CHAPTER VSNOW-SHOES
The morning dawned clear and still. Over night there had been a fall of several inches of snow, freshening the white of the winter landscape. Even the roadways were not dingy now, while the fields were broad and smooth and shining expanses. Sam heard the call of out-of-doors, but hesitated to obey it. The day was his, to do with as he pleased, for it was Saturday, and there was no school session. But, somehow, the call was of the sort that one ought not to hear alone, being, indeed, a comradely, sociable call of good fellowship.
To make the most of such a day one ought to be with one’s chums. Sam understood this perfectly—and stubbornly fought the understanding. Lon’s advice had not been wasted, though it had not persuaded Sam to seek the Safety First Club boys again.
After all, his problem was not so simple asit might appear to be. In addition to the resentment felt by a sensitive fellow, something was involved which, for want of a better term, might be called “club politics.” Sam had been the leader of the crowd and of the club. Often his had been the deciding opinion, when his mates had failed to agree. It can hardly be said that he had consciously sought the leadership, but it could not be denied that he enjoyed it. And he was a sufficiently shrewd judge of boy nature—which is a good deal like human nature in general—to realize that a leader who is laughed at is not likely to retain his prestige. Besides, he had failed to take the easy way out of his trouble at the beginning. If he could have laughed with the others, and made a joke of his embarrassment, the whole affair might now be an old story; but the others having rocked with laughter, while he stood miserably silent, it was still a story the club found intensely diverting.
Sam pressed his nose against the window-pane, and stared unhappily at the crisp, white snow. It was very inviting—but the idea of a lonely tramp did not appeal to him. Andwhile he gazed disconsolately, Paul Varley came along the street, with a pair of snow-shoes under his arm.
Sam regarded him hungrily. To tell the truth, Varley filled the eye. His gay-colored knitted cap was set jauntily on his head; a mackinaw jacket of striking pattern was buttoned about him, and leggins and moccasins added to the general effect of his apparel.
Sam watched the city youth disappear up the street. Then, suddenly, he turned from the window. Inspiration had seized him.
Varley undoubtedly would put on his snow-shoes when he reached the outskirts of the town, and strike out over the hills. If he kept near the main road, it would be possible for a pursuer to use a short-cut, and overhaul him without much difficulty. Just at the time, too, Varley was almost the only fellow with whom Sam felt that he could foregather without sacrifice of pride, for in the matter of the runaway Varley’s part had been sufficiently inglorious. So Sam made haste. He got himself into cap and coat, and laid hold of his snow-shoes, and departed by way of back streets and paths which lessened distance.Where the houses were few and far between, and there were long stretches of snow unmarked by runner or footprint, he adjusted his snow-shoes with practiced care, and headed up a little valley, marked here and there by clumps of trees. Traveling briskly, he soon reached the end of the valley, and climbed a low hill to his left. At its top ran the road Varley was likely to follow. So shrewdly had Sam made his calculations that, when he gained the summit, he saw the other approaching and hardly a hundred yards away.
For a novice Varley was not doing badly. His speed, to be sure, was not great, and he floundered along a bit clumsily on his web-supports; but he took no tumbles while Sam waited for him to come up.
“Hullo, Parker!” he called out, as he drew near. “Where did you drop from?”
“Oh, I’m just taking a little breezer,” responded Sam carelessly. “Pretty good going, eh?”
Varley laughed. “I guess it’s good; I don’t know. This is a new game for me.”
Sam surveyed him from head to foot. “Well, you’re rigged for it, anyway.”
“Oh, I outfitted at one of the big sporting-goods stores before I left the city. Sometimes I wonder if I didn’t rather overdo it.”
“You’re all right,” said Sam shortly, if encouragingly. “Say! that’s a newfangled sandal you’ve got there.”
Varley glanced at the leather foot-piece attached to the snow-shoe and into which his foot fitted snugly.
“They told me it was the latest thing. Somehow, though, I’m not sure that it works as it ought to.”
Down went Sam on his knee. He made close inspection; pulled experimentally at one of the sandals; shook his head.
“Your left foot’s too far back—gives you no toe-hold. Want me to shift it?”
“Wish you would!” said Varley heartily. With interest he watched Sam set to work deftly, loosening the thongs which bound the sandal to the web and then readjusting them and knotting them firmly.
“There! Guess that’ll give the play you need,” said Sam, and stood up.
Varley nodded. “Feels better, anyway.And I say! Mind, do you, if I trot along with you?”
“Course not—come along!” Sam told him with real heartiness.
Varley ran his glance over the miles of country visible from the little elevation on which they stood. The morning air was wonderfully clear, and the snow glittered bravely in the wintry sunshine.
“Oh, but this is bully!” he exclaimed.
“’Tis pretty good,” Sam admitted. “Look! Notice that peak sticking up to the north—way off—right on the sky-line? That’s old Pequaket—one of the big hills, you know. It’s all of seventy miles off—you can’t see it, except when things are right. And the little mountain to the south—that’s Rainbow. ’Tisn’t much of a mountain, at that, but somehow it manages to make quite a show. And there’s a hotel at the base of it. Nice place, too. Began by being a summer house, but now one wing’s kept open for folks who come up for winter sports.”
Varley shaded his eyes with his hand. “How far away’s the little mountain—Rainbow, you called it, didn’t you?”
“Oh, eight or nine miles.”
Out went Varley’s arm. He pointed to a gap in a ridge to the right.
“That’s a queer jog off there. What is it? Railroad cut?”
“No; it’s the entrance to Sugar Valley.”
“Ah,” said Varley politely, but without especial interest.
Sam felt the blood rush to his face, but plunged ahead with the explanation he seemed to be bound to make. “The valley widens out a lot a little way in. And there are some fine sugar camps—that’s how the place gets its name.”
“Sugar camps?” Varley repeated doubtfully.
“Yes—for making maple sugar.”
“Oh, maple sugar? I get you. I’d like to see ’em make it.”
Sam could have hugged him. Plainly enough, Sugar Valley did not suggest Mrs. Grant and her manifestation of gratitude.
“You’ll have plenty of chances. The season comes when the snow goes. Now let’s get along! Care where we go?”
“Not a bit,” said Varley. “You lead.”
It was rather incautious permission. Sam, elated by discovery of a companion who appeared to have lost sight of the runaway and its consequences, cheered by fellowship, and with the magic of the bracing air and the sunshine to set his blood coursing swiftly, set out at a pace which soon left Varley floundering far in the rear. Observing this, Sam halted for the other to overtake him, and went on more sedately, pausing now and then to give Varley a helpful hint. The city boy was an apt pupil. He learned quickly, but it was clear that his strength was not great. Sam, who was an observant fellow, slackened pace still more.
With such a day, though, neither of the pair was likely to consider very seriously the distance covered. They went on and on, sometimes tramping over the unbroken snow beside the road, sometimes making detours across promising fields. Once or twice they invaded wooded tracts, but roots and branches proved too big a tax on Varley’s skill, and they promptly made for the open. They were in high spirits, the novice’s occasional tumbles seeming to be as entertaining to him as to his instructor.
At last, as they halted on the top of a small hill, a sound came to their ears, a far-off sound, not loud but distinct, and often repeated.
“What’s that?” Varley asked curiously.
“Guess!” said Sam.
The other listened intently. There’s no stillness more wonderful than that of a calm day when the snow lies deep on the ground, and the earth seems to be dozing comfortably under its white coverlet. Tap, tap, tap! came the distant sounds, breaking the silence with almost the regularity of the beat of a pendulum.
“I—I can’t imagine what makes those sounds, but they’re—well, they’re clear-cut—if you can call it that.”
“You’re guessing better than you knew,” quoth Sam. “Wood-chopper over in the woods yonder.”
“You mean a lumberman?”
“More likely some farm-hand getting out fire-wood.”
“I’ve never seen a tree cut down—a big tree, that is.”
Sam laughed. “Well, that chap probably isn’t leveling any forest monarch, but if you’dlike to see him work, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t. Come ahead!”
Off they set again, Sam leading. They crossed a valley at the foot of the hill, mounted a gradual slope on the farther side, climbed an old stone wall, and found themselves in a wood lot, fairly free of undergrowth. The sounds of the axe were much louder now. Sam, pointing, gave a shout.
“See that treetop sway? We’ll be in time to see it come down!”
They hurried forward. That is, Sam hurried and made progress. Varley, also making haste, caught a snow-shoe on a hidden obstruction, and took a magnificent header into a drift. He was struggling up in a second, powdered with snow from head to foot, with snow up his sleeves and down his neck, but grinning cheerily in spite of his mishap.
Sam, glancing back, shouted again. Varley took a step forward. Then suddenly he cried out, sharply, warningly.
The tree was no longer swaying back and forth. Instead, the tall trunk was falling like a great beam swinging on a pivot at its base. Its limbs tore through the boughs of itssmaller neighbors, but above the noise of cracking and breaking wood rose a voice, shrill with alarm.
It was all over with startling swiftness. Here was a case in which fractions of a second counted. The woodsman, stepping back when his final blow with the axe had been delivered, had heard Sam’s shout. For an instant his attention had been distracted; and in that fateful instant the course of the falling tree was diverted from its original direction. When the man became aware of his peril, the trunk was descending straight upon him. He tried to spring aside, but it was too late to escape. He was caught, hurled to the ground, and held there, with the tree trunk fairly across his body.
Varley had had just a glimpse of what was occurring. It was because of this that he had cried out, instinctively trying to give warning, though he hardly realized the full danger to the man, of whom he first caught sight just before the tree struck him.
Sam, who had not perceived how near they were to the chopper until Varley gave him a hint, needed but a glance to understand thesort of accident which had befallen. He dashed to the side of the prostrate workman, caught his arm, and tried to drag him from beneath the tree. The effort was in vain. The man groaned feebly, and opened his eyes.
Varley, quivering with excitement, came up, and tugged uselessly at the tree trunk.
“Can’t we lift this? Tell me what to do—anything! I can’t stir it—it must weigh tons!” he exclaimed.
Sam was doing his best to think fast and clearly. The chopper, a big, powerful fellow though he was, could do nothing to help himself. Even had he suffered no injury he was so pinned down that he was held as if he were trapped. But for the deep cushion of snow he must have been terribly crushed; and even this had not served to save him from hurts which the boy believed to be serious enough.
The man spoke faintly, brokenly: “Get—get somebody! Over on the road—there’ll be somebody drivin’ along.”
Sam bent over him. “Where’s the nearest house?”
“Too—too far. And only the women folks to home. Try the—the road!”
“Where are you hurt—worst?”
The man made a feeble attempt to raise his head. With an effort he suppressed a moan. Big drops of sweat were showing on his forehead.
“Ribs—two-three cracked or—or caved in. Hur—hurry, can’t ye?”
Varley caught Sam’s sleeve. “I’ll go! Best thing to do. I’m no good here, and you may be. All right?”
Sam nodded. He did not see what service he could render by remaining; yet he was unwilling to desert the sufferer, and Varley could do as much as he could in summoning passers-by to the rescue.
“Beat it, then!” he said crisply.
Varley set off at the best pace he could make; and while Sam was studying the problem of first aid under difficulties,his new comrade was racing across the fields. Breathless from his exertions, he reached the highway just as two youths on snow-shoes came into sight around a bend. Varley recognized them as Poke and Step. They were not theaids he would have chosen in such an emergency, but this was not a time for delay.
Step hailed him with amazement. “Hullo! What are you doing off here by your lonesome? Lost, are you?”
“Come—come along!” Varley panted. “Both—both of you! Man hurt—over in the woods!”
“But what are you——?”
Varley didn’t let Step finish the question.
“Hustle! It’s a—a bad job. Parker sent me——”
“What! Sam Parker hurt?”
Varley wrung his hands in impatience. “No, no! Tree fell on a fellow. Parker stayed with him, and sent me for help.”
Step looked vastly relieved. “Oh, that’s it, eh? And Sam’s all right? And he’s staying with the other chap? Well, he knows what to do, if anybody knows.”
So speaking, Step swung one of his long legs over the low wall, and followed it with the other.
“Poke and I are just out for a breather—great going, eh? But if you’re after hustle, I’m your man. So’s Poke. Come along!”
Varley turned, and headed for the woods, the others keeping close beside him.
“If you’ve got wind enough, tell us just what happened,” Step suggested.
Varley did his best to comply. It is to be feared, though, that his story was not very coherent. Indeed, he had given his companions little more than an outline of the story when they reached the timber.
Sam had not been idle. He had scraped away a good deal of the snow about the injured man, and having found a stout pole, was experimenting with it as a lever, though he had not succeeded in raising the tree trunk by an inch.
The victim of the accident was groaning faintly; but he pluckily gritted his teeth, when Step and Poke sprang to the lever, and hoisted with all their strength. Then Varley added his efforts. The tree rose very, very slowly.
“Try to hold her where she is!” Sam told his comrades.
Bending down, he caught the man by the shoulders, and with all possible care drew him from beneath the huge, imprisoning bar. Thesufferer’s face was contorted with pain, but his grit didn’t fail him.
“Goo—good work, boys!” he gasped.
The three at the lever loosened their hold, and the tree settled back to its bed in the snow. Varley tore off his gay mackinaw. He was about to put it under the man’s head when Sam stopped him.
“Hold on! You’ve given me a hint. We ought to get him out of here and under shelter. And we need a stretcher.... Don’t roll up that jacket. Button it, though, and see that the sleeves are clear.”
Varley obeyed, wonderingly, while Sam stripped off his own overcoat.
“Get a couple of poles—good, straight ones!” he said curtly to Step and Poke.
The former had a big knife; the latter caught up the woodsman’s axe. In a moment each had cut a promising sapling and was lopping away the leafless branches.
Sam slipped an end of one of the poles inside Varley’s coat, and through the right sleeve. Then he repeated the operation with the other pole, this time, however, making use of the left sleeve. A moment more, andhe had similarly disposed of his own overcoat at the other end of the poles, and was drawing the two garments close together. Thus he had an extemporized stretcher, with the coats as cover and the saplings as supports. It was not a handsome contrivance, but looked serviceable. The heavy outer jackets were of stout cloth, and the sleeves would prevent the poles from working loose.
And now came a difficult task—the placing of the sufferer on the stretcher. In this all the boys joined, doing their work as gently as they could. The woodsman did his best to help, but in spite of his pluck a deep groan burst from his lips, and his face was ashen when at last he lay upon the coats.
At a nod from Sam the boys laid hold of the poles, Sam himself and Step at the man’s head, and Poke and Varley at his feet.
“Easy, everybody!” was the leader’s caution, but it was hardly necessary. With all imaginable care the stretcher was raised, and the bearers began their slow march. Luckily, the hardest part of it was soon over. Once they were out of the woods and in the open fields progress was easier, especially for Varley,who was still far from master of his snow-shoes.
Sam had learned where the man lived, and directed their course toward the house, which was perhaps a quarter-mile from the scene of the accident. Before reaching it they came to the road, and had to solve a problem in scaling the wall with their burden. This they accomplished safely, though not without much trouble; but, as if in speedy reward, they then experienced an unexpected bit of good fortune.
A white horse came trotting along the beaten track, drawing a sleigh in which rode a gray old man, muffled in a huge fur coat. At sight of the party the old man pulled up.
“Dr. Emery!” cried Poke and Step joyfully.
The doctor sprang from the sleigh. He needed no explanation of what had happened. He made hasty examination of the woodsman; glanced at the extemporized stretcher; grunted.
“Huh! Good idea, that! Rough and ready, but it answers. And you’re bringing him in? Right!”
The injured man forced the wanest and faintest of smiles.
“Say, Doc!” he whispered. “Them—them boys—they—they’ve got gumption!”
The doctor nodded briskly, and began to climb into his sleigh.
“It’s only a little way to the house—’twouldn’t pay to try to load him in here. I’ll go ahead, and have things ready to take care of him. Get him to the door, and there I’ll take him off your hands.”
Step tightened his grip on the stretcher pole. He looked to Sam for orders.
“Give us the word, Sam,” he said. “You’re captain of this team.”
Sam felt his pulse quicken. Circumstances had done for him what he would have been puzzled to do for himself. Once more he and his chums of the club were on the good old terms of fellowship.