CHAPTER XIV

In which Clarence tells his story and gets the Reverend Rector to take a hand against the Bright-eyed Goddess.

“Suppose,” suggested the College President, as Clarence with a sigh of satisfaction came to an end of his meal, “you tell us your story.”

“It is a long one.”

“Wait till I come back,” implored the Infirmarian. “I want to hear it. I’ve been infirmarian in boarding college a great many years, but I’ve never yet seen any sick boy quite so healthy and with such an appetite as Clarence.”

“Thank you for the compliment, Brother. I often feel like apologizing for that appetite of mine.”

“Clarence,” said the Rector as the Infirmarian went off with the empty dishes, “have you any relations, besides your father and mother, living?”

“Just stacks of them, sir.”

“Where are they?”

“There are some in England; a lot of them, on my mother’s side, in Ireland—and oh, yes, I’ve a cousin and his family in New York.”

“Do you know the address of any of them?”

“I really don’t. You know I’ve been at Clermont Academy, a boarding school in New York State, since I was eleven, and I’ve lost track of all of them pretty much.”

“What about your cousin in New York City?”

“I do not even know where he lives. You see, he just came to this country from Ireland a month ago. He brought his family along, and they were still looking for a house when I last saw them three weeks ago.”

“Anyhow, they’re in New York City?”

“I think that’s pretty certain.”

“Very good,” said the Rector, taking out a small memorandum book and making a note.

“Well, let’s have that story,” cried the big Infirmarian, as he re-entered. He was eager as a small boy waiting his turn for the pie to come down the table.

Clarence began with his departure from McGregor, the climb up and beyond Pictured Rocks, his long ride on the river, his encounter with the gypsies, his friendship for Ben, his long talks and walks with Dora, his troubles with Pete and his shrewish wife, his frequent swims in the river.

“And,” he continued, “when I made up my mind to get away somehow or other, I was hard as nails; I could swim for any length of time, it seemed to me, without losing my wind or my strength; and I could eat like a horse.”

“We all know that,” said the Infirmarian.

“And how did you manage to escape?”

“It came about just the way I wanted. Yesterday afternoon we pitched camp at a place right opposite a long island. I went in swimming and began to brag purposely to Ezra about what I could do. I let him know that I thought I could beat him. As a matter of fact, I really think I can. Ezra bit. He challenged me to race him to the island. That was just what I wanted. The old hag, Pete’s wife, came over and cursed me, just before Ben gave us the signal to go. But I didn’t mind that. Curses, like chickens, come home to roost, you know.

“Well, at Ben’s word we plunged into the water, and I kept under till I thought I’d burst. When I came up, I was some distance down stream; and all the way over I kept drifting down. Of course, it looked as if it were not done on purpose—at least I think it did. By the time Ezra was within a few yards of the island almost straight across from where he had started, I was away down near the end of the island, almost or quite half a mile away. Then I began to pretend I was trying to swim upstream and couldn’t do it. When within five yards or so of the very end of the island where there were lots of willows and bushes, I started to splashing wildly as though I had lost my head. I turned towards the shore, gave one last look, and shouted, ‘Help! help!’ I’ll never forget what I saw in that moment. In front of the tent, Pete’s wife was standing with her hands—clawlike old talons—stretched out, palms down, as though she were trying to force me under water; near the edge of the river, Dora, in her white dress, was kneeling, and I could guess she was praying for me.”

Clarence paused a moment.

“Do you know,” he said gravely, “I feel now as I felt all last night, as though her prayers kept with me like an army of little angels. Tennyson says, ‘More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.’ I knew the line over a year ago. Now I know the meaning. Anyhow, after giving that yell for help, I let myself sink and then, under the water, I got to those willows which I forgot to tell you were partly under water. It seemed to me as I felt my way from trunk to trunk that I’d explode if I didn’t get air. I’ve stayed under water many a time; but I never stayed under so long before. When I did come to the surface, I came up cautiously, came face upward, so as to get just my eyes, my mouth, and, because I couldn’t help it, my nose out of water. It was all right. Between me and the gypsies was that clump of willows and I was in a little bay surrounded on three sides by trees and bushes. I lay on my back just long enough to get my breath, and kicked myself down till I came near the end of the inlet. Then I took a deep breath, and dived so as to get out beyond the island in the main current. The dive was a success. When I came up, I lay on my back with only my nose sticking out of the water and let the current carry me along until it grew dark.”

“What were the gypsies doing?” asked the Brother Infirmarian.

“I don’t know. I suppose they took it for granted I was drowned. You see, I wasn’t such a bad actor, and I did my part all right; and besides, they are very superstitious and believe that Pete’s wife has all kinds of power. She told them I was to drown, and that made it doubly certain to them. From what I know of them, I guess Ben came over and searched for my body half the night.”

“And what did you do when the dark came on?” asked the Rector.

“I reversed myself and began swimming. After a while I got awful chilly; so I went to the bank and went through all sorts of Delsarte movements to get warm. This took me from fifteen minutes to half an hour. Then I went in again and swam and floated till I felt I was freezing. I took to the shore again, and ran and jumped as long as I could, and that’s the way it went on the whole night. It was the longest night ever. Every minute got me hungrier and chillier. I didn’t notice the hunger so much; but it seems to me that I’d never, never be warm again. Oh, wasn’t I glad when the dawn came, and didn’t I pray for a hot sun. When the sun did rise, I saw that I was getting near a big town, and I looked about for some place to land. Somehow, I couldn’t quite make up my mind.”

“Why not?” asked the Rector.

“I didn’t like the way I was dressed. Bathing suits are all right for the water, but for company—I may be all sorts of an idiot, but I’m not as nervy as the average summer girl. No decent boy is.”

“Oh, Lord!” gasped the Rector.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Go on, my boy.”

“Well, I got past the city which, I saw on a sign at a boat landing, was Prairie du Chien, and—no, not quite past. A little after swimming under the bridge, I saw a building—a great big building that looked like a college. It was just beyond the railroad tracks, and it had a beautiful grove of trees just below the building itself. Right on the shore was a lot of weeds that had been cut and been lying there long enough to dry. There was nobody in sight, and so I slipped ashore and covered myself up in the weeds, and tried to get warm. I was there a long time; and it was a long time before I began to get anyways warm. Oh, it was delicious that feeling of warmth coming back slowly but surely. Really, I’d have gone to sleep, only something else began to go wrong.”

“Did the jiggers get you?” asked the Brother.

“No; it wasn’t ants or jiggers or bugs of any kind. It was my little ‘tummy.’ The warmer I got, the hungrier I got. If I had a thousand dollars then, I’d have handed it over gladly for a hunk of bread. After a while, I forgot I had ever been cold, but I was famishing. So I threw off the weeds, put on my bathing suit, and started for that building. I was afraid of my life of being seen by women-folks, so I crawled and walked and crawled. It was slow work. Well, anyhow, I got to the fence leading into those grounds and was just climbing over when down from the building came running and dancing a whole raft of little girls!”

“You struck St. Mary’s Academy, a boarding school for girls,” said the Brother, sympathetically. The Rector’s face was buried in his handkerchief. He was not weeping.

“One little devil—Oh, excuse me—one little double-pigtailed, blue-ribboned thing in the lead saw me and let out a yell. That got me going, and I jumped off that fence and sprinted for the river at the rate of one hundred yards in 9-4/5 seconds—at least, that’s what I thought I was doing, and the screams of all those girls behind me helped me to keep up my clip to the end. I’m sure they thought I was a burglar.”

“Anyhow,” said the Rector consolingly, “they won’t know you again.”

“I should say not. After this I intend paying visits in regulation costume. Well, then, I got into the river, clean blown. I was too tired to swim; so I just lay on my back, and paddled now and then with my feet. The cold got me again in a few minutes; my teeth began to chatter. Oh, it was awful. And then—then I swam and afterward began to lose all feeling, and then I lost consciousness and—I got here.”

“Oh, most lame and impotent conclusion,” said the Rector eyeing the boy sharply. “You’ve left something out.”

“So I have, Father, but I don’t think I have any right to tell the last part.”

The Rector looked puzzled.

“Very well,” he said presently. “Even as it is, it is a wonderful story. In fact, it’s a twentieth century romance. What was the last name of that child Dora?”

“Well, I declare!” said the youth. “It never occurred to me to think she had another name. All I know is that she came from near Dayton, Ohio. Oh, what an ass I am.”

“You might sing that opinion of yourself to the air of ‘My Country, ’tis of Thee,’” suggested the Infirmarian. “We call it the Siamese national hymn.” And he warbled slowly and solemnly to the well-known national air, the words, “O Vatana Siam.” “It will do you lots of good when you feel rather foolish.”

Just then, and while Master Clarence began assuring himself in liquid notes of what an awful ass he was, there came a timid knock at the door.

“Come in,” cried the Infirmarian.

“Is Father Rector in there?” came a much agitated voice, as the door opened a few inches without revealing who was without.

“Excuse me,” said the Rector, leaving the two to sing as a duet “O Vatana Siam.” Every note of it and the entire sentiment filled Clarence with pure joy.

Despite their long drawn and pathetic warbling, the two within caught the sounds of earnest voices without. After singing the air with the self-same words nearly a dozen times, and coming at length to the invariable ending “Vatana Siam” in the enunciation of which Clarence succeeded in outdoing all his previous efforts, the door suddenly opened, and the Rector entered, bringing with him, very red and very confused, Master John Rieler.

“Behold!” he cried, “your preserver, Clarence!”

“Whoop!” cried the singer, jumping forward and almost throwing himself into Rieler’s arms. “You’ve told on yourself, have you?”

“I had to,” said John, shaking Clarence’s two hands. “When I got back to class I began to worry. It wasn’t the going out of bounds, and it wasn’t the swim. I guess that finding of you in the water got on my nerves. I wasn’t scared at the time; but the more I got thinking of it afterwards, the more scared I got. It seemed so odd. And then I had a lot to explain to the teacher, and I couldn’t do it. Anyhow, I couldn’t eat any supper.”

“Oh, I say!” protested the Infirmarian, who happened to be well acquainted with Master Rieler’s efficiency as a trencherman.

“It’s so, all the same. Honest to goodness!” protested the youth, his eyes and features expressing depths of astonishment at himself. “I just actually couldn’t eat.” He paused a minute and added wistfully. “I could now.”

The Rector had put on his face of Indian immobility.

“John Rieler,” he said gravely, “there are two things to be considered in your conduct this morning. First, there is your going out of bounds and taking a swim without permission. Secondly, there’s your saving Clarence Esmond from drowning. For the first, you are to be punished.”

“Father Rector,” protested John earnestly. “I’ll not do it again. I’ll never jump bounds any more this year. I missed Holy Communion this morning, and it was a mistake. Right after supper, only a few minutes ago, I went to Confession, and I hope I’ll never miss a single day’s Communion till further notice.”

“Your punishment,” continued the Rector slowly and impressively—

“Oh, Father,” broke in Clarence in great alarm.

“Your punishment,” repeated the Rector, looking severely at Clarence, “will be not to go in swimming on any account, on any pretext, with or without companions, from the first of December till the first of April.”

“All right, Father,” said John, humbly. He was filled with a sense of the terrible penalty exacted of him till he noticed Clarence’s ecstatic grin. Then his mind fell to considering the dates, and he grinned also.

“As for saving Clarence’s life,” the Rector went on, “I don’t see well how I can reward you properly.”

“I’m worth one thousand dollars, cold,” said Clarence.

“Exactly,” said the Rector, “and the fact of your being alive does not depreciate your value entirely.”

“No, not entirely,” assented the Brother, as though yielding a point.

“Anyhow, I should like to reward you, John. Now, is there anything occurs to you I can do for you?”

“I’m awful hungry,” said John modestly.

“Appetite,” observed the Rector, “waits on a good confession. Brother, can’t you set this boy up to something extra?”

“Beefsteak and onions, cornbread, buttered toast?” cried the Infirmarian interrogatively.

Master Rieler had no need to express himself in words. His face showed glad assent.

“Come and join me, Clarence,” begged the hero of the day as he seated himself later to the “spread.”

“Thank you; I’ve had a good meal already,” answered Clarence, “but I’ll take just a little to keep you company.”

His taking “a little” had such an effect upon the Infirmarian that after watching Clarence’s performance for a few minutes he could no longer contain himself.

“Look here, Clarence! If you go on, you’ll swell up and bust.”

“I’m not swelling so’s I can notice it,” returned Clarence cheerfully.

Before leaving, Father Rector said:

“Now, boys, I’m going to my room, and when you have finished your supper, I want you, John, to bring Clarence to see me. You will wait for him outside my door. Then I’m going to see the Prefect of Discipline and have you excused from studies tonight, so you can show Clarence around.”

There came a babble of enthusiasm from both boys.

“And besides, while Clarence is our guest, you, John Rieler, are to be his host.”

“Oh, thank you, Father,” said John.

“Do you mean to say, Father Rector, that I may stay here tonight?” asked Clarence.

“Yes, my boy”—here the Rector’s voice and face, despite himself, gave hint of a great pity; “you are to be my guest till we’ve got everything fixed to see that you are placed in proper care.”

“Isn’t he a trump!” cried Clarence as the Rector left.

“Trump! I should say he is.”

When Clarence was ushered by the proud young host to the Rector’s room, he was bade to sit down.

“Well, Clarence, while you were sleeping, I was quite busy on your case. The hotel-man from McGregor was here and identified you.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, and I’ve sent out for all sorts of information.”

“But, why don’t you wire my father?”

“The trouble is, Clarence, we don’t know where he is.”

“He’s at the Metropole Hotel, Los Angeles,” said Clarence. “The hotel-man could have told you that.”

“No, Clarence,” said the Rector trying to speak casually, “the train did not get there yet.”

“Was it delayed?”

“Yes. In fact, there was a bad wreck. Some of the cars tumbled into the water.”

“And did anything happen to my mother and father?”

“I hope not. The only thing, my boy, we know is that they are missing. Anyhow, they are not listed among the injured or the dead. Here, sit down and look over this account in the paper.”

The Rector discreetly placed himself in such a position that he could not see the boy’s face. Clarence read, and after a few lines could not go on; tears blinded his eyes. For ten minutes, while the Rector busied himself writing letters, the boy wept, although making pretense of reading.

“This is awful, Father,” Clarence at length said.

“Have hope, Clarence. God has taken wonderful care of you today.”

“Indeed, He has.”

“Trust Him, and keep on hoping. As to all details, leave them to me. If there’s anything to be found out, I’ll get hold of it. In the meantime, you are the guest of Campion College. Here’s some change—pocket money. You know, you’ll have to treat John Rieler. And tomorrow you’ll be fitted out with what clothes you need. God bless you, my boy.”

“Father, you’re too good. Say, won’t you bless me—give me a priest’s blessing—the kind I’ve read about in books.”

“Certainly, Clarence.”

The boy fell on his knees, and over him stretched the Rector’s hands in a fervent benediction.

As Clarence went down the stairs with John, he said: “Say, John Rieler, I got some bad news and I felt sick all over. And do you know what happened? The Rector blessed me, and now I could stand anything.”

CHAPTER XV

In which Clarence begins to admire Campion College, and becomes the room-mate of a very remarkable young man, as the sequel will clearly show.

“Do you know where you are going to sleep to-night, Clarence?” asked John, as the two boys, after a long walk on the Bridgeport road, were returning to Campion.

“No; where?”

“You’re going to have the finest room in the house.”

“Indeed! Where is it?”

“You see our new classroom building, don’t you?”

“It seems to me I do.”

“Well, they say that’s the finest building of its kind in the West. On the fourth floor there are twenty-one or twenty-two rooms for a few boys in the college department. All of those rooms are reasonably large, but there is one big enough for two. There it is—at the south-eastern corner. It has a window on the east and two looking south. Two brothers live in it, Will and John Benton. John hasn’t come back to school yet; he’s not well—and so Will has it to himself, and to-night you are going to have John’s bed.”

“Is Will Benton all right?”

“All right! Say, he’s in the senior class, and he’s Prefect of the Sodality, and the best all-round athlete, and the best pitcher on the college team. All right! He’s the best boy in the college; and he goes to Communion every day. That’s nothing out of the way here. Lots of our boys do that. But Will Benton keeps it up in vacation time, too.”

“That’s funny,” mused Clarence. “In the last few days I’ve begun to meet Catholics. The first one I met was that little girl, Dora. She began her kidnaping story by telling me she used to go to Communion every day till she fell into the hands of the gypsies. Then you yank me out of the water, and when the Rector says he is going to punish you, up you speak and tell him you’re going to Communion every day. And now, I suppose you’re going to bring me up to introduce me to Will Benton, andhegoes to Communion every day.”

“Yes; we’re going up now, for it’s nearly bedtime. Most of us go to Communion every day, you know, to help us keep from sin. And it does, too. A boy who knows he’s going to Communion tomorrow is mighty careful about what he says and what he listens to.”

“I am beginning,” said Clarence, “to be quite pleased with the Catholic Church.”

“I’m sure the Church,” retorted John, “will be proud and happy to know it has gained your approbation.”

“Seriously,” said Clarence, “I’ve changed my ideas completely since I met Dora. If she’s a specimen of the Catholic Church, I want to join.”

“What! Aren’t you a Catholic?”

“No. Who knows but I may be some day?”

“I thought you were a Catholic all along. Here we are,” continued John, as they entered the classroom building. “Let’s go up quietly. The boys are in the study hall now. Say,” he added, gleefully, as they reached the second story, “look in there; just see what I’m missing.”

“What a big hall!” exclaimed Clarence.

“Everything in this building is big,” said John with conscious pride; “the playroom and the dormitory and the classrooms, and the science department——they’re all big.”

“I think,” replied Clarence, “that, from your description, the place will suit me perfectly. In fact, I’ve a mind to buy it. Name your price.”

“For a fellow who arrives at Campion College in a bathing suit and nothing else, you’ve got the most wonderful nerve. Ah! here we are. This is your room for the night.”

“Come in,” said a rumbling voice in answer to John’s knock.

“I’ve brought him, Will. Here’s the boy who came to College down the river, Clarence Esmond.”

“Welcome, Clarence. You’re to be my guest for to-night and so long as you choose the room is yours. I’ve heard something of your story; in fact, everybody knows how you got here. I hope you’ll enjoy every minute of your stay.”

Will was a ruddy-cheeked young man of fully six feet, with tremendous shoulders and chest, and a voice that would compete, not without hope of victory, with a bass drum. His smile alone was enough to win him friends.

“Glad to meet you, Will,” said Clarence. “John here has been telling me all about you. He says you’re Prefect of the Senior Sodality. What does that mean?”

“Aren’t you a Catholic?”

“No.”

“Well, the Sodality is organized to honor the Blessed Mother of God, by getting its members to lead a good Catholic life and by doing good works. The Prefect is the leading officer; and he’s supposed, though it may not be always the case, to have special love for Mary and to show it in his life.”

“By George,” said Clarence, “here it is again. The first Catholic I ever met to talk with was a little girl with the gypsies, and almost as soon as she and I got to talking together, she began telling me about the Blessed Mother and singing her praises.”

“Was the girl a gypsy?” asked Will.

“No; she was captured in Ohio during the flood, last May.”

“Oh; that awful flood!” said Will, his cheerful grin deserting him. “I lost my little sister in that flood, too.”

“Are you from Ohio?”

“Yes, and my sister’s body wasn’t recovered till two weeks after she was drowned. Well, let’s change the subject. I hate to think of it.”

Within an hour Will Benton and Clarence had become fast friends. Within another, the much-wandering youth, satisfied that his adventures were over, had fallen into a dreamless sleep, little suspecting the amazing events that the morrow was destined to bring.

CHAPTER XVI

In which the Bright-eyed Goddess comes to bat again, and promises to win the game.

Apillow flung by the accurate arm of Will Benton early the following morning caught the sleeping visitor on the head.

“Eh, what is it?” cried Clarence, sitting up.

“It’s sunrise, boy. Just look out that window and see how beautiful the new-born day can be when it wants to.”

“‘Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund dayStands tiptoe on the misty mountain top.’”

“‘Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day

Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain top.’”

And as Clarence quoted the well-known lines, he jumped from bed and slipped quickly into his clothes.

“You read Shakespeare?” asked Benton, rubbing his eyes.

“Of course; I’ve been reading him off and on for the last two years. Say, what comes next?”

“We have morning prayers and Mass in a few minutes. Would you like to attend?”

“I certainly would. Dora explained to me a lot about the Mass.”

“Dora?”

“Yes; that was the little girl’s name.”

“Strange!” murmured Benton. “Well, hurry on now. Here’s a prayer-book with the parts of the Mass marked out. You may use it, if you wish.”

Clarence was profoundly impressed by what he saw in the chapel. The boys—full, in ordinary, of mischief and life—were going about their devotions in earnest.

Clarence was seated next to John Rieler. That youth, when he was not singing lustily with the others, had his face buried in his prayer-book. Religion, Clarence perceived, entered intimately into the lives of nearly all these boys.

He was escorted by Rieler to breakfast, where he inspired much respect among the boys of the particular table at which he sat by his workmanlike way of getting through with the dishes served him.

The morning was devoted to shopping. Attended by the Brother Infirmarian, Clarence went to the city proper of Prairie du Chien, where in the course of an hour he was provided with a complete outfit of shoes and clothing.

After a hearty dinner, John Rieler brought Clarence out upon the campus.

“Say!” the youngster said, admiringly, “you ought to send this campus on east. Lots of our colleges would be willing to buy it. It’s one big level—acres and acres of it—and all you’ve got to do is to walk out of your classroom building, and you’re right on it. At the academy I went to, we used to go around to a good many other schools in the baseball and the football season; but I must say I never saw a campus anything near so good as this, and only one or two as handy.”

“We’re thinking of taking out a patent on it, and we are rather proud of it. The only thing is that we find it quite hard to live up to such a fine campus.”

“Say, this is a funny school,” Clarence remarked. A number of the smaller boys were now gathered about him. They had heard of his tremendous swim down the river and of his escape from the gypsies, and made little attempt to conceal their admiration. In fact—a very unusual thing—they insisted upon being introduced.

“What’s funny about our school?” inquired one of the boys when Clarence had shaken hands with each and all.

“Why, you study here!”

“Study! What did you expect?” asked Rieler. “This isn’t exactly a health resort. All the same, study is no interruption to games. We manage to get a good deal in during each day.”

“This is our half holiday and we’re going to have a game of ball at two,” said a stocky youth with a freckled face and a substantial smile, “and the shortstop on our team is going down town to have his picture taken or some such foolishness. Will you help us out?”

“Delighted,” said Clarence. “I’ve played several positions, but shortstop is my favorite.”

Clarence, from the very outset of the game realized that he was the hero of the hour. Nearly all of the junior division boys not engaged in the game chose to be spectators.

Clarence rose to the occasion. The second batter up of the opposing team sent him a sharp grounder. He captured it on a very ugly bound, whirled it to the second baseman, who in turn threw it to first. It resulted in a pretty double play.

Then the onlooking small boys broke into cheers and yells, making at the same time lively demonstrations with legs and arms.

“Gee!” exclaimed an enthusiast near third base. “I hope he’ll stay here.”

On coming to bat, Clarence sent a liner over second, and reaching first, kept right on while the center fielder was throwing the ball in. When, a moment later, Clarence stole third and came in on an out at first, the storm of applause broke out again.

“Take off your hat,” said Rieler to the run-getter.

“Shucks!” said Clarence. “Say, here comes Will Benton, and he looks excited.”

“Hey, Clarence,” shouted Benton as soon as he was within hailing distance, “Father Rector wants you at once. It’s important and he says you’re to bring John Rieler along, too.”

For the first and only time in his life, Master Clarence surrendered his place in a ball contest willingly. Even Rieler, who next to swimming loved the national game, called with alacrity for a substitute.

“Hang baseball,” he said recklessly, as accompanied by Clarence and Will, he hastened toward the Rector’s room. “We can play that any fine day. But it’s nice to be with you, Clarence Esmond. I’ve a feeling that when I’m with you there’s something going to happen.”

“You may be only half in earnest, Rieler,” said Will Benton; “but the fact is I’ve got the same feeling myself. My firm belief is that Master Clarence’s bright-eyed goddess of adventure hasn’t lost her grip on her young victim yet. She’s got him hoodooed.”

“See here, you fellows,” remonstrated Clarence, “talk about something pleasant. What I want is a quiet life.”

“You’ll get a quiet life—somewhere, some day,” said Benton, “but I’ve a feeling in my bones that you’re not out of the woods yet.”

“I feel just that way, too,” added Rieler.

The Reverend Rector dressed in his street clothes was awaiting them at the entrance to the faculty building.

“Ah, Clarence,” he said, “are you ready for another adventure?”

“Anything but that, Father.”

“Oh yes, you are.”

“Never again, Father.”

“Very well; if that’s the case, we’ll drop it,” and the Rector assumed a look of disappointment.

“Drop what, Father?”

“Nothing much. You know, I’ve had the station agents about the river line to be on the lookout for that gypsy camp. We’ve got them located, or at least we know about where they are.”

“And,” cried Clarence, growing very red, “we’ve got a chance to save Dora?”

“That was my idea,” said Father Keenan. “I thought you were interested in the girl. But of course, if you don’t care for any more adventures——”

“Oh, Father, I take it back. I’d lose an arm or a leg—I’d lose anything to save that poor little child from the hands of Pete.”

“Ah!” said the Rector, “you really don’t know what you want sometimes. Now, boys, there’s a machine awaiting us at the side of this house, and if you would like to go, Rieler——”

“Like it! I’d not miss it for ten years of my life,” cried Rieler, ecstatically.

“And you, Will Benton? We may need your strong arm.”

“Father Rector, I consider this invitation the greatest privilege you’ve ever granted me, and goodness knows you’ve been giving me every favor you could since I came to Campion. Clarence has told me a good deal about that little girl-saint, and I’d do anything to save her.”

The four knights-errant had by this time taken their places in the automobile. Father Keenan gave the chauffeur a few words of instruction, and with a speed exceeding the limit allowed in any known State, county, city, or village of the United States the machine shot down Minnesota Avenue.

“Now, listen, boys,” said Father Keenan, as they swept past the Bohemian Catholic Church. “Yesterday, I got the local station agent, who is a very good friend of mine, to make inquiries northward about any gypsies who might be seen. Just a few minutes ago he sent me word that a message had come from Lynxville, to the effect that a party of gypsies had camped three miles below that village.”

“What time did he get the message?” asked Clarence.

“Just at a quarter past two,” said the Rector, “and he sent the news within fifteen minutes of the gypsies’ arrival there. A friend of his happened to be automobiling, saw the gypsies pitch tent, and hurried at once to let him know.”

“If they camped at two,” said Clarence, “they’ll probably stay for their noon-day meal, and won’t start off till half past three or four. Can we get there before then?”

Father Keenan looked at his watch.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “It’s now twenty minutes to three. Who knows? If our chauffeur keeps up this clip, we may catch them.”

“And when we do catch ’em,” asked Rieler, “what are we going to do with ’em?”

“How many men are in the crowd, Clarence?” asked the Rector.

“Let’s see. There’s Ben, but you needn’t count him. He’ll be with us if it comes to a row. Then there’s Pete, the leader, his two grown sons, and Ezra. Just four in all.”

“I rather think,” said the Rector, “that we can manage things without getting the sheriff of Lynxville to come to our help with a posse.”

“Sure thing,” exclaimed John Rieler, his eyes dancing with enthusiasm. “I’m only sixteen myself, but I’m feeling pretty good, and I would like to tackle Pete.”

“I’ve whipped Ezra once,” cried Clarence, forgetting his avowed distaste for adventure, “and I feel pretty sure I can do it again.”

“I don’t want to blow,” said the brawny muscular giant who was Prefect of the Sodality, “but I really think I’d like to tackle those two older sons of Pete myself.”

“And where do I come in?” asked the Rector.

“You’ve got the worst job of all, Father,” said Clarence, grinning. “You’ll have to take care of Pete’s wife. For myself, I’d as soon fight a bunch of wild-cats. I think she’s possessed by the devil.”

“Well, boys,” said the Rector after a moment’s reflection, and with a certain tone of regret, “I’m not a fighting man. My cloth forbids it. If possible, we must get Dora without striking a blow.”

John Rieler sighed like an auto in full speed with the muffler open.

“We’re going to get Dora anyhow,” pleaded Benton.

“Oh, yes; we’ll get her, no doubt. Now here’s the way we’ll go about it. When we arrive at the camp, Clarence and John Rieler and myself will visit the gypsies. You, Will Benton, will remain in the automobile with the chauffeur.”

“Father, won’t you please let me in on this?” pleaded the chauffeur, opening his mouth for the first time. “If there’s any fighting to be done, I’d like to have a chance.”

“But we’re not looking for a fight,” persisted the Rector, who was clearly on the unpopular side. “Anyhow the three of us will visit the gypsies, and I’ll do the talking. It is my intention to ask for the release of Dora, and, if refused, try to scare the gypsies into giving her up. While I’m talking I’ll take stock of their forces. If I see that we’ll have to fight for it, I’ll raise my hand—my right hand—so.”

And the Rector raised a closed hand with the index finger pointing upward. “That will mean, Benton, that you are to put on all speed for Lynxville, get the sheriff and one other man without delay. But if I see my way to getting the girl without a fight, I’ll raise both hands upwards, and that means that you two are to step out of the machine and join us.”

“All right, Father,” said Will. “But I think we can fix things without any sheriff.”

During the conversation the machine had been whizzing past hamlet, field and forest. Not once since leaving Prairie du Chien had their speed lessened.

“Now, boys,” said the Rector, after the lapse of several minutes, “we’re getting pretty near the place. Suppose we keep silent. Go slowly, now, chauffeur, and make as little noise as possible. And while we’re silent, let us all say a little prayer that we may succeed.”

The machine went forward slowly, cautiously. Clarence noticed the lips of John Rieler moving. Will Benton had removed his hat and sat with head bowed. Several minutes passed in perfect silence. Then the Rector touched the chauffeur’s arm. The machine stopped.

“Look,” whispered the Rector, pointing toward an open space on the river’s edge.

All turned eagerly.

A little tent—Dora’s tent—rose within thirty yards of them; only the one tent—nothing more.

Back to Index Next