Cupid of Campion

Pete and his wife, upon understanding what was going on, were furious; the woman particularly so. The leader, afraid to wreak vengeance on Dora, singled out Clarence as the victim to his rage. Many a secret blow did the boy receive during the day’s journey.

At nightfall there came a heavy rain. All took shelter in the big tent. Clarence happened to remark how two nights previously he had been engrossed in a wonderful story called Treasure Island.

“What was it about?” asked Ben.

“Do you want me to tell it?”

“Oh, do,” cried Dora. “I haven’t read a story or heard one for ever and ever so long.”

“I like a nice story,” said Dorcas, Ben’s wife, beaming on the lad.

“Tell us Treasure Island,” begged one of the children.

And Clarence, thus adjured, set about recounting that wondrous tale of ships and pirates and buried treasures. At the first words, Pete and his wife left the tent. But the others remained, and listened to a lad who coupled an extraordinary memory with a flow of vivid language. The story was in its first quarter when Pete returned and, to the disappointment of all, announced bedtime. The guitar was brought, Gounod’s Ave Maria sung, and when sleep visited the eyes of Clarence, who kept himself awake to hear Dora’s good-night hymn to the Blessed Mother, it visited a youngster who in twenty-four hours had achieved a partnership with a singularly lovely child in the leadership of a gypsy band.

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 to do things. The active life suits me. But really that is one of the great things about your Church.”

“Our Church,” 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’ll kill me?”

“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 I knew he 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.