_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.