CHAPTER IX

In which Clarence gets some further knowledge of a shrine, which has much to do with the most important events of this veracious narrative, and pays back the gypsy, Pete with compound interest.

It was the third day of Clarence’s experiences as a gypsy. He and Ben and Dorcas had become great friends. Often the young gypsy couple chose to walk with Dora and the boy, and, in their talks, the subject was not infrequently religion. Clarence was quick to grasp the truths of faith, and, indeed, became a sort of assistant professor, supplementing the explanations of Dora with knowledge gained from his own wide range of reading.

Pete and his wife were at no pains to conceal their fury at the turn of events brought about by the arrival of Clarence. There was poison in their looks and venom in their tongues. Ezra made himself a sharer of this unlovely couple’s feelings. He hated Clarence intensely; it was hatred born of envy. The memory of his defeat still rankled. One or the other of these three was always watching the boy, night and day.

On this particular morning, Clarence had, after breakfast, wandered into the forest to gather some flowers for Dora’s altar. The little girl had the day previous brought him into her tent and shown him a little shrine of Our Lady Immaculate.

“I pray before it,” she said, “and I have promised our Blessed Mother that if she have me restored to my home, I will join some Order in her honor where I can give most of my time to prayer and meditation.”

“So you intend to become a contemplative?” asked Clarence, looking at the child with renewed interest.

“If God allows me, Clarence, I’d like to sit at the feet of Our Lord forever.”

“Not for me,” said Clarence, “I’d like todothings. The active life suits me. But really that is one of the great things about your Church.”

“OurChurch,” corrected Dora with a smile.

“I can’t say that yet,” said Clarence. “Anyhow, as I was saying, one of the great things about your Church is that it has something to suit the taste of everyone. There’s no end of variety in it. And say, Dora, where do you get all these flowers for your shrine?”

“Ben gets most of them. His wife helps, too. They began doing this long before they thought of becoming Catholics. Ben got me that pretty statue somewhere or other three months ago; and he began bringing flowers almost at once. He built the shrine, too. Whenever he came in up to a few days ago, he always lifted his hat. One day I found him kneeling before it. Since we began instructions, he kneels and makes the sign of the cross.”

“Why don’t you try to get Pete and his wife interested?”

“They never come to my tent; they don’t even know about the shrine. Ben has arranged all that. I believe, if they knew about it, that they would smash the statue in pieces—and as for me, I don’t know what they would do.”

“By George, if I ever can do a good turn for Ben,” exclaimed the boy enthusiastically, “I’ll do it with all my heart. He is so kind and good and gentle. In fact, he seems to be deeply religious.”

“That’s just what I think. His wife is just as good. She has given up fortune-telling, she told me, for good. She says she’d rather starve than do it again. And Ben is figuring now every day how much he has taken dishonestly. He says before he gets baptized he’s going to restore everything that isn’t honestly his.”

“Dora, you’ve done all this.”

“Oh, no, Clarence; I think it must be our Blessed Lady. She hasn’t forgotten a single flower that Ben has brought to her shrine. She’s going to pay him back with interest.”

“You wouldn’t mind, Dora, if I helped gather some flowers, too?”

“Indeed, no; but I want you to do it in honor of the Blessed Virgin.”

“Of course. I’ll get some tomorrow.”

It was in consequence of this conversation, then, that Clarence was wandering in the woods. His quest was disappointing. No flowers greeted his searching eyes. Further and further he wandered. Suddenly, he was roughly seized by the collar from behind, and turning he saw that Pete had him in his vigorous grip, Pete with a branch of willow in his free hand.

“I told you not to try to get away,” snarled the gypsy bringing the branch smartly upon Clarence’s legs.

“Stop that! I wasn’t trying to get away at all.”

For answer, Pete laid the lash unmercifully upon the powerless boy, beating him with all his strength. The pain became so great that Clarence at length unable to restrain himself further burst into a loud cry for mercy.

Pete paused, looking around apprehensively. His keen ear detected the sound of far-off footsteps. Throwing the willow aside, he released his hold on the boy (who sank to the ground writhing in pain) and disappeared in his usually stealthy manner, into the bushes.

It was Ben who had heard the boy’s cry of pain.

“What has happened?” he cried looking with concern upon the writhing lad.

“Pete has given me an awful beating,” answered Clarence, mastering his voice, though the tears were still rolling down his cheeks.

“Why? What did you do?”

“He said I was trying to get away, and I wasn’t. I just came along here looking for flowers for Dora’s shrine. And the worst of it is,” continued the boy with a rueful smile contending with his falling tears, “I didn’t get a single flower.”

“Perhaps that holy woman who is the mother of God will pay you back for every lick you receive. Dora said she is good pay.”

Clarence arose, felt himself gingerly, and breaking into a smile remarked, “If it’s all the same to the Blessed Virgin, I’d prefer to do my trading with her in flowers instead of lashes. Never mind, Mr. Pete, the first chance I get, I’ll fix you all right.”

The chance, it so came to pass, presented itself that very afternoon. They were now some six miles north of the Wisconsin, which they had crossed the preceding day, and had reached a spot on the Mississippi about three miles beyond Prairie du Chien, which is just across the river from McGregor. Clarence, of course, had no idea he was so near the place where his adventures had begun. The boy, still very sore and bruised, again started off along the river’s bank in quest of flowers. Mindful of the beating, he made his way cautiously, warily, determined not to be taken unawares again. Suddenly his alert and attentive ear caught a slight sound. Someone in a grove of trees a few yards above the bank was whittling. Screening himself behind the willows about him, Clarence drew closer, and after a few paces thus taken, discovered Pete, a pipe in his mouth, seated on a log beneath a hollow tree. Pete, as he smoked vigorously, was whittling with a certain air of enjoyment a rather stout branch.

“By Jove,” cried Clarence to himself, “if he’s not getting a rod in pickle for me!” And Clarence felt his legs once more with a tender hand. “He has no right to whack me the way he did. I’m not his son; I’m not in his charge. And I don’t like the look of that rod at all. I wish I could stop him.”

Clarence, securely screened by the bushes, continued to stare and meditate. A bee buzzed by his ear, and then another. Following their flight, he noticed that they disappeared in a hollow of the tree under which the industrious Pete was seated.

Five minutes passed. Pete still smoked and whittled. Then the old leader arose, and with a smile on his countenance, which would in all likelihood throw any child who saw it into convulsions, proceeded to lash the air, holding in his free hand an imaginary victim.

“I guess he thinks it’s myself he’s holding,” murmured the astonished witness of these strange proceedings. “Also, I think I’ll try to find out if there isn’t a bee-hive in that tree.”

As he thus communed with himself, Clarence bent and quickly picked up five stones; then rising, he sent one after the other driving at the hollow spot in the tree. The first stone went wild, the second struck the tree, the third nearly entered the hole, the fourth flew wild, and the fifth——!

So intent was the gypsy upon the imaginary castigation he was inflicting that he was still swishing the air violently when out of the hole flew an army of angry bees. They were not inclined to be dispassionate. Somebody had done them a wrong, and somebody had to suffer for it. The bees were upon the gypsy when he was just putting all his strength into a most vicious swing. He swung that stick no more. With a roar that set the echoes ringing, Pete dropped the stick, and clapping his hands to his head set out at a rate, which, if properly timed, would, no doubt, have created a new record in the way of a fifty-yard dash for the river, into which he plunged with an agility worthy of youth and professional diving.

To the gypsies who, attracted by his yells (for he had yelled all the way to the river’s edge), had gathered on the bank, it appeared that Pete was going in for a long distance swim. In fact, he had almost crossed the river, before he ventured to turn back. Clarence, who had thoughtfully possessed himself of the switch and broken it into minute pieces, was the last to join the eager and mystified watchers.

“What’s the matter?”—“What’s happened?”—These and a dozen similar questions in English and in gypsy patter greeted his arrival.

“I rather think,” said Clarence in his most serious manner, “that Pete must have run up against a swarm of bees, and they weren’t glad to see him. I noticed him a minute ago running for the river with the speed of a deer. It was fine to see him go. It seemed to me that there was a bunch of bees around his head—a sort of a crown of glory—acting as his escort. It’s a pleasure to see a man like Pete run. I’d walk twenty miles to get a treat like that.”

Before Pete had quite achieved his return, Ben called Clarence aside.

“Clarence, you got those bees after Pete.”

“Who told you?”

“Pete’s oldest son; he was watching you.There’s always someone watching you.”

“Great Caesar!” cried Clarence losing all his blitheness, and turning pale as a sheet. “I’m in for it now. He’llkillme?”

“Why did you do it?”

“I could hardly help it. I saw the old sinner sitting right under a bee’s nest fixing up a switch; and I guessed he was fixing it for me. Then he stood up, and began switching somebody with an unholy joy on his measly old face, and Iknewhe was switching me. I couldn’t stand for that, and I began letting fly stones at the hole in the tree, and that old pirate was so enjoying the imaginary whipping he was giving me that he didn’t notice a thing till the bees came out in a body and took a hand. It wasn’t so very bad, was it, Ben?”

Ben grinned.

“It was good for him,” he made answer.

“But what am I to do? I don’t want any more whippings like I got this morning.”

“It’s all right for a while, anyhow,” returned Ben. “I’ve told Pete’s son that if he says a word about it to anyone I’ll give him what you would get. I’ve scared him, and he’s promised to keep quiet.”

“Oh, thank you, Ben,” cried Clarence, who had been thoroughly frightened. “You’re splendid; and if ever I can do anything for you and yours, I’ll do it, no matter what. Say, look at the old fox. Isn’t he a sight?”

Pete had just reached dry land. His appearance justified Master Clarence’s remark. Looking at his neck, one might surmise that Pete was suffering from goiter aggravated by an extreme case of mumps. As for his face, it gave one the impression that Pete had engaged in a prize fight, and remained in the ring for several rounds after he had been defeated. Pete, punctuating his steps with a fine flow of profanity, made for the larger tent. He was seen no more that day.

Clarence having made a most unsuccessful attempt to look sympathetic, went to the river and took a swim. Clarence knew the river now; it had no terrors for him. Whenever he went swimming (and he had been doing this several times each day) one or another of the gypsy men followed him into the water.

That evening, having finished, amid great enthusiasm on the part of his auditors, Treasure Island, Clarence contrived to have a few words in private with Dora.

“Dora,” he said, “I’ve been thinking and thinking how you and I can get away together; but I can’t see any way.”

“It’s no use to try,” said Dora.

“But I can get away by myself, I think. I’ve got it figured out.”

“You can!”

“Yes, I think so. Of course, there’s danger in it. But I’d rather die than get another such a whipping as that old buccaneer gave me today. All the same, I hate to leave you here.”

“Don’t take any big risks, Clarence.”

“But if I go, I’ll never forget you; and, if I can, I’ll see that you are freed.”

“You won’t be able to do it. If you were to get free, Pete would use some means or other to spirit me away.”

“We’ll see,” said Clarence. “Will you pray that I may succeed?”

“Indeed, I will. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t want to say anything yet. It may be a week before things come right. Good night, Dora; and don’t forget me.”

CHAPTER X

In which Clarence engages in a swimming race, and to the consternation of Dora, disappears in the waters of the Mississippi.

On the following day, the camp did not break up at the usual early hour. Pete remained in his tent nursing his injuries. The gypsies were kept mindful of his presence, now by an occasional bellow from the leader, now by a roaring burst of profanity. Ben had disappeared early in the morning; and it was for him they were waiting before they proceeded further.

It was nearly noon-time when he returned. After an interview with Pete, he called Clarence aside.

“Do you know where I have been, my boy?”

“No; where?”

“To McGregor.”

“You have! Is it far from here?”

“It’s ten miles down the river.”

“And what about my parents?”

“They stayed over at McGregor till yesterday afternoon, hoping to recover your body.”

“My body?”

“Yes. They are sure you were drowned. They have been dragging the river for you ever since you disappeared. Yesterday, your father had to leave. There’s a reward of one thousand dollars for your body.”

“Gee! I didn’t know I was worth that much.”

“Clarence,” continued Ben, “I’m sorry we’ve kept you. It isn’t all my fault. And I’m sorry about Dora. Pete is a born kidnapper; and he has more power than me. Anyhow, no matter what happens, so long as I’m alive I’ll see that no harm comes to that dear little girl.”

“Ben, you are a good fellow.” And Clarence shook Ben’s hand with vigor.

Within fifteen minutes the gypsies were on the road. They made only five or six miles that day, and about two hours before sunset pitched their tents in a clearing at the river side about fifteen miles north of Prairie du Chien.

Clarence, at the first opportunity, went to the river and looked about for a good place to swim. There was no need for a search. The suitable place was awaiting him. He had hardly got into his bathing suit when Ezra appeared and, saying little, followed him into the water.

Ezra was a good swimmer. He used a powerful overhand stroke.

“Say, Ezra, why do you always swim overhand?”

“It’s the best and swiftest,” answered the gypsy boy.

“It may be the swiftest,” returned Clarence; “but it’s no good for a long swim. I prefer going sailor fashion.”

“It’s the best for a long swim, if you’ve got the strength to keep it up,” retorted Ezra.

“All the same,” said Clarence, “I’ve got to see the boy who can beat me out in a long distance swim, if he sticks to the overhand.”

“You mean to say you can beat me?” said Ezra.

“Of course, I can,” returned Clarence superbly. “I can beat you or any of your family.”

“You see that island in the middle of the river?” asked Ezra, pointing as he spoke to a long, low island nearly a mile in length. Clarence looked at it intently. It was thickly wooded and ended to the south in a clump of willows deeply submerged in the water. The two boys were bathing in a spot facing almost directly the middle of the long island.

“It seems to me I do,” answered Clarence; “and it must be at least half a mile from us.”

“I’ll race you to the island,” said Ezra.

“You’ll lose,” returned Clarence.

“Hey!” cried Ezra, “hey, Ben! this kid says he can beat me to that island. May I race him?”

“Come here, you two,” said Ben, approaching them. As Pete was still nursing an inflamed neck, face, and temper, Ben was now in command of the camp. “Here’s a good place for diving off,” he continued, pointing to a spot where the bank rose three feet or more above the water’s edge. “Stand back, both of you, on a line with me, and when I say ‘go’ start out with a good dive.”

The two lads ranged themselves beside Ben. Clarence appeared to be unusually serious. One would think, looking upon him just then, that the winning of this race was to him a matter of life and death. The color had almost entirely left his cheeks, his mouth was closed tight, his chin thrown out, and his whole poise indicated supreme earnestness.

“Are you both ready?” asked Ben.

“I am,” returned Ezra, who was quite cool and perfectly confident.

“Wait one second,” said Clarence. Then he gravely bowed his head and made the Sign of the Cross.

“Wait!” came another voice; and all three turning saw Pete’s wife hurrying towards them.

Holding out a skinny finger and pointing it impressively at Clarence, she screamed:

“May you sink, and never come up. May you drown, and your body never be found. May my curse follow you into the other world.”

“Is that all, ma’am?” asked Clarence breaking into his sunniest smile.

The woman choked with rage. She tried to speak, but words and voice both failed her.

“Come on, boys,” resumed Ben. “Ready?”

“Yes,” answered the two in a breath.

“Go!”

At the word, the boys sprang into the water. Both disappeared beneath the surface at the same time. Within a few seconds, Ezra emerged and his hands rose high and fast above his head in the overhand stroke. Several seconds passed, and those watching on the shore began to show signs of nervousness. All the gypsies, save, of course, the snarling and profane invalid, were now gathered together beside Ben. Even Dora, who was never to be seen at the river side when the men were swimming, had joined the gazers, standing a few yards apart.

“Oh, Ben,” she cried, “what’s happened to Clarence?”

Ben made no answer. Scanning the surface of the river intently, he was pulling off his shoes.

“He’s drowned! He’s drowned!” screamed the gypsy hag. “My curse has fallen.” Her laugh, horrible to the ear, rang out carrying in its undertones all manner of evil omen.

As the woman was speaking, Dora fell upon her knees.

“Holy Mary,” she cried aloud, “save your dear child, Clarence. Remember he is not baptized.”

The girl had not yet finished her adjuration when a great shout arose from the men and shrill screams from the children. Far out, fully five yards ahead of Ezra and as many yards further down stream, Clarence came to the surface. The boy had been the best long distance diver of all the youngsters attending Clermont Academy, the eastern boarding school.

A howl of rage arose from the old woman.

“Get up! Get up!” she cried, rushing with outstretched and hooked claws at the kneeling girl. It was only by the quickest of movements that Ben was able to save the child from bodily injury. As it was, the woman dashed into Ben’s rigid and protecting elbow, and, doubled up with pain, retired shrieking and cursing to the genial companionship of her husband.

Meantime the race went on bravely. The two boys for the next ten minutes retained their respective positions, with, however, one point of difference. Ezra was swimming in almost a direct line; Clarence was being carried down the river by the current. As the moments passed, the distance between the two visibly widened.

Ben was wringing his hands and frowning.

“What is it, Ben?” asked Dora. “Is there any danger? Is there anything wrong?”

“I’m afraid,” Ben made answer, “that if Clarence doesn’t fight the current more strongly, he may be carried down below the island. Unless he’s a wonderful swimmer, there will be danger.”

Ben’s forebodings promised, as the moments went on, to be justified. Both boys were nearing the island, Ezra not more than twenty yards below the point from which he had set out. Clarence quite near the clump of southernmost willows.

“Do you think he’ll reach it?” cried the girl.

“I hope so; I don’t know.”

Once more Dora fell upon her knees, and crossing herself, prayed with streaming eyes to the heavenly Mother in whom she ever confided.

“Look,” cried Ben. “Ezra has reached the island. And Clarence is trying to swim upstream so as not to miss it. My God!” he continued, “I do believe he’s giving out!”

A deathly silence had come upon all. Clarence was swimming wildly. He had abandoned the sailor stroke and was beating the water with aimless hands. On the stillness his voice reached them.

“Help! Help!” he cried.

Then throwing up his hands, apparently within a few yards of the willows, he disappeared in the calm river.

CHAPTER XI

In which John Rieler of Campion College, greatly daring, goes swimming alone, finds a companion, and acts in such a manner as to bring to Campion College the strangest, oddest boy visitor that ever entered its portals.

It was thirteen minutes to ten on the following morning when Master John Rieler of Campion College, second-year high, discovered that he earnestly desired to be excused from the classroom. It was a very warm day for September, the sun was shining with midsummer fervor, and John Rieler, who had spent the vacation on the banks of the Miami—whenever, that is, he did not happen to be between the banks—felt surging within him the call of the water. John, a smiling, good-natured native of Cincinnati, was in summer months apparently more at home in the water than on the land. One of the anxieties of his parents in vacation time was to see that he did not swim too much, to the certain danger of his still unformed constitution.

For various reasons, connected more or less with the discipline of Campion College, John had had no swim since his arrival seven days before. He was filled with a mad desire to kick and splash. And so, at thirteen minutes to ten, he held up the hand of entreaty, endeavoring at the same time to look ill and gloomy.

John had figured out everything. As recess was at ten o’clock, the teacher would not call him to account for failing to return. The recess lasted fifteen minutes, giving the boy twenty-eight minutes to go to the river, take a morning splash and return. Of course, there were risks; but in John’s mind the risks were well worth taking.

The boy, on receiving permission, was quick to make his way down the stairs of the classroom building, and, turning to the back of the small boys’ department and hugging the wall closely, he reached the shaded avenue leading from Church Street up to Campion College. Along this avenue was a cement sidewalk bordered on one side by a line of young poplars and on the other, below a terrace of some three or four feet, by another of ancient and umbrageous box-elders. The cement walk was too conspicuous; the graded road beside it equally so. Master John Rieler, therefore, wisely chose the abandoned path below; and doubling himself up, so as to escape the attention of the Brother in the garden, ran swiftly on. Church Street, leading to the city of Prairie du Chien, was passed in safety. The worst was over. An open road, really an abandoned street, left to itself by the march of the city northward, the Chicago, Milwaukee, and St. Paul track, and then, within a few yards, the bank of the inviting Mississippi.

A boat-landing, projecting quite a distance into the river, the property of the Jesuit Fathers at Campion, was awaiting the daring youth from which to dive.

He was at the further end of it in a trice, kicked off his shoes and stockings, and with the amazing rapidity of small boys when so inclined, was disrobed in almost the time it takes to tell it. With the slight delay of making a hurried but fervent sign of the cross, John took a header, rose, struck out vigorously, and having reached a distance midway between the landing and Campion Island, threw himself contentedly on his back and floated in an ecstasy of satisfaction.

“Ah!” he sighed, “how I wish I could stay right here till dinner time.”

Presently he turned over quietly, and as his ears rose above the water, he thought he heard a splash a little above him. Beating with hands and feet, he raised himself as high as he could out of the water and looked in the direction whence the sound came.

Was that a hand—two hands—was it the head of a swimmer? John was puzzled. Even as he looked, the supposed head seemed to disappear. John swam towards the spot. As he drew near—there could be no mistake that time—a human head rose to the surface and almost at once disappeared again! Frantically John swam forward. As he came close to the place where the head disappeared, a slight bubbling on the water’s surface caught his eye. Throwing himself forward with one almost super-human stroke, John reached down with his foremost hand—the right—and caught an arm. Up there came to the surface the face of a boy, lips ghastly blue, face deathly pale, corn-flower blue eyes that opened for a moment and, even as the tongue gasped out, “Help me, for God’s sake,” closed again.

Putting his hand under the body of the unresisting boy, John Rieler made for the shore. It was an easy rescue. The boy on his arm was unconscious and John Rieler was as much at home in the water as it is possible for any creature short of the amphibious to be.

On getting the boy to land, he lifted him upon the wooden platform of the pier, turned him on his back, raised him up by the feet, and satisfied that the strangers lungs were not filled with water, rolled him over face upward and caught him vigorously on both sides between the ribs.

“Stop your tickling, Jock,” came a weak voice. Eyes of blue, much bluer than the swimming suit of their owner, opened and shut again.

“Say, you’re not dead, are you?”

“Of course, I’m dead,” replied the blue-eyed one sitting up. “If I weren’t, do you think I’d be talking to you?”

“I—I—thought you were drowned.”

“Well, I’m not. How did I get here?”

“I fished you out. You were bobbing up and down there, and I just managed to get you as you went under for the last time, I suppose. How do you feel now?”

“Hungry,” said the other, arising.

“Who are you anyhow?”

“I’m Clarence Esmond. Say, I’m starving!” And Clarence took a few steps with some difficulty.

John Rieler thought quickly, dressing rapidly as he did so.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said earnestly. “You come with me till we get to Campion College. I’d like to bring you in myself; but I don’t see how I can do it without getting into trouble. Come on now; you’re cold, aren’t you?”

“Numb to the bone.”

“Here take my coat till we get to the College. There—that’ll warm you up some. Can you run?”

“I can try.”

“That’ll warm you some more.” With this John Rieler put his arm about Clarence and swept him up the shore.

Clarence was exhausted; but the strong arm of the boy held him securely and so the twain made their way at a brisk trot.

“Now, look here,” said Rieler as they reached the end of the street, and stood within a few feet of the Campion faculty residence, “you give me that coat; I’m going in by the back way. You walk straight on to where you see those steps. You go up those steps and ring the bell. The Brother will come, and you just tell him you’re hungry and you want to see the Rector. Good-bye. Don’t tell anyone you saw me. My name’s John Rieler. Now be sure and do just what I tell you and keep mum.”

“Thank you. I—I can’t talk. Good-bye.”

When the Brother-porter came to the door in response to the bell a moment later, he jumped back at sight of the apparition in the blue swimming suit.

“Ach Himmel!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands. The Brother was not an Irishman.

“Please, sir, I’m hungry and I want to see the Rector.”

“Come—this way.”

Following his startled and disturbed guide, Clarence was escorted into the parlor.

“Sit down while I go for the Rector,” and saying something that sounded like “Grosser Gott,” the Brother left Clarence shivering in a chair and surveying his new surroundings.

“Oh, Father Rector,” cried the porter as he opened the President’s door, “there’s a boy in the parlor who’s hungry and wants to see you.”

The Reverend Rector, busy with the morning’s mail, raised his head and said:

“A new pupil, I suppose.”

“I—I—think not,” answered the Brother, fidgeting upon his feet.

“Why, what are you so excited about?”

“He—he’s dressed only in a swimming suit. It’s blue.”

“Oh, he is. Well, at any rate,” said the Rector, inscrutable of face, “he’s brought his trunks along.”

“No, Father, he’s brought nothing but his swimming suit.”

“Exactly; he’s brought his trunks along. Think about it, Brother, and you’ll see I’m right.”

The good Brother has thought about it many a time since that day. He does not see it yet.

When, a few moments later, the President of Campion College stepped into the parlor, he, too, prepared though he had been, was startled beyond measure. He did not, however, manifest any sign of his feelings. Long experience in boarding schools had given him the power of preserving stoical immobility under circumstances no matter how extraordinary.

It was not, as he had expected, a boy in a bathing suit that confronted his gaze, but a creature wrapped from head to foot, Indian-like, in a table covering, predominantly red, appropriated, as was evident, from the center-table of the parlor.

CHAPTER XII

In which Clarence relieves the reader of all possible doubts concerning his ability as a trencherman, and the Reverend Rector of Campion reads disastrous news.

Throwing up the window-shades, the President hurried over to the boy, who had arisen at his entrance, and took a sharp look at the blue lips and the pallid face.

“Sit down,” he said, “and wait till I come back.”

Father Keenan, who at that time happened to be President of Campion College, bolted from the room—a most undignified thing for a Rector to do. On his way out, he detected hanging on a chair in the obscurest corner of the parlor the dripping “trunks” which were still puzzling the good porter. That much-perturbed man was standing outside in anticipation of further orders.

“Brother, go to the refectory and tell the refectorian to get up a quick breakfast for a hungry boy. Then go to the clothes-keeper and get a complete outfit of clothes for a fourteen-year-old and have them in the parlor inside of ten minutes. If the clothes-keeper says he hasn’t any, tell him to steal them.”

The words were not well out of Father Keenan’s mouth when he was dashing along the corridor. The infirmary was close at hand, and the infirmarian in his office.

“Here quick, drink this down,” cried the Rector a moment later, putting to the young Indian’s mouth a small glass of cognac.

Clarence swallowed it at a gulp, whereupon while he coughed and choked and sputtered, the Rector, a veritable Good Samaritan, threw a heavy overcoat, which he had brought with him, over the flaming table cover.

“Does it burn?” asked the Rector, referring not to the coat but the cognac.

“I—I’m not a regular drinker,” said the youth wrapping the coat about him and breaking into the ghost of his old smile.

“This way, now,” continued Father Keenan, catching the boy’s arm; and he led him into the corridor.

The boy’s steps were faltering, and the Rector at once, noticing his weakness, caught him about the waist much as John Rieler had done, and bundled him into the refectory.

“This way, Father,” said the refectorian, trying to look as though he were accustomed to feeding bare-legged boys attired in table-covers and winter overcoats in summer-time; and the “Squire,” as he was popularly known among the students of Campion, pointed to a seat in front of which waited a plate of toast, a juicy bit of beefsteak and a huge slice of cornbread.

At sight of the food, Clarence slipped from the Rector’s grasp and fell unbidden into the seat.

For the next five minutes he showed that in the matter of eating he was perfectly able to take care of himself.

The Rector and the Squire interrupted their observation of the much occupied youth by gazing at each other now and then and exchanging smiles of wonder and admiration.

“If you’re thinking of coming to school here, my boy,” observed the Rector, when Clarence had disposed of all the beefsteak and most of the toast and three-fourths of the cornbread, “I fancy we’ll have to board you on the European plan.”

Clarence lifted his eyes and smiled in his old way.

“Excuse haste and an empty stomach,” he said.

The Rector laughed in a manner most undignified. In fact, he was so undignified, be it said, that everybody respected him.

“What makes you so hungry?” he asked.

“Because I’ve eaten nothing since ten o’clock yesterday morning.”

“Where on earth have you been?”

“I was with gypsies till yesterday evening; but I left without taking my supper.”

“Who in the world are you?”

“My name is Clarence Esmond. About a week ago I was over at McGregor—”

“Halloa!” cried the Rector. “Why, they’re dragging the river for you.”

“They might as well stop; it’s no use,” said Clarence, taking the last piece of toast and looking regretfully at the empty beefsteak dish.

“My, but this is an adventure!” exclaimed the President. “So you’re not a moist corpse after all.”

The Squire’s eyes were sticking out of his head.

“If you were only dead,” he said to Clarence, “you’d be worth a thousand dollars to me.”

“I’m sorry I can’t please everybody,” said the youth, taking up the last slab of cornbread. “Am I expected to apologize for being alive?”

“Did you sleep last night?” continued the Rector.

“How could I? I was in the river most of the time.”

“But the river,” said the Rector, “has a very fine bed.”

Clarence broke into laughter.

“Thank you so much, sir,” he said, “I never, never, never enjoyed a meal so much in all my born days.”

“You’re welcome,” said Father Keenan. He turned to the wide-eyed squire, adjuring that thoroughly excited young man to go see whether the complete outfit of clothing were awaiting Clarence in the parlor. Their talk was brief; but when Father Keenan turned to address Clarence, the lad’s head was sunk upon his breast. He was sound asleep.

“Never mind about those clothes, Squire; or, rather, have them sent over to the infirmary.” Saying which, Father Keenan took Clarence, including table-cover and coat, in his arms, and conveyed him to the infirmary, where, warmly wrapped in a comfortable bed, he slept unbrokenly till after five o’clock in the afternoon.

Returning to his room, the Rector took up the morning paper. In examining the mail, he had, when Clarence’s arrival interrupted him, noticed the large headlines announcing a dreadful railroad wreck in the west; a broken bridge, a Pullman sleeper and a passenger car immersed in a flooded river. Suddenly, as his eyes ran down the list of the missing, he gasped.

For there in black type were the names of Mr. Charles Esmond, mining expert, and wife.

CHAPTER XIII

In which Clarence as the guest of Campion College makes an ineffectual effort to bow out the Bright-eyed Goddess of Adventure.

Father George Keenan, while Clarence slept, was an unusually busy man. He telephoned, he wrote letters, he sent telegrams. All the machinery of communication was put into requisition. Within an hour the work of dragging the water near Pictured Rocks was discontinued; by noontime a telegram arrived saying that Mr. and Mrs. Esmond were still missing and were in all probability drowned or burned to death; and early in the afternoon the proprietor of a hotel in McGregor arrived in person. The Esmonds had been at his place and had gone, leaving as their address “The Metropole,” Los Angeles, California. But alas, they had not reached their proposed destination.

The hotel man was conducted by the Rector into the infirmary and brought to the side of the sleeping boy. He was breathing softly, the roses had returned to his cheeks and his head was pillowed in his right hand.

“That’s him, all right,” said the hotel keeper after a brief survey. “I’d know him anywheres. There ain’t many boys around here got such rosy cheeks and such fair complexions. There ain’t many boys who’ve got such bright, fluffy hair, and I don’t know a single one who’s got his hair bobbed the way he has.”

On returning to his room, Father Keenan opened a special drawer in his desk and sorted out from a bundle of papers an envelope with a post-mark indicating that it had reached him several days before. He took out the letter and read it again.

“Dear Father Keenan: Probably you don’t remember me. I was a boy with you at St. Maure’s College—and a very poor boy at that. Other fellows had pocket money; I had none—most of the time. I hadn’t been there long when you ‘caught on,’ as we used to say. During the five months we were together you seemed to know when I needed a nickel or a dime, and, in a way that wasyours, you managed to keep me supplied. I say it wasyourway, for you got me to take the money as though I were doing you a favor. The amount you gave me must have been six or seven dollars, all told; and I really don’t think I had sense enough at the time to understand how really kind you were. Many years have passed, and the older I get, the more grateful I feel. Up to a few years ago, I had lost track of you completely. I didn’t know even that you had become a Jesuit. Well, Father George, I happened to see in our Catholic paper last week that you were Rector of Campion College, a boarding school. If you are one-tenth as kind to the boys under your care as you were to me, you’ll be just the sort of President needed in such a place. The memory of our days in St. Maure’s has helped me to live a good life and to practice my faith, surrounded though I be with enemies of the Church. There are three Catholic families here in a population of three thousand. God has blessed me in my business. I have my own home, a loving wife and five of the nicest children in the State of Missouri. Also, to speak of things more material, a grain store and a comfortable bank account.

“I am sending you with this a check for one hundred dollars, payment on your loans of pocket money with compound interest, and then some. Of course, you may do with the money as you please. But if I may make a suggestion—don’t think me sentimental—it would please me if you were to put aside forty or fifty dollars of it to help out some poor boy in the way of clothes, books, and pocket money.

“In sending you this I do not wish you to consider our account closed. So long as God continues to bless and prosper me, I intend sending you from time to time—every quarter, I trust—a like donation. May the money I send do as much good as you did me.

“I still remember the old boys of our day affectionately. Nearly all of them were kind to me. One in particular, a black-haired, dark-complexioned, mischievous little fellow, who was full of heart, I can never forget. I never met him but he sent me off supplied with candy. His name was Tom Playfair. What’s become of him?

“Pray for me, dear Father George, and especially for my wife, who is an angel, and our children, who promise to be worthy of their mother. My love and my gratitude go with this letter.

“Sincerely and gratefully,

“John S. Wilcox.”

“Strange!” meditated the Rector. “I just remember Wilcox; but I donotremember ever having given him a cent. Anyhow, I see my way to spend that fifty dollars as he suggests. Poor Esmond is an orphan, I fear. Well, the money goes to him.”

On getting word at half-past five o’clock that Master Esmond was awake and calling for food, Father Keenan hastened to the infirmary.

Clarence, fully dressed in a “purloined” set of clothes, was seated at a table and vigorously attacking a large slab of cornbread, a dish of hash, and a plate of pancakes. In the attack, executed with neatness and dispatch, and in which the youth played no favorites, Clarence had already aroused the amused admiration of the Brother Infirmarian.

“How do you do, Father Rector?” cried the boy, rising and bowing. “I feel able now to tell you that I’m grateful to you beyond words for your kindness. Your breakfast was the best breakfast ever served, that bed I slept on the softest, this supper the finest I could get, and the Brother, who’s been waiting on me as though I were the Prodigal Son is as kind and hospitable as though he took me for an angel.”

“Nobody would take you for an angel who saw you eating,” said the big Brother with a chuckle.

“How do you feel, my boy?” asked the Rector, as, catching Clarence by the shoulders, he forced him back into his seat.

“Feel? I feel like a morning star. I feel like a fighting-cock.”

“Ready, I suppose, for any sort of adventure?”

Clarence laid down his knife and fork once more.

“Adventure! Excuseme. I’ve got over that period of my life for good. No more adventures for me. Only a few days ago I came down the street of McGregor just crazy for adventure. I called her the bright-eyed goddess. I actually invoked her. I begged her to get out her finest assortment of adventures and show me. Well, she did. She got hold of me, and she didn’t let go till I got to bed here this morning. Oh, no. No more bright-eyed goddess for me. If I were to see her coming along the street, I’d duck into a back alley. I’m through with her ladyship for the rest of my natural life.”

“Indeed?” said the Rector.

Clarence was mistaken. The bright-eyed goddess was not done with him yet.

Back to Index Next