Cupid of Campion

“May you sink, and never come up. May you drown, and your body never be found. May my curse follow you into the other world.”

“Is that all, ma’am?” asked Clarence breaking into his sunniest smile.

The woman choked with rage. She tried to speak, but words and voice both failed her.

“Come on, boys,” resumed Ben. “Ready?”

“Yes,” answered the two in a breath.

“Go!”

At the word, the boys sprang into the water. Both disappeared beneath the surface at the same time. Within a few seconds, Ezra emerged and his hands rose high and fast above his head in the overhand stroke. Several seconds passed, and those watching on the shore began to show signs of nervousness. All the gypsies, save, of course, the snarling and profane invalid, were now gathered together beside Ben. Even Dora, who was never to be seen at the river side when the men were swimming, had joined the gazers, standing a few yards apart.

“Oh, Ben,” she cried, “what’s happened to Clarence?”

Ben made no answer. Scanning the surface of the river intently, he was pulling off his shoes.

“He’s drowned! He’s drowned!” screamed the gypsy hag. “My curse has fallen.” Her laugh, horrible to the ear, rang out carrying in its undertones all manner of evil omen.

As the woman was speaking, Dora fell upon her knees.

“Holy Mary,” she cried aloud, “save your dear child, Clarence. Remember he is not baptized.”

The girl had not yet finished her adjuration when a great shout arose from the men and shrill screams from the children. Far out, fully five yards ahead of Ezra and as many yards further down stream, Clarence came to the surface. The boy had been the best long distance diver of all the youngsters attending Clermont Academy, the eastern boarding school.

A howl of rage arose from the old woman.

“Get up! Get up!” she cried, rushing with outstretched and hooked claws at the kneeling girl. It was only by the quickest of movements that Ben was able to save the child from bodily injury. As it was, the woman dashed into Ben’s rigid and protecting elbow, and, doubled up with pain, retired shrieking and cursing to the genial companionship of her husband.

Meantime the race went on bravely. The two boys for the next ten minutes retained their respective positions, with, however, one point of difference. Ezra was swimming in almost a direct line; Clarence was being carried down the river by the current. As the moments passed, the distance between the two visibly widened.

Ben was wringing his hands and frowning.

“What is it, Ben?” asked Dora. “Is there any danger? Is there anything wrong?”

“I’m afraid,” Ben made answer, “that if Clarence doesn’t fight the current more strongly, he may be carried down below the island. Unless he’s a wonderful swimmer, there will be danger.”

Ben’s forebodings promised, as the moments went on, to be justified. Both boys were nearing the island, Ezra not more than twenty yards below the point from which he had set out. Clarence quite near the clump of southernmost willows.

“Do you think he’ll reach it?” cried the girl.

“I hope so; I don’t know.”

Once more Dora fell upon her knees, and crossing herself, prayed with streaming eyes to the heavenly Mother in whom she ever confided.

“Look,” cried Ben. “Ezra has reached the island. And Clarence is trying to swim upstream so as not to miss it. My God!” he continued, “I do believe he’s giving out!”

A deathly silence had come upon all. Clarence was swimming wildly. He had abandoned the sailor stroke and was beating the water with aimless hands. On the stillness his voice reached them.

“Help! Help!” he cried.

Then throwing up his hands, apparently within a few yards of the willows, he disappeared in the calm river.

CHAPTER XI

In which John Rieler of Campion College, greatly daring, goes swimming alone, finds a companion, and acts in such a manner as to bring to Campion College the strangest, oddest boy visitor that ever entered its portals

It was thirteen minutes to ten on the following morning when Master John Rieler of Campion College, second-year high, discovered that he earnestly desired to be excused from the classroom. It was a very warm day for September, the sun was shining with midsummer fervor, and John Rieler, who had spent the vacation on the banks of the Miami – whenever, that is, he did not happen to be between the banks – felt surging within him the call of the water. John, a smiling, good-natured native of Cincinnati, was in summer months apparently more at home in the water than on the land. One of the anxieties of his parents in vacation time was to see that he did not swim too much, to the certain danger of his still unformed constitution.

For various reasons, connected more or less with the discipline of Campion College, John had had no swim since his arrival seven days before. He was filled with a mad desire to kick and splash. And so, at thirteen minutes to ten, he held up the hand of entreaty, endeavoring at the same time to look ill and gloomy.

John had figured out everything. As recess was at ten o’clock, the teacher would not call him to account for failing to return. The recess lasted fifteen minutes, giving the boy twenty-eight minutes to go to the river, take a morning splash and return. Of course, there were risks; but in John’s mind the risks were well worth taking.

The boy, on receiving permission, was quick to make his way down the stairs of the classroom building, and, turning to the back of the small boys’ department and hugging the wall closely, he reached the shaded avenue leading from Church Street up to Campion College. Along this avenue was a cement sidewalk bordered on one side by a line of young poplars and on the other, below a terrace of some three or four feet, by another of ancient and umbrageous box-elders. The cement walk was too conspicuous; the graded road beside it equally so. Master John Rieler, therefore, wisely chose the abandoned path below; and doubling himself up, so as to escape the attention of the Brother in the garden, ran swiftly on. Church Street, leading to the city of Prairie du Chien, was passed in safety. The worst was over. An open road, really an abandoned street, left to itself by the march of the city northward, the Chicago, Milwaukee, and St. Paul track, and then, within a few yards, the bank of the inviting Mississippi.

A boat-landing, projecting quite a distance into the river, the property of the Jesuit Fathers at Campion, was awaiting the daring youth from which to dive.

He was at the further end of it in a trice, kicked off his shoes and stockings, and with the amazing rapidity of small boys when so inclined, was disrobed in almost the time it takes to tell it. With the slight delay of making a hurried but fervent sign of the cross, John took a header, rose, struck out vigorously, and having reached a distance midway between the landing and Campion Island, threw himself contentedly on his back and floated in an ecstasy of satisfaction.

“Ah!” he sighed, “how I wish I could stay right here till dinner time.”

Presently he turned over quietly, and as his ears rose above the water, he thought he heard a splash a little above him. Beating with hands and feet, he raised himself as high as he could out of the water and looked in the direction whence the sound came.

Was that a hand – two hands – was it the head of a swimmer? John was puzzled. Even as he looked, the supposed head seemed to disappear. John swam towards the spot. As he drew near – there could be no mistake that time – a human head rose to the surface and almost at once disappeared again! Frantically John swam forward. As he came close to the place where the head disappeared, a slight bubbling on the water’s surface caught his eye. Throwing himself forward with one almost super-human stroke, John reached down with his foremost hand – the right – and caught an arm. Up there came to the surface the face of a boy, lips ghastly blue, face deathly pale, corn-flower blue eyes that opened for a moment and, even as the tongue gasped out, “Help me, for God’s sake,” closed again.

Putting his hand under the body of the unresisting boy, John Rieler made for the shore. It was an easy rescue. The boy on his arm was unconscious and John Rieler was as much at home in the water as it is possible for any creature short of the amphibious to be.

On getting the boy to land, he lifted him upon the wooden platform of the pier, turned him on his back, raised him up by the feet, and satisfied that the strangers lungs were not filled with water, rolled him over face upward and caught him vigorously on both sides between the ribs.

“Stop your tickling, Jock,” came a weak voice. Eyes of blue, much bluer than the swimming suit of their owner, opened and shut again.

“Say, you’re not dead, are you?”

“Of course, I’m dead,” replied the blue-eyed one sitting up. “If I weren’t, do you think I’d be talking to you?”

“I – I – thought you were drowned.”

“Well, I’m not. How did I get here?”

“I fished you out. You were bobbing up and down there, and I just managed to get you as you went under for the last time, I suppose. How do you feel now?”

“Hungry,” said the other, arising.

“Who are you anyhow?”

“I’m Clarence Esmond. Say, I’m starving!” And Clarence took a few steps with some difficulty.

John Rieler thought quickly, dressing rapidly as he did so.