_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 was _yours_, you managed to keep me supplied. I say it was
_your_ way, 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 do _not_
remember 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! Excuse _me_. 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.