The Safety First Club and the Flood

Being a youth in full possession of his faculties and powers of observation, Paul Varley understood perfectly that there was something curious in the fashion in which Step and Poke were loaded into the big sleigh; but he was also shrewd enough to perceive that there was no intention to let him into the secret. The late comers had been hailed impatiently or derisively, but Varley noted that none of the questions as to the cause of their delay was pressed. A nudge from Sam or Orkney, or a sharp glance, or a muttered word seemed to check inquisitiveness immediately. Paul saw, and heeded, and guessed the truth, in part, at least. Whatever might be amiss, the other boys regarded it as something not to be revealed outside the circle of the club. Satisfied of this, he took care to help them along by making talk.

Varley had no difficulty in finding topics. The weather, the clouds, the rapidly melting snow, the swollen streams they crossed—about all these things he put many questions. The boys, in turn, appealed to Lon. What did he think of the prospects, anyway?

Lon squinted at the gray sky, and then at the sloppy road.

“Well, ’less something breaks, we’re goin’ to get there; and if harness and runners hold out, we’re goin’ to get home again,” he declared. “Dunno’s I’d call it exactly a pleasure trip, but I guess we’ll pull through somehow, as the molasses candy said to the sugar bowl. Maybe it’ll be sleighin’, and then again maybe it’ll be draggin’ through mud; but we’ve got a good, husky team o’ hosses, and if none of the bridges takes a notion to go floatin’ down stream, we’ll manage. And further deponent sayeth not.”

“But is it going to rain?” Sam persisted.

“Well, wind’s in the east. And if it stays there long enough, squirrels and pickerel will be classin’ alike in p’int o’ dampness.”

“But is it going to stay there?”

Lon clucked to his horses; then he glanced at the sky again.

“Huh! I reckon so—sooner or later there’ll be rain. How soon and how much? Huh! Bein’ able to answer jest sech questions is how old Noah went and got his reputation. And he didn’t leave me his recipe for guessin’ right. So I ain’t committin’ myself, sonny.”

Varley laughed with the others; then gave himself to a study of the weather conditions. It was not a cheering prospect that met his eye. All the winter brilliancy of the landscape had faded; the great blanket of snow covering the earth was now a very wet blanket in fact and in appearance; the leafless trees towered black and somber. Streams ran brim-full. Where there were rapids, they showed clear of ice, and along the smoother stretches, where the break-up had not yet come, the freshets poured along above the frozen layer as well as below it.

Varley began to appreciate what the “breaking up of a hard winter” meant. He wondered, indeed, that Sam and Lon should have undertaken a trip on such a day, and then, correctly enough, inferred that they were keeping the engagement to visit Sugar Valley, because there was no certainty that delay would bring better conditions. In spite of the slush and the puddles, the big sleigh was making very good time. Satisfied that Lon knew his business, Paul quietly studied his companions. Poke and Step were silent and subdued, but the others were chatting briskly enough. He suspected a bit of method in this, and jumped to a conclusion that was not far from the mark. Whatever was amiss with Step and Poke, the club was treating it as a secret, not to be discussed before even so sympathetic an outsider as he was himself. To tell the truth, Paul admired the new evidence of the strength of the bond which held this group of chums. As it happened, he had many friends but few intimates; and sometimes he had longed for just such close association as the Safety First Club provided.

For a time the road crossed ground with which Varley had some slight acquaintance, but then Lon turned sharply to the left and toward the narrow cleft in the hills which Sam once had pointed out to Paul as the entrance to Sugar Valley. On close inspection the pass was narrower even than it had appeared to be from a distance. On both sides the rocky banks rose so steeply as to suggest cliffs, while at their base flowed the Sugar River, a considerable stream, at least in spring time. It was spanned by two bridges, one a gaunt steel structure carrying railroad tracks, the other a covered highway bridge, of the old-fashioned wooden construction. Both these bridges were close to the mouth of the glen, and their piers seemed half to fill the space between the banks of the river. The water was swirling merrily about the masonry, against which from time to time little floes of ice dashed with a fine crash; a ragged fringe of fragments lined the banks; the air was full of spray of a peculiarly chilly and penetrating quality. The boys dug their chins into the collars of their overcoats as the sleigh dragged across the bridge.

“Whew! Talk about your cold storage plants!” cried the Trojan—and that was what all of them thought.

Then a twist in the road showed them that the valley broadened widely, with ranges of low hills on either hand. Near the river they saw a series of natural terraces, which a fanciful eye might have regarded as suggesting shallow benches of a great amphitheatre. The hills were wooded, and so was part of the lower ground, with dense swamp growth here and there. The road hugged the base of the hills to the left. Evidently it was much traveled, though there were few houses in sight. Lon offered explanation of this.

“Big farms along here, mostly. Been owned by the same families pretty nigh ever since Adam and Eve came to the jumpin’ off place. Don’t quite believe that, eh? Well, then, I’ll compromise, and make it since the white folks came into this deestrict. But above here a piece there’s quite a settlement. The Grants, though, belong down here in the old settler class. Old Nahum Grant, he was one of the fust white men to—— But, hullo! There’s the house now!”

The boys looked in the direction in which his whip pointed. They saw a comfortable farmhouse, big and roomy, and flanked by huge barns. Then they were turning in at the gate, and pulling up before the house, and the door was opening, and Mrs. Grant, more beaming than ever, was bustling out to greet them.

“My soul and body! but it does me good to see you all!” she exclaimed. “Take a mopey, draggly day like this, and I didn’t know whether you’d sorter back out about coming way out here. But you didn’t—and there’s quite a lot of you. My, my, but I’m tickled! There haven’t been so many young folks at the old place since I don’t know when!”

“Yes, ma’am, we’re all here,” Lon made answer. “That is, unless three-four fell out of the sleigh a mile or two back. With a load like this a feller really ought to stop and take account of stock ’bout once in so often.”

“Bless me, if ’tain’t Lon Gates!” cried Mrs. Grant delightedly. “I vow, but it’s a sight for sore eyes!”

“Same to you, ma’am, and three or four times over!” Lon responded gallantly. Then he surrendered the reins to a farm-hand, who came from the barn, and stepped to the porch, where Mrs. Grant was shaking hands with the boys, duly presented in turn by Sam.

Mr. Grant came out of the house to join in the welcome to the visitors. He was a thin, elderly man, with a wisp of gray whisker, a quiet manner, and an eye which had a humorous twinkle. Then he and his wife shepherded the party indoors.

Paul Varley glanced about him curiously. The low ceilings, the home-made rugs on the floor, the kerosene lamps, the many rocking chairs, the big horsehair covered lounge—these things quite matched his expectations, but there were other things which jarred them. The piano in a corner of the great living-room was a handsome instrument; the gilded coils of a very modern steam radiator suggested that the wide fireplace now served ornamental rather than useful purposes. There were thriving plants at the windows, and on the center table lay a number of magazines and illustrated weekly papers. Against one wall stood a tall clock, which drew Paul like a magnet. His father was somewhat of a collector, and the son had picked up some bits of information about ancient timepieces. This one, unless he were much mistaken, was very valuable.

“My great-grandfather made that,” Mr. Grant explained. “That is, he had it made.”

“To order?” Paul asked.

Mr. Grant chuckled softly. “It was very much that way. A friend of his, who went to England, brought back the works at his request. Then a traveling cabinet maker and jack-of-all-trades put the case together, according to his ideas. Oh, yes, the journeyman and journeying mechanic was an institution of those days; he’d make you a chest of drawers, or a table, or a clock case, or anything else. So great-grandfather picked his trees, and cut his lumber, and sawed his boards, and had the wood thoroughly seasoned when the jack-of-all-trades came around to build just such a clock as he wanted.”

Paul nodded. “It seems to have been mighty good work, sir.”

“That was a way they had,” said Mr. Grant. “They didn’t have so many things then that they could afford to put up with slipshod work.” Then he turned to the Shark, who had marched up to a framed map, hanging near the clock, and was peering at it through his spectacles.

“There’s an odd heirloom, young man. Know what it is?”

“Of course,” said the Shark crisply. “Relief map—I’ve seen the big one of the whole state in the capitol.”

“Right! But this just shows Sugar Valley.”

“So I see,” quoth the Shark quite as crisply as before, and continued his study. The map was like a carving, depressions being represented by gouges in the wood of which it was made, and tiny ridges showing the terraces before one came to the greater elevation of the bordering hills. The course of the river and its tributary brooks could be very clearly followed. The Shark ran a finger along one of the curving levels, an action which caught the attention of Mrs. Grant. Instantly she was beside him.

“Well, did you find any?” she demanded; her tone was hardly tart, but it was tinged with suspicion.

“Of course I did,” said the Shark. “I knew it’d have to be there.”

Thereupon Mrs. Grant promptly caught his hand and peered quite as closely at the tip of the exploring finger as the Shark had peered at the map.

“Nonsense! There isn’t a particle!” she cried indignantly.

“There is,” said the Shark bluntly. “Feeling is often more accurate than sight, and I felt it distinctly.”

Mrs. Grant gasped. “Goodness gracious, boy! Your mother must be one of those miracle housekeepers to bring you up to notice such things!”

“Eh?” The Shark, in turn, was bewildered, but luckily bethought him of his manners. “Excuse me, Mrs. Grant, but—but we can’t be talking about the same thing.”

“I’m talking about dust!”

“Oh!” There was relief in the Shark’s tone: also there was a little impatience. “Dust nothing! What do I care—er—er—I mean I was pretty sure there was a minor water-shed right there, but I had to feel to make certain. The light, you know, is not very strong; hence the chance of error of vision is increased, and——”

Mrs. Grant’s laugh cut him short. It, too, betrayed relief.

“Ha, ha, ha! And I thought, if there’d been any error of vision, it must ’a’ been mine, when I dusted yesterday! And I don’t make my brags about some things, but if anybody can find dirt——”

There she checked herself, and laughed again. “Mercy me, boys, hear me run on! But I’m like everybody else; I’ve got my prejudices, and if you get me started—— There, there! I’m starting, but I’m starting myself. And what you’re really thinking about, I’ll warrant, is dinner, for you’ll be hungry as bears—or boys—after your ride. I never could see much difference—between the bears and the boys. Not that I knew any bears real well, but I did get acquainted with a lot of boys, and they’d act sometimes a good deal the way folks say bears’ll take on, especially about meal time. But ‘error of vision’—and what was that other thing—‘minor water-shed,’ wasn’t it? Somehow, the boys I’ve known didn’t talk much about such things.”

“Oh, that’s just the Shark’s way, ma’am,” Sam hastened to explain. “You see he’s a crackerjack at mathematics, and it’s all he cares for. That’s why we call him the Shark—he gobbles up problems so! And when he saw that funny map, he couldn’t help figuring what it meant.”

“He figured one thing correctly, at any rate,” said Mr. Grant. “There is a water-shed there, for there’s a spring, and the overflow drains north.”

“Well, there’ll be time enough for surveying talk, or whatever you call it, after dinner,” his wife interposed decidedly. “Come on, everybody! The things are on the table.”

The boys streamed into the dining-room, and took the places their hostess pointed out. Varley was again unobtrusively observant. This room, like the other, was big and cheery, with plants at the windows. A huge sideboard, set on curiously slender legs, ran half the length of one of the walls. Above it was a shelf on which stood a fine old clock. The table was very long; long enough, indeed, to accommodate all the party, including Lon, who took his chair quite as a matter of course. The cloth was fine and snowy white; the china and glass good, though a bit miscellaneous in design. Varley was clever enough to understand that the Grants evidently were very comfortably well-to-do, and this was borne out by the hospitable profusion with which the board was spread. There was set before Mr. Grant a huge platter, piled high with chicken fried a wonderful brown. There were mashed potatoes, and beets, and onions, and other vegetables; there was a wholesale supply of apple sauce and cranberries, and half a dozen kinds of pickles. There were supplies of bread and butter for a small regiment, and tall pitchers of milk, with a steaming urn of coffee, over which Mrs. Grant presided. A ruddy and somewhat agitated maid hovered about her mistress, with whom she exchanged stage whispers frequently, followed by raids upon the pantry and replenishment of this or that dish. It was all very informal, very jolly, and, above all, very, very good. There were certain flaky biscuits, which captivated Paul, and of which he consumed more than he liked to keep count of; though nobody seemed to bother on that score. Twice his plate went back for more chicken, following, be it said, the example set by other plates. The ride had sharpened appetites, which were healthily developed, anyway; the blandishments of Mrs. Grant were hardly needed to persuade her guests to prove themselves mighty trenchermen.

In that hospitable warmth good fellowship reigned. Step threw off his burden of care because of Poke’s misfortune, while Poke himself roused to a somewhat subdued cheerfulness. There might be dark trouble ahead, but for the present he gave himself to the good things of the moment.

Sam was as merry as the others, but a shadow of apprehension fell upon his face when Mrs. Grant rose and slipped into the pantry, whence proceeded sounds of her whispered conference with her assistant. Sam, of a sudden, had warnings. He had almost forgotten that long-promised mince pie; now he recalled it, with remembrance of the anguish of mind it had caused him and wonder if it was to put him to further ordeals. Luckily, he had not long to wait in uncertainty. The pantry door swung. Appeared Mrs. Grant personally bearing the famous pie, the maid escorting her.

And what a pie it was!

Lon’s admiring exclamation was no more than deserved tribute. “Great Scott, Mis’ Grant, but you sure done it this time! I’ve been brung up with pies, and I thought I’d seen all kinds they was, but I never clapped eyes on an old he-one like that! Jupiter crickets!”

Now, in truth, it was a great pie, an enormous pie, a pie of dimensions, baked in the biggest dish any of the boys had ever seen so used; a dish deep and wide. And it was a pie crowned with a gently rising dome of crust, tinted with the rich brown which bespeaks perfect cooking. Mrs. Grant set it on the table; the maid came, bearing a pile of plates. Knife in hand, the hostess paused to address the company.

“Boys, I can’t make a speech, but I’m going to tell you something. It’s kind of a family tradition of the Grants—a mince pie is. Why, way back in the days of Dominie Pike——”

“Dominie Pike!” It was the usually silent Tom Orkney who spoke, and his voice had a queer trace of excitement.

Mrs. Grant turned to him. “Why, yes—the Grants claim descent from him. But what’s the matter?”

Tom went a fiery red under the gaze of the company. “I—I—oh, nothing’s the matter,” he stammered confusedly. “Only the name—it’s odd, you know, and—and——”

Mrs. Grant nodded briskly. “Does sound odd these times—‘Dominie Pike.’ And I guess he was an odd stick himself, for all he was a minister and mighty close to a great man. But you’re waiting to hear what he has to do with mince pies—the Grant kind. Well, I’ll tell you. Once he came back, nigh starved and poor as Job’s turkey after one of his trips in the woods with his Indian friends. Never heard about his chumming around with the old chiefs? Well, he did, and they thought a sight of him. But that ain’t the story I’m telling. You see, he’d been away a long time, and supplies at home were running mighty low. And his wife, she’d got most desperate. So what did she do, but take all the scraps and odds and ends she had—and they were about all she did have, I guess—and make ’em into a pie. And it turned out nearer a mince pie than any other kind. And just when it was done and cooling, and the children were licking their lips and rubbing their poor little tummies, home comes the Dominie out of the woods. And he sees that blessed pie, and he descends upon it like a wolf. And he eats it all, every crumb. And everybody’s so glad to see him alive nobody says anything to warn him that he’s putting away the family’s dinner—and supper, too, I reckon.

“And finally he pushes back the plate, and sits quiet for a minute. And then he looks at his wife, and his eye sort of twinkles. And he says in his way—and it was a good deal of a way he had, by all the stories—he says: ‘Wife, as you well know, I hold not with the pomps and vanities. But, for sustenance and nourishing qualities, yonder pastry appears to me to have possessed certain worthy qualities. So I do advise that in the event of good service by any of these children here present, they be reasonably rewarded with a pie like this one.’

“And that’s the story that has been handed down in the family; and that’s the reason we’ve set great store by our mince pies as rewards of merit. And so, when Master Sam Parker”—here she beamed on that youth—“when he did me a very good turn, I just naturally made up my mind to treat him by the Dominie Pike recipe. Sometimes I’ve wondered if he didn’t think a mince pie was a funny medal, but now he knows—and you friends of his know—why you’re facing this mince pie, and why I expect you to treat it the way the old Dominie treated his. If you leave a crumb of it, I shan’t like it one bit—so there!”

“Oh, you won’t be disappointed!” Sam cried hastily. “It—it’s a beautiful pie. And—and I like the story that goes with it,” he added after the briefest of pauses.

Mrs. Grant gave him a glance of understanding. “Well, now, I thought you might,” she said. “Boys are funny—you never can tell how things’ll strike ’em. And a pie—even a mince pie—might worry some of them, if it was a—a—well, a present, you know, and meant for sort of a good conduct badge, and so on. And if they didn’t take it right—why—why——”

Then Sam spoke with decision and emphasis. “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Grant,” he said. “This bully pie is going to be taken right!”

The lady’s broad-bladed knife drove through the crust of the great pie.

“Have those plates ready, Hannah!” she warned the maid. “And don’t forget the whipped cream—no, nor the maple fluff.” Again she glanced at her guest of honor. “Which will you have with the pie? Maybe, though, you’d like both.” With practiced hand she was removing a huge sector and placing it upon a plate. “Both, did you say? They go together very nicely.”

Two big glass bowls had been set beside the monster pie, one filled with cream beaten to a delightful fluffiness, the other with something very pleasing to the eye and suggesting to Varley a light caramel.

“I’ll try both,” said Sam valiantly.

“Good for you!” exclaimed his hostess. “That’s one comfort of having boys around, though. When you take extra trouble to please ’em, they’ll meet you half-way. They’ve got real appetites, and they know what to do with them. Now, I don’t believe Dominie Pike had whipped cream with his pie, but that was his misfortune and not his fault. And as for the maple fluff—well, we set great store by that in Sugar Valley, which wouldn’t have been called so if it wasn’t for its maple sugar.”

Paul Varley spoke a bit impetuously: “Oh, maple sugar? After dinner we may see how it’s made, mayn’t we?”

Mrs. Grant nodded briskly. “Indeed you shall! The sap isn’t really running yet, but we’ve got all the fixings.... Quick! More plates, Hannah!” She was serving the dessert with dextrous speed. “Don’t wait, boys!... And you’ll have both trimmings, won’t you?” She now was addressing Poke. “Excuse me if I can’t keep all your names straight, but you look as if you might have a sweet tooth.”

“Yes, ma’am, both, if you please,” said Poke heartily. For the moment, at least, he had quite forgotten his sorrows.

Mrs. Grant beamed upon him. “That’s what I like to hear! Give me good, lusty boys every time!... And it’ll be both for you, too, won’t it?” she asked, turning to Step.

The elongated youth quite matched Poke’s heartiness. “Yes, ma’am, both will do very nicely.”

Lon Gates chuckled. “Oh, he can stand it, all right. Some folks is built to stow it sideways, and some to stow it up and down.”

“And some take care of it both ways, eh?”

“Yes’m, that’s me,” quoth Lon, quite unabashed. “’Specially when it comes to Sugar Valley mince pies,” he added gallantly.

It was a deserved tribute. Every boy at the table was ready to vow that never had there been another mince pie to match the toothsome marvel of Sugar Valley cookery, composed and baked for the honor and delectation of Sam Parker and his friends.