The Safety First Club fights fire

Sam Parker was studying under difficulties. His intentions were of the best; his industry, as a rule, was proof against distractions. This day, though, there was something in the very air which seemed to interfere with his work.

It was a fine day, a beautiful day. The sun shone brightly; a pleasant breeze was blowing; beyond the open windows of the big assembly hall on the third floor of the high school tree tops were swaying gently. In spite of his efforts Sam’s gaze strayed to them, and lingered on them, to the sad neglect of the instructive remarks on the English paragraph, offered by the text-book lying open on his desk. Topic sentences, somehow, had lost their hold; “proofs” no longer appealed to his reason; conclusions didn’t matter in the least. Sam felt the spell of the spring in his blood, and, to do him justice, fought against its influence.

As a student, the boy had to earn what he gained. He didn’t lack brains by any manner of means; and he stood well in his classes, but this was the result of application rather than of inspiration. He had come up to the hall for a study period because it was quieter than his “home” room, where a recitation was in progress; and a score of other pupils had followed the same plan. They were rather widely scattered in the big space of the hall, and the teacher who was charged with maintaining order had the easiest of tasks. Spring fever might not promote industry, but likewise it did not encourage mischief.

From the window Sam’s glance came back to his comrades of the study hour. Nearly all were classmates of his--Juniors--but only two were among his special chums. Over in a corner a slender boy with thick-lensed spectacles was deep in a calculation, being by long odds the busiest person in the room. Sam, surveying him, chuckled. Willy Reynolds, known to his friends as the “Shark” because of his extraordinary appetite for mathematics, cared very little what the weather might be, or whether the season were winter, summer, spring or autumn, so long as he was provided with an interesting problem. At a little distance from the Shark “Trojan” Walker was dallying with an English exercise. Sam grinned sympathetically, while he watched the slow motion of the Trojan’s pencil; he knew just how his friend was longing to be out-of-doors and making holiday. Trojan was a good fellow, rather a quiet chap, neither a dullard nor brilliant at his books; likable, dependable, and a valued member of the little coterie, of which Sam was the acknowledged leader.

Sam’s smile faded as his glance passed from Walker to a brace of his neighbors. He was not fond of Jack Hagle, and he disliked Edward Zorn. In the case of the former he might have found it hard to put the reason for his opinion into words. Hagle never had harmed him; at times he had tried to be friendly; but there was something in Jack’s personality which didn’t appeal to Sam. “Hagle puts a fellow’s teeth on edge, somehow”--so Sam had said more than once, and it would have puzzled him to make the explanation more definite. As for Zorn--well, he was a schemer, an intriguer, a school and class politician, always working for this, that, or the other thing; now fawning, now blustering, but always keeping the personal fortunes of Edward Zorn in mind. Once or twice Sam and his chums had clashed with Zorn and his allies, and the encounters had not left the feeling of respect one sometimes finds for a stout and honest adversary.

Sam turned again to consideration of the English paragraph. He tried to concentrate his attention upon the printed page before him, and so was not aware that the principal and the sub-master had entered the hall and were talking earnestly with the teacher on duty. The conference at the desk went on for several minutes. The sub-master appeared to be excited. His voice rose a trifle, and Sam looked up. By this time all the pupils were eyeing the group on the platform with varying degrees of interest.

Suddenly the sub-master turned to his chief and put a question. What it was nobody in the body of the hall heard, but everybody saw the principal nod agreement. To Sam at least the agreement did not seem to be at all eager.

“Walker!” the sub-master called out sharply.

The Trojan gave a start of surprise at the summons; rose; went forward. The principal put a query, his tone so low that the words were inaudible a dozen feet from the platform.

“Why--why, I don’t know, sir.”

Sam, straining his ears, barely caught the Trojan’s answer. He quite missed both the next question and the reply. Then the sub-master put in a suggestion:

“Suppose we excuse Walker for a moment. We can--er--er--we can recall him later.”

Again the principal nodded. Sam, closely attentive, was more strongly impressed than before that the head of the school was not enjoying the moment.

The Trojan walked back to his desk. His expression was puzzled. Sam’s guess was that he was racking his memory and failing to recall distinctly something about which he ought not to have been uncertain.

“Hagle!” said the sub-master.

Jack shuffled up the aisle and took his stand before the teachers. His examination was longer than the Trojan’s, but the other pupils heard not a word of it. Then Zorn was called, and again there was an exchange almost in whispers.

The sub-master consulted a list of names written on a card.

“Parker!” he said, after a moment’s reflection.

Sam made his way to the platform. By this time his curiosity was keen enough. Zorn, he noticed, had not gone back to his former seat, but had taken a place well forward, where he hardly could escape hearing whatever might be said.

“That’s a cheeky performance!” Sam told himself--and then forgot Zorn for the moment; for the sub-master was addressing him.

“Parker, perhaps you can help us. There is a point we wish to establish. In a case of--er--er--in a case of disputed ownership of a book, let us say, suppose Walker claimed it----”

“Then I’d say it was the Trojan’s--I mean, Walker’s,” Sam declared without hesitation.

“That is because you are a great friend of his?”

“It’s because Trojan always tells the truth, sir.”

“I see. You give him a general vote of confidence?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sam fancied that the principal moved uneasily, as if he didn’t like the course the examination was taking. Yet the head of the school permitted his assistant to go on.

“Well, Parker, it happens that the ownership of a certain book is a matter of some interest to us. We are anxious to establish it definitely. By the way”--the sub-master pushed aside a paper on the desk and revealed a worn and battered text-book it had concealed--“by the way, can you tell us anything about this?”

Sam picked up the book. He glanced at the fly-leaves. They were torn and dog-eared, and bore a dozen scribbled entries. It was plain enough that the book had been handed down from class to class, though it would have puzzled anybody to get much clew to its present ownership from the conflicting scrawls. Then Sam turned to the last printed page, and found there a penciled skull and crossbones.

“If Trojan says this is his Cicero, he’s right, sir.”

“You--er--er--you corroborate him, then?”

Again Sam sensed the principal’s lack of approval of the question; but made mental note, too, that he let the sub-master continue.

“Yes, sir,” said the boy; “though he doesn’t need corroboration.”

“You’re absolutely sure?”

“I ought to be--I drew that picture on the last page. Did it one day when I’d borrowed the book from Trojan.”

“Long ago?”

“Two or three months.”

The sub-master frowned. “That is somewhat remote, Parker. If you have a weakness for decorative effects, there has been time since then for you to adorn other texts. And if you haven’t seen this book in months----”

“But I have seen it, sir!” Sam broke in. “When? Last Friday. Just before our class went in for its Latin test I borrowed the book from Trojan to look up a passage. It--it’s pretty freely marked with notes on hard places, you know.”

“So I perceive,” said the sub-master drily.