A DAY'S ADVENTURE
Mr. Shalford at once told the President of the theft, and what he had
arranged for Henning. The head of the college agreed with the prefect
in thinking that a day's outing for Roy would be the best distraction
he could get. A change of scenery and of faces would be beneficial,
and prevent the unfortunate boy's mind from dwelling too morbidly on
his misfortune while the event was still fresh.
"Why, why, why! What's this? Boys out of bounds? Where are you going?
Dear me, dear me!"
The President, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, shook his gray locks,
and a long finger, at the six boys whom he purposely met on the
snow-covered lawn in front of the college.
"Where are you going?" he asked again.
"We hardly know yet, Father," said Jack Beecham. "We have only a few
minutes ago obtained permission from Mr. Shalford for a day off."
"A day off! and what do you expect to do with it?"
"Take a good tramp, buy our dinners at a farmhouse, and have a good
time, Father."
"H--hm! Have a good time, eh? Well, that's right. You can all be
trusted. Hope you will enjoy yourselves. Wait. Where are your skates?
If I were you I would take them with me. In your journeying you may
come across a frozen pond, and then you would regret being without
them."
"That's a good idea, Father. We will go back and get them," said Jack.
"Do, and meet me here before you start."
The boys turned back into the yard, and the President went to his
office. A few minutes later he met the boys. He was carrying a good
sized parcel.
"Were you not some of the charitable boys who, out of their abundance,
provided the old folks with a feast yesterday?"
Not one of those engaged in that enterprise answered, but Ernest
Winters said:
"Yes, Father, these four big fellows were some of them and I think
they are all a set of mean fellows."
The four, and the President, too, looked surprised.
"Why do you think that, my child?" he asked.
"Because they didn't give any of us smaller boys a chance to give
anything toward the feast."
The four big "mean" fellows burst into a laugh.
"Never mind, Ernie, this time," said Jack Beecham, "we had too much
anyway. You shall have a chance for the next spread."
The President smiled at Ernest's vehemence, and at the nature of his
charge.
"On your way," he said to Henning, "I want you to call at the Little
Sisters and give them this package. I learned last night that although
your dinner there was a great success yesterday, still there are many
poor creatures, both men and women, who are in the infirmaries and
could not attend. Here are a couple of boxes of cigars for these old
men, and two boxes of candy for the old women."
The boys were delighted to be given such a mission. A bright smile of
welcome spread over the features of the Sister who answered the door,
when she saw these college boys again.
"Come into the parlor, young gentlemen, and I will call Mother."
The Superioress soon came. She was profuse in her thanks for what the
students had done that week for her charges.
"May God bless you all," she said. "Our old people, since yesterday's
dinner, have done nothing but talk about the kindness of the young
gentlemen in remembering them. Many extravagantly funny, and some
really comical things were said in your praise," and the nun's eyes
twinkled and a smile stole around the corners of her mouth at the
remembrance of many a quaint bit of Irish humor from the old men.
"Oh, tell us some of the things, Mother," said the impetuous young
Winters.
"I am unable to reproduce any of it. I should only spoil it if I were
to attempt it. You must come and hear them yourselves some day."
Henning then told her their mission.
"Please convey my thanks to the President. All of you must visit the
infirmaries and distribute the gifts."
Whether this is what the President intended--we are inclined to think
it is--that visit was the very best thing that could have happened to
Henning in his present frame of mind. There is nothing like witnessing
the sorrow and misery of others to make us think less of our own. For
the first time in his life Henning was face to face and in close touch
with pain and suffering and disease and all the calamities of
impoverished old age. What was a misfortune like his to that of being
doubled and rendered helpless by rheumatism? Here one was totally
blind, but marvelously patient. There another whose distorted hands
rendered her powerless to help herself. Another had to be lifted and
tended and fed as a little child in the helplessness of old age and
years of sickness. Yet all, under the fostering charity of the nuns,
were clean, docile, grateful, and as cheerful as their condition would
permit. Yes, the visit was very beneficial to Henning.
It is true that Roy's greatest distress was, after all, in the
anticipation of what was to come. He knew there were many who were by
no means kindly disposed toward him. Would these set afloat rumors and
reports? Would they attempt to blacken his character? He greatly
feared they would.
The chagrin caused by having lost the money entrusted to him through
want of a little prudential forethought, or through mere forgetfulness
of what he had the intention of doing, was bad enough. The imputations
and the innuendos he dreaded far more. He realized that life could be
made very bitter for him. But after all, what was all he might have to
suffer, even granting the gloomiest view of the future to be the
actual one, in comparison to the chronic and hopeless pains of these
poor people in the Sisters' infirmaries?
He left the convent in a much more cheerful frame of mind than he had
experienced since the discovery of the theft. His companions gladly
saw the change. They did their utmost during the long tramp over the
hills, by quip and prank and song and jest, to make the time pass
pleasantly.
It was a splendid day for a winter's walk. It is true there was no
sun, but neither was there a breath of cold air stirring. There was an
even gray sky, a motionless atmosphere, and just sufficient snow to
accentuate the beauties of a winter landscape, but not enough to
envelop everything in an indiscriminating white pall. It was an ideal
winter day in which to be outdoors.
The fresh snow that had fallen during the night and early morning
remained on the trees, loading down every branch and twig. The
well-known bridle-path through the woods, along which the boys passed
merrily, had a double carpet, the upper one of snow, and beneath that
a spreading of dry autumn leaves.
The great charm of a windless snow-covered forest is the absolute
silence that prevails. Nothing was heard by the travelers save the
distant occasional bark of a shepherd-dog, or a far-off train whistle,
sounding like a dismal appeal for help, and subconsciously regarded by
the hearers as an irreverent intrusion upon the silence of the
solitude. Once in a while from an overweighted bough the soft snow
would fall, but with a muffled sound as if fearful of breaking
nature's sabbath calm.
As the boys traveled merrily on, here and there they saw the "vestigia"
of birds or rabbits, and once they discovered what they supposed to be
deer tracks in the snow. Descending to a pretty hollow they saw a scene
which delighted them immensely. In the bottom of the hollow, which in
the summer time was a beautiful glade in the forest, there was standing
out alone with a clear space around it, a magnificent snow-laden spruce
tree. Each graceful downward curve of the limbs sustained its load of
pure white snow. The symmetry of the forest king was unmarred, but
appeared glorified by its covering of whiteness.
The six were enraptured. They gazed long at the beautiful sight and
would have delayed much longer had not Jack Beecham, who had assumed
a temporary leadership of the excursion, warned them of the unwisdom
of staying too long in one place.
A little farther along they saw an ideal winter scene. A large,
comfortable farmhouse, with all the sheds and barns of a well-kept
farm, lay at their feet under a mantle of white. From the broad
chimney arose a straight column of blue smoke, telling of warmth
within. In the barnyard were several head of comfortable-looking sheep
and fat cattle were contentedly ruminating in the shelter of a huge
straw stack. One of the inmates of this cosy looking farmhouse had,
probably unconsciously, added the last touch to complete the artistic
effect of this scene of gray and white. In the door yard on a
clothesline were three or four brilliantly red woolen shirts which
heightened by contrast the more somber colors of the scene.
"That's our Mecca if the fates be propitious," said Tom Shealey, as
the boys were viewing the scene here described from an elevated point
at least a mile away.
"It is a comfortable looking house and doubtless has a well-stocked
larder. I wonder if the Dowsibel of the Kitchen could be induced to
turn a spit for us."
"'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished," observed Beecham, "for
already I believe I could eat a couple of sheep and a Michaelmas
goose."
The boys had already walked a good seven miles. All were beginning to
feel tired and to realize the necessity of a good meal.
"Suppose we can not be entertained there?" suggested Ernest Winters.
"Then we shall have to tramp on till we find a place where we can
be--perhaps ten miles more," said Roy Henning teasingly.
"O--oh!" groaned Ernest. Roy laughed.
"Well, do not despair, little one. Nine miles from here I know of a
wayside hostelry where we may perhaps get some year old crackers and
eggs, with an apology for coffee, and have the privilege of paying
Delmonico prices."
"Oh, oh! Nine miles--oh! Sixteen miles and crackers! Oh!" groaned
Winters again. All burst out laughing at the comical look of despair
Ernest's face had assumed.
"Look here, Ernie," said Roy again, "if it comes to the worst we can
eat our shoes and our skate straps, and our gloves for dessert."
During their chatter they had continued their walk down the hillside
toward the comfortable-looking farm. When about half way down the road
they saw a jolly looking, red-faced man--in the clear atmosphere they
could easily distinguish his red face--come out of the farmhouse, take
his stand on the stoop or veranda, shade his eyes with his hand, and
look a long time at the approaching boys.
"We shall know our fate in a few minutes," said Jack Beecham in a
tragic whisper to Ernest. "If we are not welcome he will set his
savage dogs on us as soon as we get near enough, and then we shall be
hungry orphans out in the cold world, sure enough."
But no such catastrophe occurred. After gazing a few minutes the man
went into the house and closed the door. The boys opened the yard gate
with trepidation, fearful of the onslaught of some vicious watchdog,
and more afraid than they would have been owing to the rascal Jack's
ominous forecast of the possibilities. To their great relief no canine
enemy appeared.
All they saw pleased them. There was an air of prosperous, generous
plenty everywhere. The hay-mows were bursting with sweet-smelling hay.
The wheat barn was congested with unthreshed grain. The cows, pigs,
and sheep were fat, and evidently well cared for. Repose was
everywhere. In such a place as this, thought Roy, life must be well
worth the living.
"Cave canem," whispered Bracebridge, as he espied the watchdog lying
on the porch of the house. This old Roman warning, "Beware of the dog"
was, on this occasion, unnecessary, for when the animal saw the
visitors he merely wagged his tail and did not take the trouble to
stir. He seemed too fat and too contented with life to care about
molesting a mere parcel of college boys, and his instinct told him
they did not belong to the genus tramp.
As they reached the porch of the house the good-natured looking man
who had watched them coming down the hillside opened the door. The
boys noticed that he had put on his coat to welcome them. While making
his observations he had been in his shirt-sleeves.
"Welcome, young gentlemen. Come right in by the fire," was his hearty
greeting. "Mother, Mother! Here are some young gentlemen from
Cuthberton," he called to some one in the large living-room.
A kind, motherly woman appeared in the doorway. She was clad in a warm
homemade linsey dress, with a white handkerchief over her shoulders,
and white muslin cuffs to match. A black lace coif surmounted her
snow-white hair. The boys saw a very smiling, kindly face in the
doorway greeting them.
"Welcome, welcome, my dears. You are welcome. But, please, scrape the
snow off your shoes before you come in. I am very particular about
that, am I not, Roland?" and she glanced affectionately at the big
man beside her.
"Yes, yes, indeed she is," he remarked humorously. "Would you believe
it, gentlemen, she leads me an awful life about my dirty
boots--awful--awful!"
"Roland," said the elderly lady, "how you do talk!"
The husband gave a sly, comical wink to the boys, who immediately
understood the nature of the amicable bantering which they soon found
was going on constantly between these two.
"Take off your overcoats, my dears, and come up to the fire. You must
be cold. There's no wind, but it's near zero. And did ye walk all the
way, from St. Cuthbert's College? You must all be tired."
She saw at once they were college boys.
"Did ye now! Well now! well! well! My! but that's a long way to walk.
Roland, go ye and get another hickory back log, and start a good
blaze. Now sit ye there and warm yourselves. I'll be back in a minute
or two," and the kindly woman put down her knitting and bustled out of
the room.
"This is fine!" said Tom Shealey. "We are in luck for sure."
"I wonder where she has gone," ventured Ernest Winters, in a whisper.
"Gone? Um! um! don't you know, youngster?" said Jack Beecham, with a
shrug, and a stage whisper. He was a terrible tease. "Better keep your
eyes on your skates and overcoat, Ernest. Of course she has gone to
gather all the hired men on the farm who will soon be here to drive us
off the premises. The ogre of this castle won't stand for any such
invasion as ours. You can see it in her eye."
But Ernest was not to be caught a second time.
"You can't fool me this time, mister. I think--but hush! here she
comes."
She came. With her came two of her maids bearing with them
eatables--sweet homemade bread, apparently created to make a hungry
schoolboy's mouth water, delicious pats of golden butter, red cheese,
and an enormous pitcher of new milk--what a lunch for hungry boys!
"I am very glad you came," again remarked the dear old lady. "To-day I
give the farmhands and the dairy maids a sort of Christmas week feast.
It is a holiday in this house to-day. We don't have dinner to-day
until after two o'clock, and as that is late and you must be hungry
with your long walk already--my! it's nigh onto eight miles to the
big school, isn't it--you had just better take a snack before
dinner-time. Come, sit up to the table, my dears; that is if you are
warmed enough."
The young fellows did not need a second invitation. Hunger is a good
sauce. Growing boys are always hungry and the sweet, wholesome
farmhouse fare was extremely enticing. Such butter! No oleomargarine
there. Were it not, as mentioned before, that boys have a perpetual
appetite, I am afraid that the amount of bread, cheese, butter, and
milk disposed of would have seriously interfered with the enjoyment of
the forthcoming dinner. At all events it wanted considerably over two
hours to dinner-time.