The Safety First Club and the Flood

The disastrous sequel to Poke’s dinner party was the chief topic of talk among the Safety First Club, with Poke himself in a state of mind which can be more easily imagined than described. The breaking of the big vase was due to him. He had had not the slightest intention to break it, but this did not alter the bitter fact. He was responsible for the fall of the vase. Like the honest fellow he was, he accepted the responsibility—and wondered much how he was to meet it.

What had been the value of the vase? Not a member of the club could enlighten him. Varley, approached as one of wider knowledge, declined to venture an opinion.

“It may have cost a lot, or it may have been very cheap,” he said. “Unless you’re an expert, you can’t tell.”

“That’s the way with a lot of things in this world!” groaned Poke, and sought the Shark, as an expert in mathematics, at least.

The Shark gave him little comfort. He was more than ready to undertake a calculation of the possible value of the vase, based on the cost of a bit of cut-glass, owned by his mother, of the price of which he happened to be aware. But though he made most careful estimates of the height of the vase, he soon came to difficulties.

“Look here, Poke!” said he. “I can arrive at an approximation of the volume of the thing, but how does the price increase in comparison with the size? Arithmetical or geometrical progression? If it’s arithmetical, it’ll be bad enough; but if it’s geometrical—whew!”

Poke was aghast. “You—you mean it’d mount up to—to—hundreds of dollars?”

“Hundreds? Rats! Thousands!” snapped the Shark. “Just you wait till I get it in black and white—on estimates, of course. I can’t pretend to get exact results when I’ve no precise data to work on.”

But Poke didn’t wait. Instead, he fled; and seeking out his especial crony, Step, confided to him that he believed he was doomed to be a bond-slave for life.

“You see, I’ve got to work it off myself,” he explained. “When the folks said I could have the party, they made it a condition that there mustn’t be any rough pranks—any breaking things, you know. And I promised there shouldn’t be. And there wasn’t—everybody behaved like a gentleman—till I went smashing into that show-piece. I haven’t told ’em at the house—yet; I’ll never tell ’em if I can possibly help it.”

“Sure you won’t,” quoth the sympathetic Step. “No fellow likes to ’fess up when the joke’s on him.”

“The joke!” roared Poke. “Great Scott, but you’ve got a mighty queer notion of what’s funny! You’d like to see a house fall on a fellow.”

“Oh, come now! I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” pleaded Step.

“You can’t hurt ’em worse than they’re already hurt,” groaned Poke, of a sudden dreary again.

He went away, so downcast and so unlike his normally cheerful self that Step was stricken with fear for him, tinged with remorse for his own lightsome treatment of the subject. And, being thus burdened in soul, he had an inspiration. He happened to know where some old catalogues of city department stores were gathering dust in an attic. These volumes, brought to light and consulted, offered hope. Step carried them to Poke.

“Look here!” he said. “Maybe ’twon’t be so fierce, after all. Here’s a whopping big vase—I guess it’s taller than the one at the hotel. And it’s priced at only $3.98. There’s a picture of it.”

Poke eagerly inspected the cut. Then his face fell.

“’Tisn’t the same shape,” he objected.

“Well, no—not exactly the same,” Step confessed. “There is a little difference.”

“A little difference! Just about as little as there is between your shape and mine!”

It was not an unhappy comparison. Poke was short and plump; Step was tall and slender. There was a like variance between the somewhat jug-like ornament depicted in the catalogue and the graceful vase which had stood on the desk of the Rainbow Mountain House.

“All right; have it your way if you want to,” Step agreed.

Again Poke studied the illustration. “What’s more, this one’s made out of different stuff. It doesn’t look like glass.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

Poke shut the book with a bang of temper. “You didn’t say anything sensible.”

Then Step revolted at this ingratitude. “Look here, Poke, that’s carrying your grouch too far! Wasn’t I trying to help you?”

“Oh, I know you mean well,” Poke groaned.

“And wasn’t I doing you a favor? Don’t you want to be posted? Here’s a whopping big thing you can get for $3.98. That’s worth knowing if they try to come any funny business on you.”

Poke cheered a trifle. “Say, there’s something in that.”

“You bet there is! And when you come down to brass tacks, a vase is a vase.”

Poke did not deny the proposition. “Yes; that’s so. Still——”

“And you know where you’re at.”

“But that’s just what I don’t.”

“Of course you do!” Step said impatiently. “You’re getting a line on what vases cost—some vases, that is. And—er—er—‘Knowledge is power,’ you know,” he concluded with sudden solemnity.

“I suppose that’s so,” Poke admitted dubiously. “Only I don’t see——”

The fire of imagination blazed in Step—somehow it kindled readily when these two chums were in consultation.

“Crackee! But I’ve got an idea, Poke—best ever! Don’t you wait for the hotel folks to do something. Do something yourself, and do it first!”

“What can I do?” Poke asked helplessly.

“That’s easy. You owe ’em for a vase. Send ’em one.”

“What! One of the three-ninety-eight kind?”

“How much money have you got?” Step demanded bluntly.

“Oh, ten dollars or so—that is, by scraping everything together I can raise that much.”

“Then make it a ten-dollar one—best you can find for the money. Ship it to ’em with a nice note—you know the sort: you greatly regret the accident and you’re making haste to replace the property destroyed. They’ll read it, and they’ll see the new vase, and they’ll say, ‘Well, there’s a boy who means to do the right thing; we can’t be too hard on him. Guess we’d better call it quits.’ And there you are! What more could you ask?”

Poke was blinking like one dazzled by the prospect. “I—I—say, wonder if the thing would work?”

“How can you tell till you try?”

“That’s so. Only——”

“Hang it, ‘only’ never got anybody anywhere!” Step expostulated.

“Maybe not.”

“It surely never did,” Step insisted.

Poke evidently was half-persuaded. “It’s a great scheme—I’ll say that for it. So I guess I—I’ll——”

“You’ll do it right off?”

“No; I guess I’ll ask Sam’s advice.”

Step’s face fell. “Oh, if you haven’t any mind of your own——”

“I’ve mind enough to know Sam’s got more hard sense,” said Poke firmly. And to Sam he went, forthwith, laying before him Step’s plan and admitting his own liking for it.

Sam listened patiently, but shook his head when the tale was told.

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t be a case of the Safety First rule,” he said. “Your selection, Poke, might not please the hotel people. And, of course, we’re all at sea about the value. No; better wait till you hear from them.”

“But the suspense—it’s awful!”

“It won’t kill you. Besides, very likely—that is, there’s a chance—nothing’ll happen. Varley seems to think it may work out that way, and the Rainbow Mountain House will just charge the item to profit and loss, or breakage, or whatever they choose to call it.”

“That’d be too good luck to come true,” objected Poke, but he went away more or less comforted by the suggestion, nevertheless. Certainly, the hotel management was in no haste to send its bill. Step maliciously hinted that the delay meant merely a heavier charge in the end, but Poke’s spirits began to revive as day followed day, and there was no word from Rainbow Mountain.

His cheerfulness increased in spite of adverse weather conditions. With the lengthening days and the sun higher in the heavens, the snow should have been shrinking seasonably, but the sunny days were few, and between them came other days, in which the white flakes fell heavily. In the town great banks showed on the north side of buildings, while the mounds along the sidewalks grew grimy and icy with alternate melting and replenishing. From the country roundabout came stories of extraordinary depth of snow in the woods and in sheltered hollows. Old residents were shaking their heads and recalling tales of spring floods. A heavy rain and a sharp rise in temperature would mean streams over their banks and perhaps a deal of damage by floods swelled by the melting snow.

The boys were not worrying about such possibilities. They were eager for the coming of warmer weather.

“We’ve had enough of winter this trip,” the Trojan declared, and the others approved the sentiment. Even the Shark fell into line, although he insisted that this winter was doubtless very like other winters, and began to collect statistics to prove his contention. Presently he had some neat tabulations, with averages of snowfall and temperature carried out to four places of decimals, and was devoting a fair share of his leisure to efforts to secure an audience while he pointed out a number of popular errors the figures revealed.

So the days went by, and the weeks, tranquilly enough for the club. Sam was studying hard. Once or twice he “did” a lesson with Varley, being glad of the chance, indeed, to keep in touch with the older boy.

Varley made no reference to his unintentional breach of the rules of the Safety First Club, nor did he give a hint that the Shark had enlightened him about his blunder. Sam appreciated his reticence. Apology would have been awkward for both of them. Varley was taking care to keep away from the club, and ignoring the earlier incident seemed to be the easiest and best way to deal with the situation.

Without coming to intimacy, Sam and Paul got on very well together. Neither sought the other out frequently, but, as has been said, they studied in company now and then, and often strolled along together, when they met on the street. So it came about that Varley was a witness of Sam’s next meeting with the grateful Mrs. Grant, and played his part in bringing about the events which followed that encounter.

A sleigh turning from the beaten track and pulling up beside the deeply buried curb; a beckoning hand; a cheerful voice calling briskly—these were the circumstances under which Sam became aware that speech with him was desired, and recognized Mrs. Grant. Touching his cap, he stepped as near the sleigh as the banks of snow permitted. Much of the old chagrin because of the lady’s effusive and public thanks for his services had worn away; and since the reconciliation with his mates of the club there had been times when he regretted that he had not been more responsive.

Mrs. Grant, plainly, had been on a shopping tour; for the sleigh was piled high with packages. She beamed upon Sam, and stretching out a gloved hand, shook his very heartily.

“Now, this is what I call luck!” she exclaimed. “I was just wondering where I could find you, and then, quick as a wink, there you are! My, but it’s funny how things happen sometimes!”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Sam. “And—er—er—how do you do?”

Mrs. Grant chuckled. “Well, I guess I’m bearing up amazing well, all things considered. And I don’t see as you’re getting puny or peaked yourself.”

“No, ma’am.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Te he! Didn’t know but you were pining for that mince pie I promised you.”

Sam felt his cheeks burn. “I—I—oh, I didn’t mind,” he said confusedly.

“But I did,” said Mrs. Grant crisply. “Somehow I like to keep my promises, and I certainly did promise you that pie. When are you coming to get it?”

“Why—why——”

“I’ll be ready for you any time. Only the sooner, the better.”

“It—it’s very kind of you.” Sam said it courteously, if a trifle brokenly. At the moment his chief thought was to avoid betrayal of his feeling in the matter of all mince pies, a feeling which, of a sudden, had grown to loathing. But he had had his lesson of the unwisdom of permitting a pie to start a quarrel.

“Then I’ll look for you—come now, let’s see!” Mrs. Grant wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully. “To-day’s Tuesday—um—um! And to-morrow I’ve got to go over to the East Village. Then Thursday’s sewing circle day. But Friday—after your school’s out? You can manage to come over to the farm easy enough—why not?”

“Why—why——”

“Why, of course you can!” cried Mrs. Grant energetically. “But I say!” Her glance went to Varley, who had remained modestly in the background. “Sakes alive, but there’s the other boy! The one that tried and didn’t; but he meant just exactly as well as if he’d known how—you know what I’m talking about, and that’s the time this foolish horse bolted. Bring him with you, too.”

“I’ll be very glad to come,” said Varley promptly.

Mrs. Grant was eyeing him shrewdly. “Shouldn’t wonder if we could show him some things,” said she. “He looks sort of citified, and we’re country—real country—out to Sugar Valley. But that reminds me—it’s ’most sugaring time now. ’Twill be, soon’s we get a spell of warm weather to start the sap running; and it’s my notion when winter breaks, it’ll break quick. Come now! Never seen ’em sugar-off, has he?”

Varley saved Sam the trouble of making answer. “Indeed I haven’t, but I’d like to.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Grant, addressing him directly, “I don’t know as we can show you the sap running, and the kettles boiling by Friday, but we can show you all the works. We’ve got quite a lot of bush and——”

“I beg your pardon! Bush?”

Mrs. Grant laughed. “That’s just a name for it—our name. You’d call it a grove, I guess. And there’s an old house where we keep the kettles—why, it’s quite an outfit, when you see it all. And I reckon you’ll find it mighty entertaining.”

“I’m sure I shall.”

“Then that settles it—Friday it is!” she said with decision, and turned again to Sam. “I tell you what! We’ll make a regular party. Suppose you bring along half a dozen of your chums—more, if you want to. Goodness knows, our old house is big enough to take you all in! And let’s see! You can come out right after school, and we’ll have dinner—it’ll be waiting for you. And I’ll get that mince pie off my conscience. Then Mr. Grant can take you down to the island—it isn’t an island, really, but that’s what we call it—and let you see the apparatus for making maple syrup and sugar.” She turned swiftly back to Varley. “You said it’d be all new to you, didn’t you?”

“Every bit of it.”

“Then I can count on you, too?”

“It’s I that’ll do the counting! I wouldn’t miss the trip for worlds!” cried Varley enthusiastically.

His evident delight in the plan swept away any lingering doubts Sam may have felt. It wouldn’t be fair to spoil Varley’s pleasure because of his own rather vague reluctance.

“Yes, you may count on us, Mrs. Grant,” he said. “And as for more fellows—well, I know a crowd that’ll like to come, too. We’ll be there—on time—Friday.”