Sam Parker, muffled to the chin, mittened and rubber-shod, appeared to be imitating the example set by the town. He trudged along, whistling bravely if not blithely; and quickened tune and pace a trifle when he came in sight of a little building in the lee of a big house. Turning in at the gate, he hurried up the path to the smaller building; rapped thrice upon the door—there was hint in the performance of hasty observance of a customary rite; and, without awaiting a response, opened the door and strode in.
It was a curious room he entered, low-ceiled, rough of wall and floor, furnished with the most miscellaneous collection imaginable of discarded chairs, tables and lounges from half a dozen homes. There were rugs which showed signs of long and hard wear; there were old pictures in frames still bearing the dust they had gathered in years of retirement in garrets and storerooms. Other pictures, unframed and evidently cut from newspapers and magazines, were tacked here and there on the walls. Nevertheless, in spite of the confusion and disorder the place had a certain attractiveness and an air of easy-going comfort, with a suggestion that here one might do as one pleased. A visitor, skilled in such matters, might have more than suspected that once upon a time this had been a stable, but now anybody who could read must quickly grasp its present uses; for boldly chalked on an old blackboard was inscribed in capital letters
“The Safety First Club.”
Sam pulled off his cap and overcoat, and tossed them into a corner. His overshoes followed them. Then, being relieved of his out-of-door toggery, he crossed to the stove, and stood beside it, rubbing his hands in the grateful warmth. A plump youth moved aside to give him a place by the fire; and a boy, tall and thin and quaintly sharp-angled of knee and elbow, hailed him from the depths of a dilapidated steamer-chair.
“Huh, Sam! Know anything?”
“Nothing new, Step,” Sam answered.
The boy in the low chair grunted dismally. “Ugh! Confound it, there never is—this time of year, anyway!”
Sam did not attempt to debate the point. For a moment he regarded Step thoughtfully—“Step,” it may be explained, was a contraction of “Stepladder,” a nickname bestowed by his mates upon Clarence Jones because of a degree of resemblance in his physical make-up to that useful article of household equipment. Then Sam’s glance went to the plump boy, Arthur Green in official records, but “Poke” to those honored with his intimate acquaintance. One could poke a finger almost anywhere into the well-rounded Arthur; hence the sobriquet.
“Poke” Green appeared to be meditating. His lips were pursed, and there was a line in his forehead. He loved his bit of philosophy, did Poke; but it took time for him to put his meditations into words.
Sam’s gaze traveled to a group about a table, on which were scattered magazines and a number of well-thumbed books. Two of the boys nodded. They were Herman Boyd and Harry Walker, more often called the “Trojan”; and they were good fellows and tried and true members of the Safety First Club. So, for that matter, was a bespectacled youngster, who from his place at the Trojan’s elbow was regarding Sam with a peculiar air of solemnity. Sam, meeting his eye, gave him greeting.