_In which the Bright-eyed Goddess comes to bat again, and
promises to win the game._
A pillow 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 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.