The Safety First Club and the Flood

Lon’s floor-board gave material for three rough-and-ready paddles, short, awkward to handle, yet more or less serviceable. Lon himself kept one, Orkney took another, and Varley laid claim to the third.

“I’ve got to keep my blood circulating,” he explained. “Thought I was pretty well dampened before that last go, but now—whew! Say, I’d like to be run through a clothes wringer just as I stand. Next best thing’ll be working at something.”

Sam also had stretched out a hand for the third paddle, but Lon ruled in favor of Paul.

“Varley, you can have anything I’ve got!” he said warmly. “That leap-for-life, floatin’ trapeze stunt you done was amazin’ good medicine for this crowd; for my notion is, the old river ain’t got done risin’, and it ain’t got to do much more comin’ up in the world to clean swamp that garret. Good, quick action o’ yourn, son, good quick action, I tell you!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Paul modestly. “It—well, it just seemed to be a good idea. I—I hated, somehow, to lose the boat; though maybe the flood won’t go much higher.”

“No; Lon’s right.” It was the Shark who spoke, with all his customary brusqueness. “Liable to be ten feet more of a rise. How do I know? How do you know anything? Figure it out, don’t you? Just what I did! If the mouth of the valley is dammed—must be, or the river would have behaved better—the water’ll keep on rising till it’s over the top of the dam. And from the levels as the map gave ’em, and the height of the bridge piers, as I recalled ’em——”

Sam caught him by the shoulder. “Look here, Shark! Do you mean you’d figured all that out, and then didn’t tell us?”

The Shark wriggled free. “Huh! What’d have been the good of telling? Just would have worried you fellows some more—wouldn’t have helped anything or anybody. You’re all right in your way, but you don’t seem to be able to get any comfort out of calculations that go into three or more figures. So if I’d said anything, you’d have wanted to know why I said it, and when I tried to explain, you wouldn’t have understood. But if you’re so set on having me say something now, I’ll tell you that we’d better make shore. Current’s taking us down-stream, and I won’t guarantee how long the ice dam will hold. Don’t want to go over it, or through it, do you? Well then!”

“Jumpin’ Jupiter, but that’s sense!” ejaculated Lon, and fell to paddling.

Orkney and Varley followed the example. Step and Poke found the pieces of the broken thwart and added their mite. The Shark stared ahead. Sam, for a moment, was without occupation, but then he pulled off his cap and began to bail out some of the water in the boat. With the increased number of passengers a leak or two had developed.

There is no craft more difficult to manage than a flat-bottomed, square-ended punt, deep in the water, and in the grasp of a strong current. Naturally enough, the attempt was made to steer for the nearer bank, the one on which was the Grant farmhouse. It resulted in a sort of diagonal drift, in which a dozen feet were made down-stream for every foot of approach to land. Sometimes the boat was fairly across the current, sometimes her nose pointed almost directly down the river. More than once collision with floating débris threw her off her course. In short, she might have been compared to a crippled and bulky-bodied beetle, struggling with broken legs to swim to the shore of a stream into which it had fallen. But as the beetle, by virtue of hard work, draws nearer the land, so the big punt edged away from the swifter current of mid-stream. Presently she was scraping through the boughs of a young grove, the trees of which were submerged to their tops. The Shark, playing lookout man, sang out his news:

“Hullo! There’s the Grants’ house! We’re just about abreast of it.”

The paddlers toiled harder than ever, but Sam paused a moment in his bailing. The light had strengthened; he had no trouble in making out the house and the big barns near by. As well as he could determine, the flood had not invaded the homestead, though it seemed to have reached the road in front of the place.

Lon and his crew tried to arrest the drift down-stream; observing which, the Shark spoke oracularly:

“Don’t try too hard to hold her on the mark! Keep her going, and see if we don’t strike an eddy pretty soon. My guess is we will.”

Step had little breath to spare, but he used some of it in speech.

“What’s that?” he gasped. “You ‘guess’? Thought math-mathematicians never guessed, but always were sure!”

Round whipped the Shark, bristling. “Mathematics nothing! This is just common sense. I’m counting on the chances of being right about an ice jam down below. If it’s damming up the water, you’ll find some of the surplus that can’t get through or over the obstruction forced back along the edges, while the freshet keeps on pouring more water down the middle. Seen how the water whirligigs in a bowl, haven’t you, when you turn on the faucet? Well, then?”

Step might have made answer, but Poke thumped him on the back.

“Cut it out!” the plump youth advised. “This is no debate; it’s a job!”

Step grunted, and fell to paddling again. The Shark shrugged his shoulders, and resumed his observation; thought it was his privilege, very speedily, to utter the words the most self-restrained of mortals can’t deny themselves sometimes:

“There! What did I tell you? We’ve hit an eddy!”

It was true, and true beyond question. The lateral motion of the boat was now up-stream rather than down; and there was no longer difficulty in keeping the house over her square bow. Moreover, in the slack water the pace of the heavy craft seemed to increase. And again the Shark gave tidings:

“Say, fellows, I can see folks! They’re waiting for us—right by the edge of the road just below the house. Mr. Grant’s there—and there’s another man—and hurrah! Herman and the Trojan! They’re both on deck, so all our crowd’s accounted for! And oh, I say! There’s Mrs. Grant hustling down from the house and waving a shawl or something like all possessed!”

With such good news ringing in the ears of the crew, the big boat appeared fairly to jump forward. There was a mighty splashing along both sides, but what the paddlers lacked in art they made up in energy. From the shore came cries of welcome and eager query, but everybody on the punt was too busy to make reply. Then there was more splashing, as the Trojan and Herman, with Mr. Grant close behind them, dashed into the water to meet the voyagers. They caught the gunwale of the boat and dragged the craft forward till she grounded. And then the Shark laid hold upon Mr. Grant.

“There is an ice jam, isn’t there?” he demanded. “Big one, too?”

“Biggest ever heard of in these parts! Both bridges knocked off their piers and all tangled up with the ice. That’s what raised hob when the dams up-river began to go out, and let down all the water. Railroad’s sent for its wrecking crew, and it’s coming with dynamite to blow open a channel, and——”

The Shark was discourteous enough not to wait for the completion of the sentence. He turned triumphantly to his comrades in general and to Step in particular.

“Hear that, did you? Josh me about guessing, would you? Huh! I’ll guess again, and the guess is that the fellow who has the last laugh gets the best one. Huh!”

With that the Shark stepped ashore, avoided the outstretched arms of Mrs. Grant, and fell prey to the Trojan, who splashed out of the river as joyously as he had splashed into it. The Trojan and Herman had had a night of terrible anxiety, but had escaped any adventures such as had befallen the rest of the club. Maybe there was a touch of envy in the demands upon the Shark for his story—which, by the way, the Shark did not relate. Indeed, there was for a little too much confusion for anybody to offer a coherent narrative; and then Mrs. Grant was urging the party up the slope to the porch, and into the house, where open fires burned cheerily, and where there was a wonderfully delicious odor of boiling coffee and cooking viands.

The big house seemed to have an unlimited store of dry garments. Mrs. Grant brought them by the armful into the living-room, and made proclamation:

“Listen to me, everybody! You men folks can have this room to yourselves while Hannah and I dish up the breakfast. It’ll be ready for you the minute you’re all in dry things; and I reckon you’ll find enough to go around. Don’t mind looks or fit, and don’t stop to primp. And here’s a lot of good rough towels—you’ll need a rub-down to take out the chill. Don’t you keep me waiting, and I won’t keep you waiting, either!”

She was turning to the door, but Sam stopped her. As head of the Safety First Club, he had learned some valuable lessons in thoughtfulness for others.

“Just a minute, please, Mrs. Grant!” he begged. “Our folks in town—do they know we’re all right, or have they heard anything about—about our being out all night?”

Mrs. Grant shook her head vigorously. “Not a syllable have they had, good or bad, welcome or worrying! The telephone broke down about eight o’clock last night, and I tell you, boys, I never was so glad of such an accident before. If any of your mothers had called me up—mercy, but I don’t know what I could have said or done! There, there! Let me count you again. Let’s see! Five, six, seven, eight—yes, you’re all here, thank the stars!”

Lon heaved a burlesque sigh. “Oh, my, my! And I ain’t even figgered in the census no more!”

Mrs. Grant laughed very cheerfully. “Oh, you’ll figure, Lon Gates, but I sort of put you in the ought-to-have-known-better class.”

Lon bowed deeply. “Thanky for the compliment, ma’am. I don’t get so many of ’em that I recognize ’em any easier than old man Plympton uster recognize his fust wife’s third cousins when they came fishin’ for an invitation to dinner, for old times’ sake, his fourth bein’ a mighty fine cook, if I say it as shouldn’t, she bein’ kin o’ mine.”

“Well, if that’s what you call a compliment, I guess you have got out of practice entertaining ’em,” chuckled Mrs. Grant. “But now get into dry clothes, every man Jack of you!” And out she bustled, closing the door behind her.

For ten minutes the living-room resembled nothing so much as the locker room of an athletic field. Crowding before the fire, the boys ripped off their wet garments, plied the big towels vigorously, and then, warm and glowing, slipped into the emergency costumes awaiting them. The results surely were picturesque, but nobody minded trifles like a shirt three sizes too big or trousers that came only a little below knees.

“Ready?” called Mrs. Grant from the dining-room.

Sam ran an eye over his company. Poke wagged his head solemnly.

“In all my life,” he said, “I never knew before what being really ready for a square meal was!”

“Yes, ready!” Sam reported; though, as he spoke, he saw that Tom Orkney, withdrawn a little from the others, was standing close to a window and inspecting something he held in his hand. Still, as Tom had made as full a toilette as anybody else, Sam saw no reason to delay on his account.

“Yes, ma’am, ready!” he repeated more loudly.

The door swung, and the boys trooped into the dining-room, Lon bearing them willing company. But while they feasted their eyes upon the well-spread table, their hostess was again making a count.

“Six, seven—sakes alive! but there ought to be eight of you, not saying anything of Lon Gates, who’s quite big enough to speak for himself. And there’s only seven.” Mrs. Grant was moving toward the door. “Now what in the world——” she was looking into the living-room. “Oh, there you are! Goodness gracious, child, I should think you’d be famished!”

Orkney thrust what he had been examining into an inner pocket of his coat. Then, blushing and embarrassed, he came forward.

“I—I must have been so interested in—in something I found, I——”

“Never mind it now, anyway! Sit right down, and let’s see if you won’t find breakfast interesting, too.”

Tom took his place at the table; the others already had taken their places. Hannah, coffee-pot in hand, approached, and began to fill the cups.

Every face brightened as the savory odor of the steaming coffee filled the room. Poke sighed, but it was a sigh of vast content.

“My, my, but this is bully! Only I wish——” there he broke off abruptly and a bit sheepishly.

“What are you wishing?” Mrs. Grant inquired solicitously.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter, ma’am. I—I—it was just a fancy.”

“What kind of a fancy? Tell us, do!”

Poke reddened; he moved uneasily in his chair. “It—I guess it’s too foolish to talk about.”

“But sometimes I like to hear things that may not be so foolish, after all.”

The boy hesitated. Then, perceiving that the whole hungry party waited on an end of this interlude, he spoke, hastily and jerkily:

“It’s a crazy notion, I know.... Folks don’t do it at breakfast, I suppose. But—but I couldn’t help remembering that perfectly corking buster of a mince pie we had yesterday, and wishing I’d come to it with the razor appetite I’ve got this minute. It was just a notion, you know, and——”

There Mrs. Grant stopped him. “What did I tell you about foolish things that weren’t foolish?... Hannah! Bring it in—we’ll begin with it, instead of end with it.... And hurry, please do!”

Away sped the maid to the kitchen, and Mrs. Grant again addressed her guests:

“Some people poke fun at pie for breakfast, but over in Sugar Valley we have a better use for it—we eat it. And this morning I feel like eating it with special thankfulness for it and every other mercy and good thing in life. You boys are all alive—I’m going to hear all about how you happen to be alive, as soon as we’ve attended to having last night’s supper, and a go-to-bed snack, and this morning’s breakfast, all at once. The flood has swept the valley, and there has been a terrible lot of damage, but so far as we can hear, nobody has been drowned. And if we have to have new bridges down below—well, that’ll be a good thing, too; I’ve been mortal afraid of the old covered bridge lately—it was so rickety. So we’ll reckon up our mercies—— Right here, Hannah; I’ll cut it myself.”

A chorus of exclamations rose from the boys. The maid had reappeared, bearing a pie as big, as magnificent, as nobly tinted as the wonder of the day before.

“Jeeminy! the twin!” cried Step, admiringly.

“Right!” said Mrs. Grant briskly. “The story goes, old Dominie Pike wished mightily that he might have had two pies instead of one, so we always make up a double allowance. And now don’t wait for ceremony.” She was beginning to cut the pie with sure and deft wielding of her knife. “This time we’ll begin with the boy who thought of having pie for breakfast—yes, serve him first, Hannah.”

Hungrily Poke snatched up a fork. There was something frankly famished in the admiring gaze he fixed upon the contents of the plate put before him.

“Don’t wait!” Mrs. Grant counselled. “We’ll dispense with ceremony.”

Poke needed no urging. He was desperately hungry; and, moreover, as has been said, he was a mighty trencherman. Up rose the fork, well freighted. An instant’s silence; then one word:

“Ah-h!”

If ever vast satisfaction were packed into a syllable, it was in that brief exclamation. Their hostess beamed; the boys burst into laughter. Sam, before whom Hannah had placed the second plate, caught Mrs. Grant’s eye.

“I—I think I used to be prejudiced about—about——” he hesitated. “Somehow, though, I think you understand what I mean, ma’am. Maybe I didn’t appreciate—er—er—you know!”

“I know! But you’re not to bother your head about that for a second. I was young once myself, thank Heaven!”

“Well, I appreciate it now,” said Sam simply. “And I’m mighty glad I’ve learned how to appreciate it. This whole business—from first to last, with the flood thrown in—I—I guess I know more than I did,” he concluded with an effort.

“I’m surely glad all of you know about Sugar Valley and its legends,” Mrs. Grant put in quickly, to cover his confusion. “I’ve told you one story about Dominie Pike. There are a lot of other stories.”

Tom Orkney spoke from his end of the table.

“I wonder if some of them are not here, Mrs. Grant,” he said, and took from his pocket a little book, stained, frayed, dog-eared at the corners, lacking covers, and with some of the outer pages sadly mutilated.

From hand to hand it was passed to Mrs. Grant. The boys could see that the pages were filled with writing, small, closely lined, in ink which had faded with the passage of years.

Mrs. Grant glanced curiously at the little book. She turned the pages, her interest evidently increasing as she proceeded.

“Why—why, if this isn’t the real thing—the original diary of Dominie Pike—but how did you come by it?”

“I found it in an old house we stayed in till the flood drove us out.”

The lady nodded. “Yes, that would fit—it must have been the old Dominie’s house. But this book, now! You know, I told you I never saw the original, and never knew anybody who had seen it, but this—well, it certainly fits the description of the diary that’s been handed down. And the penmanship is just like the Dominie’s—there are some other specimens in old documents that have been preserved—bills, receipts, agreements, and so on. And as nearly as I can make out what it says—yes, it reads as if it was genuine. And I think it’s one of the first of the set the Dominie is known to have kept. But you found it, you say?”

“Yes,” said Tom. “It was in a niche, a sort of hiding-place in the chimney above the fireplace in an up-stairs room.”

“I know the room you mean. They say it was the Dominie’s study. He may have left the book there, or maybe his son or grandson did. But how in the world did you happen to hunt it out?”

Orkney hesitated. He was not a fellow of ready speech, and he was embarrassed by the attention he was attracting.

“I—well, I can’t explain exactly except that I had a—a hunch, you might call it—that, somehow, the Dominie Pike story might be more than a plain story. And when I heard about the lost diary—well, it happened I remembered it would be awfully good medicine for this crowd if we could find it. There’s a prize——”

“Oh!” said Poke sharply and suddenly.

“There’s a prize we’d like to win for—for a special reason——”

“Bully old Orkney!” cried Step.

Orkney raised a hand. “Better let me finish the best way I can—I’m not much of a chap at such things. Well, then, I couldn’t get the Dominie’s diary out of my head. So when we had nothing else to do in the old house, I kept nosing around. In that up-stairs room something made me suspect there might be a hiding-place in the masonry of the chimney. My grandfather’s house had a sort of safety-deposit box built into its chimney, and I got a hint from that. Of course, it was too dark to see much, but by feeling along and then digging with my knife—well, to make the story short, I found that book just as we had to beat it—go away, I mean. So I tucked the book where it would be safe, and when we were on shore, and there was a chance, I looked it over. And—and you think it’s the real thing, don’t you?” he added anxiously.

“Certainly!” cried Mrs. Grant. “I haven’t a doubt that it is.”

“And you won’t mind our taking it for a while?”

“Mind? Bless me, child, it’s yours for the finding, and welcome!”

But Orkney shook his head. “No; it belongs to you,” he said. “You’ll know what to do with it permanently. We shouldn’t. A week or two will be quite enough for our purposes.”

Mrs. Grant looked perplexed. “Well, maybe you understand what you’re about. I don’t, but that’s neither here nor there. And if it suits you, surely it suits me, too.”

“Thank you!” said Orkney very gravely.

“Yes, thank you!” echoed the Safety First Club with a fervent heartiness Mrs. Grant perceived but quite failed to comprehend.