywhere into the well-rounded Arthur; hence the sobriquet.

“Poke” Green appeared to be meditating. His lips were pursed, and there was a line in his forehead. He loved his bit of philosophy, did Poke; but it took time for him to put his meditations into words.

Sam’s gaze traveled to a group about a table, on which were scattered magazines and a number of well-thumbed books. Two of the boys nodded. They were Herman Boyd and Harry Walker, more often called the “Trojan”; and they were good fellows and tried and true members of the Safety First Club. So, for that matter, was a bespectacled youngster, who from his place at the Trojan’s elbow was regarding Sam with a peculiar air of solemnity. Sam, meeting his eye, gave him greeting.

“Hullo, Shark! What are you trying to figure out now?”

“Nothing,” said the other curtly.

“Then you’re wasting time, you old wizard!” quoth Sam.

The Shark made no reply. Doubtless, it seemed to him that none was needed. So he merely continued to peer through his spectacles at the newcomer, with a characteristic intentness which was all his own.

Willy Reynolds, indeed, was often referred to as an “odd stick.” He had a mind of marked mathematical bent, and had proved himself so proficient in algebra, geometry and trigonometry as to puzzle and amaze his comrades, toiling along paths of learning which appeared to offer him only entertainment. So they dubbed him the “Shark,” because he always seemed hungry for mathematics.

The door opened, and in came a thick-set, sturdily built chap.

“Hi there, Orkney! Glad to see you!” Sam sang out. It might have been noted, too, that the others gave the latest arrival a welcome, each in his own way, even the Shark thawing temporarily. One acquainted with boys and their ways would have understood that there was some reason why they wished Orkney to feel himself among friends.

The thick-set lad answered each in turn, his face lighting as he spoke. It was clear that he appreciated his reception, as well he might. Time had been--and not very long before--when Tom Orkney and the Safety First Club had been at swords’ points, and when each had woefully misjudged the other. A chapter of accidents had served first to increase the bitterness on both sides, and then to remove it by revealing how thoroughly it was due to mistakes and misunderstandings. And in the end, helped on by sharing common adventures and dangers, had come reconciliation and respect. In proof of its new and genuine regard the club had admitted Tom to its jealously guarded circle of membership.

They were, it may be said, a good lot of boys; healthy youngsters in their teens--the Shark was the youngest and physically the weakest; well intentioned but not wise beyond their years; fond of fun and activity and no prophets of possible consequences of their escapades. But, as the title of their club indicated, they were learning their lesson in the school of experience. The wisdom of a policy of “Safety First” was impressed upon them, though as yet they were not too skilled in the application of the rule.

While Tom Orkney was settling himself by the table, Step Jones again raised his voice in lamentation.

“I tell you, fellows, this is the meanest, logiest, slowest, stupidest time of all the year. There’s nothing to do. The snow spoils the skating, and more than half the time the snow-shoeing and skiing are no good. Sleighing’s a bore, and coasting’s no use except for kids. And where does that leave you? Ugh!”

Nobody answered Step’s question. There was a long silence, broken by that youth himself.

“Worst winter I ever saw--yah!”

Sam Parker shook his head doubtfully. “Oh, I don’t know about that, Step. Seems to me this is a good deal like all the rest of ’em.”

“And if you want something to keep you busy, there’s always school,” put in the Trojan with a chuckle.

“School? Oh, thunder!” snapped Step with scorn.

Poke Green waved a hand, an oratorical hand; thereby signifying that he had reached a readiness to address the meeting.

“Listen, you fellows! You don’t know what you’re talking about, because you start in and say things first and think about ’em afterward. So you get ’em about half right and half wrong.”

“Go it, old Solomon!” Herman Boyd encouraged.

Poke needed no spur. “Here’s Step calling this the worst winter that ever was, which it isn’t. And here’s Sam trying to make out that it’s just like any other winter, which it isn’t, either. If this climate ever got as monotonous as all that, it’d go out of business. There have been better winters that I can remember, and there have been worse. The trouble with all of them is that there is too much of a muchness about them.”

Then the Shark spoke crisply: “Applying that to school, too?”

“I am,” said Poke solemnly. “This term’s the long pull--no holidays to break it--no Thanksgiving--not even Washington’s birthday.”

“They have it in lots of places,” the Trojan put in.

“Well, we don’t--and I’m talking about us. So right through to the Easter recess we have to pound away, and it gets tiresome, I tell you. And what’s true of school is true of the weather. Winter’d be all right if it ended along in January. Everybody’d feel braced up and ready for spring. But does it happen that way? No, sir! Winter keeps on doing business along into March or April--yes, or into May.”

“Our furnace was going last June,” Herman Boyd contributed.

Sam’s expression was thoughtful. “Well, Poke,” he said, “I follow your argument--if it is an argument. But what does it lead to?”

“To my conclusion,” quoth Poke with all possible gravity.

“What is it?”

Poke ran his glance over his club-mates; all were attentive.