Cupid of Campion

“Yes, you go to the banquet, too.”

“Oh,” said John, “this whole thing is like taking candy from a child. Say, Clarence,” he added in a whisper, “they’ve got a first-class cook there, and I am hungry.”

“I feel that way myself,” admitted Clarence.

“I’ll wager,” said the Rector, his eyes twinkling, “that you two are talking about the supper.”

“We just said we were hungry,” explained Rieler.

“For that matter, I’m famishing myself,” said the Prefect of the Sodality.

“And I’m hungry, too,” added Dora.

“Very good: clear out all of you, and you boys will be back in time for night prayers.”

And away they scampered like children – the big fellow, “Strong-Arm,” leading in the romp.

The funeral of the faithful and well-beloved Ben was simple and solemn, and the mourners fit though few. The Reverend Rector himself offered up the holy sacrifice of the Mass. Very quietly the simple cortege proceeded to the Catholic burying ground; and when the last shovelful of earth was thrown on the coffin Dora stepped forward and laid upon the mound the flowers such as Ben once joyed to collect and place at the shrine of “that good woman who was the Mother of God.”

They were scarcely outside the graveyard, when the Rector addressed them:

“You have all had too much of tragedy these last days for your tender years. Dora is a free agent; Clarence is simply our guest; they have a right to a holiday. As for you, Will, I give you the day in honor of the efficiency of your strong arm; and you, John, for saving Clarence.”

The long faces shortened; eyes dimmed with tears grew bright. A holiday to the school boys! What trouble, what sorrow can hold its own against a holiday?

“I’ve secured a fine motor-boat for you – ”

“I can run a motor all right,” broke in Rieler his face deeply gashed by a smile.

“And I suggest,” continued the Rector, “Pictured Rocks and a ride down the river.”

“Ah-h-h-h!” gurgled Dora.

“Oh-h-h-h!” cried Clarence.

“Say – say,” blurted John, “what about our breakfast? We’ve just been to Communion, you know, all except Clarence, and he hasn’t eaten yet.”

“There are some things, John,” observed the Rector, “that you never forget. However, I haven’t overlooked that particular item either. All you need do is to run down to the Prairie du Chien boat landing. You’ll find a man there, John Durkin, the boat-owner, who’s waiting to see that you get off with everything in good order. Then, John, you motor over to North McGregor, and bring the party up to Mr. Berry’s hotel. He’s heard of your wonderful adventures, and you are his breakfast guests.”

“I took a meal there with my pa,” whispered the radiant Rieler, “when he came up to see me last year. I’m glad I’m hungry,” he added simply.

“I should think, John,” observed the Rector, “that you must have that cause for rejoicing a good many times in the day. After your breakfast, you must get together provisions enough for a good dinner. The commissary department will be in charge of Will Benton. Here, Will, are a few dollars for that purpose. Mr. Berry will help you do the buying.”

“And I’ll be the cook,” said Dora, skipping about in uncontrollable glee.

“The only thing left for me,” said Clarence with his most radiant smile, “is to be dishwasher. I accept.”

“Hurry away now,” continued the Rector; and at the words they were all dashing down the street, Dora in the lead.

“Last one down is a nigger,” yelled Rieler.

It should not be accounted to the discredit of that happy lad that he did not succeed in overtaking the fleet-footed Dora. Not for nothing had she lived for four months in the open. As a matter of fact Dora retained her lead – owing, it may be, to the chivalry of Clarence and Will. Nevertheless, John, despite his efforts, was the last, of which fact all were careful to remind him till he had succeeded in setting the motor-boat whirling off toward North McGregor.

Of that happy morning, of the breakfast at Berry’s hotel, where John Rieler by his execution regained the prestige he had lost in the race, of the ride down the river, during which the hills of Iowa threw back in multiplied echoes happy laughter and gleeful shouts, of the ascent to the heights above Pictured Rocks, where Dora led the way skippingly, and paused not for breath till they reached the summit; of the lively chatter and flying jest; of the tumbles, unnecessary most of them, as they went down; of the wonderful dinner prepared – gypsy-wise – by Dora at the gypsy fire set going by Clarence; of the ride down the river till they paused and surveyed the very place where Clarence’s boat was taken in tow by “good dear Ben” – of all these things there is a record in the unwritten book of sheer joy. There never was a jollier, happier party on the broad bosom of the upper Mississippi. A little joke evoked thrills of laughter; a good one, an explosion. No pen is adequate to give an idea of how these pure, innocent and loving hearts laughed and jested and drank deep of the unpolluted joy of life.

They turned their boats at sunset homeward; and, as the twilight began to creep from its hiding place in the East, Clarence begged Dora to sing them a song of her gypsy exile.

The clear, pure voice – the sweeter, the more pathetic, doubtless, for all Dora’s long days of suffering – rose and added its beauty to the splendors of the dying day. Dora had just finished “Mother Dear, O Pray for Me,” and at the request of all, was about to begin another hymn, when Will Benton cried out:

“Look: there’s a boat making for us from Smith’s Creek. I believe it’s the Campion.”

“So it is,” cried Rieler, keen of eye. “And Father Rector’s in it. And – ”

Suddenly a scream of joy rang from Dora’s throat.

“Oh! oh!” she cried. “It’s mama and papa!”

CHAPTER XIX

In which John Rieler fails to finish his great speech, and Clarence is seriously frightened

There were, as the two boats came together, shouts and joyous cries and a quick interchange of crews. Dora was in the arms of father and mother. Laughter and tears – the tears of strong emotion – were intermingled with incoherent sobs. Feelings were beyond the power of human language.

It was then, in the midst of all this, that Master John Rieler, filled with an enthusiasm which could no longer be bottled up, mounted the prow of the boat, of which he had that day been the happy engineer, and raising his cap aloft, bellowed at the top of his voice:

“Three cheers for – ” But John did not finish this splendid sentence, and to this day no one knows for whom he intended the signal honor; for, happening to wave his cap wildly with these opening words, he lost his balance, and plumped into the water.

“Oh!” cried Mr. Benton, pulling off his coat.

“Stay where you are,” called the grinning Rector. “Don’t hurt Rieler’s feelings. To go to his help would be less sensible than carrying coals to Newcastle.”

John rose just then, and, shaking his locks, smiled graciously at the crews of the two boats.

“We don’t want you,” said the Rector.

“Thank you, Father,” John made grateful answer, and once more sank for a long, delicious dive. And thus did the youth continue to disport himself while huggings were renewed and Babel continued beside him.

“But, Father,” said Will Benton, “what I can’t understand is this! Dora was lost; after two weeks her body was recovered and she was buried in her coffin from our church.”

“You saw the coffin, Will?”

“Yes, Father.”

“But did you see Dora in it?”

“No, Father; you told us she was disfigured and bloated from being so long in the water; and you said we were not to see her.”

“Exactly. The facts are these: On one day, fourteen bodies of the flood victims were recovered. Very soon all were identified except that of a girl dressed in a white dress with a blue sash. I went to view the body, and really couldn’t make up my mind whether it was Dora’s, or not. Everybody insisted that it must be Dora. In the meantime, your mother was so broken-hearted by anxiety that it looked as if she would lose her mind. It occurred to me that even the recovery of the body and the Holy Mass over it would set her at rest, so I took the benefit of the doubt, and allowed the corpse in white and blue to be buried as though it were Dora’s. But mind, I never said it was Dora. I allowed the others to do that without contradicting them; and also my intention in having that Mass offered was that if Dora were alive, the Mass should go to the poor abandoned child who took her place.”