Lon grinned. “Son, I guess, after all, that story about old Brodman did sink in.”
“Huh! Don’t think it’s much of a story,” Sam growled, and moved toward the door.
“That depends,” Lon called after him. “A story’s like a crowbar—makes all the difference in the world whether you use it right or wrong.”
CHAPTER V
SNOW-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 as it 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. And while 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.