Читать книгу: «Cupid of Campion», страница 7
CHAPTER XV
In which Clarence begins to admire Campion College, and becomes the room-mate of a very remarkable young man, as the sequel will clearly show
“Do you know where you are going to sleep to-night, Clarence?” asked John, as the two boys, after a long walk on the Bridgeport road, were returning to Campion.
“No; where?”
“You’re going to have the finest room in the house.”
“Indeed! Where is it?”
“You see our new classroom building, don’t you?”
“It seems to me I do.”
“Well, they say that’s the finest building of its kind in the West. On the fourth floor there are twenty-one or twenty-two rooms for a few boys in the college department. All of those rooms are reasonably large, but there is one big enough for two. There it is – at the south-eastern corner. It has a window on the east and two looking south. Two brothers live in it, Will and John Benton. John hasn’t come back to school yet; he’s not well – and so Will has it to himself, and to-night you are going to have John’s bed.”
“Is Will Benton all right?”
“All right! Say, he’s in the senior class, and he’s Prefect of the Sodality, and the best all-round athlete, and the best pitcher on the college team. All right! He’s the best boy in the college; and he goes to Communion every day. That’s nothing out of the way here. Lots of our boys do that. But Will Benton keeps it up in vacation time, too.”
“That’s funny,” mused Clarence. “In the last few days I’ve begun to meet Catholics. The first one I met was that little girl, Dora. She began her kidnaping story by telling me she used to go to Communion every day till she fell into the hands of the gypsies. Then you yank me out of the water, and when the Rector says he is going to punish you, up you speak and tell him you’re going to Communion every day. And now, I suppose you’re going to bring me up to introduce me to Will Benton, and he goes to Communion every day.”
“Yes; we’re going up now, for it’s nearly bedtime. Most of us go to Communion every day, you know, to help us keep from sin. And it does, too. A boy who knows he’s going to Communion tomorrow is mighty careful about what he says and what he listens to.”
“I am beginning,” said Clarence, “to be quite pleased with the Catholic Church.”
“I’m sure the Church,” retorted John, “will be proud and happy to know it has gained your approbation.”
“Seriously,” said Clarence, “I’ve changed my ideas completely since I met Dora. If she’s a specimen of the Catholic Church, I want to join.”
“What! Aren’t you a Catholic?”
“No. Who knows but I may be some day?”
“I thought you were a Catholic all along. Here we are,” continued John, as they entered the classroom building. “Let’s go up quietly. The boys are in the study hall now. Say,” he added, gleefully, as they reached the second story, “look in there; just see what I’m missing.”
“What a big hall!” exclaimed Clarence.
“Everything in this building is big,” said John with conscious pride; “the playroom and the dormitory and the classrooms, and the science department – they’re all big.”
“I think,” replied Clarence, “that, from your description, the place will suit me perfectly. In fact, I’ve a mind to buy it. Name your price.”
“For a fellow who arrives at Campion College in a bathing suit and nothing else, you’ve got the most wonderful nerve. Ah! here we are. This is your room for the night.”
“Come in,” said a rumbling voice in answer to John’s knock.
“I’ve brought him, Will. Here’s the boy who came to College down the river, Clarence Esmond.”
“Welcome, Clarence. You’re to be my guest for to-night and so long as you choose the room is yours. I’ve heard something of your story; in fact, everybody knows how you got here. I hope you’ll enjoy every minute of your stay.”
Will was a ruddy-cheeked young man of fully six feet, with tremendous shoulders and chest, and a voice that would compete, not without hope of victory, with a bass drum. His smile alone was enough to win him friends.
“Glad to meet you, Will,” said Clarence. “John here has been telling me all about you. He says you’re Prefect of the Senior Sodality. What does that mean?”
“Aren’t you a Catholic?”
“No.”
“Well, the Sodality is organized to honor the Blessed Mother of God, by getting its members to lead a good Catholic life and by doing good works. The Prefect is the leading officer; and he’s supposed, though it may not be always the case, to have special love for Mary and to show it in his life.”
“By George,” said Clarence, “here it is again. The first Catholic I ever met to talk with was a little girl with the gypsies, and almost as soon as she and I got to talking together, she began telling me about the Blessed Mother and singing her praises.”
“Was the girl a gypsy?” asked Will.
“No; she was captured in Ohio during the flood, last May.”
“Oh; that awful flood!” said Will, his cheerful grin deserting him. “I lost my little sister in that flood, too.”
“Are you from Ohio?”
“Yes, and my sister’s body wasn’t recovered till two weeks after she was drowned. Well, let’s change the subject. I hate to think of it.”
Within an hour Will Benton and Clarence had become fast friends. Within another, the much-wandering youth, satisfied that his adventures were over, had fallen into a dreamless sleep, little suspecting the amazing events that the morrow was destined to bring.
CHAPTER XVI
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.
CHAPTER XVII
In which one surprise follows so closely upon the heels of another that Masters Esmond and Rieler lose power of speech and Will Benton strikes a blow which will live forever in the traditions of Campion College
“Follow me – quietly,” whispered Father Keenan to the two boys, Clarence and John.
In single file the three threaded their way through the shrubbery. Suddenly the Rector paused, and put his finger to his lips.
“Listen,” he said.
“Ben,” came a clear, sweet voice, “do you believe everything that the Catholic Church believes and teaches?”
There was a response pitched so low that the listeners as they pressed steadily forward failed to hear it.
“And do you forgive all who have injured you?”
Clarence thought he could detect Ben’s voice saying – “Yes, yes: I do.”
“And do you forgive Pete?”
“Yes, from my heart.” The three were now quite near and the deeper voice of Ben could clearly be heard.
“And, Ben,” continued the silvery voice, “you wish to die a Catholic?”
“I do – I do.”
“And to be baptized?”
“Yes, Dora.”
“You must know, Ben, that when no priest can be had, anyone may, in case of necessity, baptize. Now, I am going to the river for water; and while I’m gone tell God that you are sorry for your sins.”
Suddenly, the flap of the tent was thrown back, and Dora, like some heavenly apparition, stood revealed. Her face was stained with tears. For the rest, she was in modesty, in expression in dress – blue and white – a Child of Mary.
“Dora,” cried Clarence, no longer able to contain himself. “O, Clarence,” cried the child throwing herself into his arms. “Pete has killed Ben. He stabbed him an hour ago, because Ben defended the statue of our Blessed Mother from Pete and his wife. They were going to burn it.”
“Dora,” said Clarence, “there’s a priest here.” And he pointed to Father Keenan.
“O, thank God! thank God! He has sent you to prepare Ben,” and the child threw herself at Father Keenan’s feet, and in all reverence, kissed his hand.
The practical Father Keenan, as she did so, took the glass from her fingers, and handed it to Rieler.
“Run to the river, John, and get some water.” Then raising Dora kindly, and throwing his hands above his head, the preconcerted signal, the Rector hastened into the tent.
“Dora! Dora!” came a deep voice as the girl was about to follow the priest.
Clarence turned. Will Benton, pale as a sheet, his eyes starting from their sockets, was hastening toward them. He was holding out his arms toward the girl, amazement and incredulity upon his face.
Dora turned. An astounding change came at once upon her face at sight of Will Benton. Pure joy irradiated it.
“O Will! my dear Brother Will,” she cried; and darting forward threw herself into his outstretched arms.
“But,” cried Will, as he caught her up and pressed her to his bosom, “you were drowned. We buried you.”
“No, you didn’t, Will. Thanks to our Blessed Mother, I was saved. A gypsy saved me, Will; and now he’s dying in my tent, dying because he gave his life to save me from the gypsy leader and to preserve our Blessed Mother’s statue from insult. Come, Will, let us see him before he dies.”
Clarence and John Rieler, grouped together and holding each others hands, stood stock-still gazing open mouthed. They looked at each other, as Will and Dora made for the tent, with unutterable awe. Speech was inadequate; and still linked together they followed the brother and sister within.
On Dora’s couch, above him the dear statue for which he had given his life, lay Ben, the sweat and the pallor of death upon his face. On one side, his wife was staunching vainly a gash in his side. On the other, leaned the Rector, talking earnestly in low tones to the dying man. No king could have been more stately in life than was Ben in his dying moments. No saint could have been more humble. Crouching in one corner, wide-eyed and silent, were Ben’s three little children.
“Are all here?” asked the Rector rising and gazing around. “I want you all to see Ben baptized.”
“O dear Ben, we are all here and we all love you,” cried Dora. “And here’s my brother Will, come to see you, too. Will, Ben has been so good to me. I love him as though he were another father.”
The dying man turned dark, wistful eyes to the big brother.
“Will you forgive me? I love Dora,” he said simply.
“And I love anyone that is kind to my sister,” boomed forth Will Benton’s hearty voice. “Your hand, Ben. May God be as good to you as you have been to her.”
“Clarence,” cried the dying man, “will you forgive me too. I have been bad, I am sorry.”
Clarence essayed to speak, but before he could enunciate a syllable fell to blubbering. But he caught Ben’s hand and fondled it.
“I am glad I was stabbed,” said Ben simply, “in trying to save that statue of the very good woman who was the mother of God, I believe. I want to be baptized.”
John Rieler was dabbing his eyes.
“Let all kneel down,” said the Rector.
Even the gypsy children, following the example of Dorcas, fell upon their knees, and then, the priest pouring water on Ben’s head said solemnly, “I baptize thee in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.”
Dora slipped over and pressed her lips to the newly regenerated one’s brow. Dorcas followed the child’s example and, turning to the priest, said:
“Father, baptize me and my children.”
“Not yet, my child,” said Father Keenan. “Wait a little longer, so it can be done in church. Boys, kneel down, while we say the prayers for the dying.”
Suddenly Ben raised his head.
“Clarence and Dora,” he cried.
“Yes,” answered both coming to his bedside.
“Take care of Dorcas, my wife, and my children. Make them good Catholics.”
“Yes, Ben,” said Dora.
“Yes, Ben,” said Clarence.
“O,” said the poor fellow – poor, that is according to the world’s standard – “how happy I am. I am ready to – ”
He fell back unconscious.
The Rector who had taken out his “Excerpts from the Roman Ritual,” began, at once, the Litany of the Dying. Before the final invocation was uttered, Ben, the simple, the loving, the repentant, breathed his last.
“Let all leave the tent,” said Father Keenan, on coming to an end of the prayers for the dying, “except the wife and the children. Wait for me without. I will be with you in a few minutes.”
Dora, weeping freely, caught her big brother’s arm. Clarence and John followed the two. There was, quite near the river, an avenue formed by nature, a clear space of nearly a hundred yards in length, bounded on the river side by willows and cottonwoods with a dense growth of shrubbery below, on the other by majestic elms. Up and down this court of nature walked brother and sister followed by the two amazed boys. The stabbing of Ben, his beautiful death, the reuniting of brother and sister had come together so closely, one upon the heels of the other, that Clarence and John were almost speechless. When they did speak, it was in interjections.
Will quickly comforted his little sister. His task was, indeed, not so difficult. News from home, news of the dear ones is to the exile one of the most engrossing things in the world. And it was all good news. Everyone was well, business was flourishing; the only sorrow that had fallen upon the family was the loss of Dora – and that sorrow was now turned into exquisite joy for Will, as it would be for his parents and the children when they received the good tidings by wire that very day.
“And, Will,” said Dora, “I don’t regret all that has happened. It was bitter to be away from mama and all the dear ones at home; and it was hard to miss Holy Communion; and I was so afraid of Pete and his wife all the time; but it’s all over now. Tomorrow, please God, I will go to Communion once more; and then home, home, home!”
The child’s eyes shone with joy. They had reached the end of the avenue, and turning started back. Clarence and John were now in the advance.
“As likely as not,” said Will, holding his sister’s hand, “father, on getting the telegram tonight, will take the train at once. I’m sure he will; and if mother can get away, she will come, too. I’ll wire them on the road back to Campion. But why, Dora, do you say you’re not sorry for all that happened?”
He paused, as he asked this question, directly before a thick clump of bushes, and, catching Dora’s two hands in his, gazed lovingly and eagerly into her starry eyes.
“Because,” answered the girl simply, “I believe I have helped to save the soul of dear, good, kind Ben. Oh, how happy I was when the priest poured the water on him and baptized him in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.”
Will Benton, still gazing into the eyes of his sister, thought he heard proceeding from the bushes which he was facing a low, sibilant sound. It was not the hiss of a snake; it was the hiss of hate. His keen eyes darted from Dora’s and peered into the bushes. In a flash he threw the girl violently to one side, flinging her to the ground, and with a spring crashed into the shrubbery. He was not a moment too soon. Behind the bushes, an immense boulder in his right hand, a man, whose eyes shot hate and whose features were demon-like with passion, was in the very act of bringing it down upon the unsuspecting girl’s head.
It was not a moment too soon: Ben caught the man’s upraised arm and gave it a wrench which sent the boulder thudding to the earth. That wrenched arm was never to be used again. A howl of pain arose which was stilled as suddenly as it began; for, still holding the paralysed arm in his grasp, Will Benton struck out with his left hand. It was an awful blow. Its receiver as it struck him under the jaw lost voice, and crumpled to the earth.
“Oh!” cried Dora, who had arisen, “it’s Pete.”
Will Benton drew the girl to his side.
“I know now,” he exclaimed, “why you feared him. I saw his face for a second, and there was murder in it, murder and hell.”
The two boys who, hearing the short-lived scream of the gypsy, had turned in time to see the memorable blow which had brought Pete to earth, were gazing in awe at the Prefect of the Sodality. It was something to be remembered. It was a blow which was to go down in the traditions of Campion College. For Pete, the murderer of Ben, the would-be murderer of Dora, never came to face trial. He lingered for several weeks. But the blow made trial unnecessary.
“O Will!” cried John Rieler, “how did you manage to see him hiding there?”
“He gave himself away,” answered the young giant. “His fury and hatred got the better of him. When Dora spoke about Ben’s dying a Catholic and used the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, he couldn’t stand it. He had his arm raised holding that stone, and was just about to bring it down on Dora’s head. A hiss escaped him, and I spied him while his arm was still moving: and – and – I really don’t know how I caught him in time.”
Father Keenan arrived at this juncture; and the two boys and Dora all began explaining at once. Out of the babel he gathered that Pete who, after stabbing Ben, took flight with his wife and kinsfolk, had returned – as murderers sometimes do – to find out the result of the stabbing; how his hatred goaded him on to attempt Dora’s life, and how the brother with lightning speed had inflicted with his one hand a wrench, and with the other a blow which no one who had seen them could ever forget.
“Dan,” called Father Keenan to the chauffeur, having ascertained that Pete was alive, “get busy. Bring Pete to the Sheriff at Lynxville; hire another automobile – a large one for Dorcas and her children. We are going to bring Ben’s body to Prairie du Chien. I shall go with them. And come back here as fast as you can. We’ll be ready to start long before that.”
The Rector and the chauffeur put the insensible Pete in the tonneau.
“One moment, Dan,” said Will Benton, who had taken out a pad and written a few lines. “If Father Rector has no objection, I’d like you to send this telegram to my father.” Then he read aloud: “Dora alive, well, and found. She is with me. Hurrah! – Will Benton.”
“Good for you, Will,” said the Rector. “Your mind works as well as your fists. Thank you, for reminding me.”
Before the return of the chauffeur, the Gypsy camp was dismantled, the tent, converted into a shroud for Ben, the furniture abandoned, and the precious statue placed in the hands of Dora, who vowed she would keep it as long as she lived.
Master John Rieler took little hand in these preparations for departure. He could not remove his eyes from the giant Prefect of the Sodality. Will Benton was considered the gentlest boy in attendance at Campion College. John was bursting to be back and to tell the boys the wonderful blow he had seen with his own eyes.
