“No, and there never are any fires in Scott-town, or mad dogs, or anything,” added Billy Thorne.

“But Sammy Slocum said nothing at all,” Billy told his mother.  “Old Sammy’s a bit of a coward.  He faints when he sees blood.  Of course he knows he can’t get the prize for valor, or any prize for that matter.  His mother has to take in washing.”

“William,” said Billy’s father, who had just entered, “that is a very un-American way of speaking.  If I were dead and buried your mother might have to take in washing, and it would do her no discredit.  Honest work is honest work.  Sammy is a very straight sort of boy.  He’s been helping at the store Saturday mornings, and I like the boy.  He’s got pluck.”

“Six months give a fellow time to turn round, any way,” said Billy, as the family sat down to supper.

It was September when this conversation took place, and it was December before the teachers, who were watching the boys’ daily records very carefully, had the least idea who would get the prize for valor.

“Perhaps we cannot award it this year,” said the Principal.  “Fifty dollars should not be thrown away, nor a prize really bestowed on anybody who has not merited it.”

“There are chances for heroism in the simplest and most humble life,” answered little Miss Riggs, the composition teacher.

That December was awfully cold.  Storm and wind and snow.  Blizzard and gale and hurricane.  You never saw anything like it.  In the middle of December the sexton was taken down with rheumatic fever, and there wasn’t a soul to ring the bell, or clear away the snow, or keep fires going in the church, and not a man in the parish was willing to take the extra work upon him.  The old sexton was a good deal worried, for he needed the little salary so much that he couldn’t bear to give it up, and in that village church there was no money to spare.

Sammy’s mother sent bowls and pitchers of gruel and other things of the sort to the sick man, and when Sammy took them he heard the talk of the sexton and his wife.  One night he came home, saying: 

“Mother, I’ve made a bargain with Mr. Anderson, I’m going to be the sexton of the church for the next three months.”

“You, my boy, you’re not strong enough.  It’s hard work shoveling snow and breaking paths, and ringing the bell, and having the church warm on Sunday, and the lamps filled and lighted.  And you have your chores to do at home.”

“Yes, dear mammy, I’ll manage; I’ll go round and get the clothes for you, and carry them home and do every single thing, just the same as ever, and I’ll try to keep Mr. Anderson’s place for him too.”

“I don’t know that I ought to let you,” said his mother.

But she did consent.