The camp at the lake very quickly proved its value to Sam and his friends. It gave them a place of resort, an occupation. Poke and Step continued to be absorbed in the construction of their aeroplane, but the others were glad to have an excuse for a hike, or an overnight stay under canvas, or a week-end outing. Gradually they were adding to the equipment; and were making a comfortable nest in the woods. Possibly their zeal was increased by the fact that their relations with the rest of the class showed no improvement.
Privately, Sam speculated a good deal about this. In his experience school disputes had a way of wearing themselves out, so to speak. It was quite true that the Safety First Club was not making overtures to the others; but ordinarily in the boy-world, as he knew it, something would happen to make everybody forget temporarily causes of offense and leave feuds a little dulled. In this instance, though, there were no amicable interludes. What might be called a state of armed neutrality continued. Sam, meditating, reached the conclusion that Zorn was still taking the trouble to circulate his stories to the discredit of the club.
In one way or another, Sam chanced to see little of Zorn for a week or two after their roadside interview. He was still urging his chums to keep a close watch upon the doings of the enemy, but none of them made discoveries throwing light upon the problem Zorn offered.
The Trojan continued to demand Sam’s vigilance. He had reached a sort of acceptance of the situation, and with the coaching of his friends in Latin was keeping up his classwork, after a fashion; but there was no heart in his performance. The sense of suffering from injustice rankled, and whatever he did was because of his promise to Sam rather than because of desire to hold his place in the school.
Lon, in these days, was a tower of strength to Sam. He was shrewd and observant, and really understood the position of the club and its difficulties.
“Keep at it; play the game!” was his advice. “I don’t go to say it’s the best game you could have picked out; but then, again, I ain’t sayin’ it’s the wust. And with any game I ever see or heard tell on, the only thing to do was to play it honest and play it through, and keep your eyes open and learn what the game’ll teach you. The one thing that sure ain’t got no use or profit in it is wobblin’, and shiftin’, and changin’ your mind back and forth like a feller experimentin’ with his fust pair o’ shoes that’s rights and lefts. That’s what I says to Poke the other day, when he had me over to take a squint at that blessed Scary Hen o’ his.”
“‘Scary Hen?’” Sam repeated dubiously.
“Yep! That bird contrivance he’s putting together.”
“Oh, you mean his Saracen,” said Sam, enlightened.
Lon nodded. “I’m callin’ it the Scary Hen—I do love a name that fits! You see, he had me in, sort o’ consultin’ engineer-like, to paw over that old motor he acquired from Philanthropist Haskins. It’s sure some engine!”