Cupid of Campion

by Francis J. Finn

  CHAPTER IV

  _In which Clarence Esmond, alone and deserted, tries to pray; and his parents defer their trip to the Coast._

  After all, Clarence was but fourteen years of age. He was brave beyondhis years. He had a craving for adventure. But, picture to yourself alad in a thin blue bathing suit, in an oarless boat, alone on a greatriver. Clarence was really a good swimmer. He was at home in any lake;he had disported many a time in the salt water; but a river with itsunknown dangers was new to him. The fear of the unknown, therefore,coupled with the warning of the butcher’s boy, kept him in the boat,when in fact he could easily have made the shore. Adventure is all verywell in its way, but one likes to meet that fair goddess with reassuringcompanions. No wonder, then, that the boy broke down.

  For some minutes he continued to sob. His grief was poignant. Chancingto glance over the side of the boat, he saw his features, tear-stainedand swollen, reflected in the clear water. It was the first time that hehad ever seen his reflection when he was in heavy grief. He lookedagain, and then suddenly broke into a laugh.

  “Never say die,” he muttered to himself, and forthwith, putting hiselbows on his knees and his face in his hands, he began to meditate.

  What would his parents think about it? They would search, they wouldfind his clothes upon the river bank and conclude naturally that he wasdrowned. Perhaps, however, Master Abe would reassure them on that point.Clarence did not know that Abe, having taken to the bushes and makinghis way into the interior of Iowa, had already dickered with a farmer’sboy for an old pair of overalls and was now doing his best to put aswide a distance between himself and McGregor as possible.

  Once more Clarence raised his head and looked about him. The sun was nowin mid-heaven and, shining down upon the boy’s unprotected calves andshoulders, promised to leave the memory of that adventurous day inscarlet characters upon his tender skin. On one side flowed theWisconsin into the Mississippi; on the other the Iowa hills frowned downon him. The river itself was clear of craft. Water, water, everywhere;and standing sentinel over the mighty stream the hills of two sovereignstates. Hotter and hotter fell the rays of the sun.

  “Lord, have mercy on me,” exclaimed Clarence. He really prayed as heuttered these words.

  Clarence, it must be confessed, knew very little of prayer. They did notspecialize on that form of devotion—nor, in fact, on any form ofdevotion—at the academy of which for two years he had been a shiningornament. Vainly did he try to cudgel his brain for some other prayer.Even the Our Father, recited in tender years at his mother’s knee, hehad forgotten.

  The sun grew hotter; it was getting almost unbearable. Clarence wasdriven to action. After some effort, in which he skinned his knuckles,he succeeded in dislodging one of the two boards serving as seats.Placing this next to the others he threw himself below, doubled up so asto get himself as much as possible under the welcome shade, and—happymemory—murmured:

  “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray to God my soul to keep: And if I die before I wake, I pray to God my soul to take.”

  In saying these homely but beautiful lines, our adventurer had nointention of courting slumber. Nevertheless, he was sound asleep in tenminutes. The incidents of the morning, the climb up the hill, therowing, the brush with the tramp—all these things, combined with thefact that he had stayed up late the night before and had risen thatmorning at five o’clock, sent him into a slumber the sounder for thequiet and the freshness of the great river.

  * * * * *

  About the same hour in which Clarence had snuggled low down in the boatand presently fallen into deep slumber, a gentleman came hurrying downto the McGregor boat-landing. He was a rather handsome man in the primeof life, dressed in a manner that showed he belonged to themany-tailored East. He was pulling at his mustache, gazing anxiously allabout him, and betraying in many ways nervousness and anxiety.

  “Beg pardon,” he began, addressing a group of men and women who werewaiting for the ferry-boat that plied between McGregor and Prairie duChien, “but have any of you chanced to see a boy of fourteen in a whitesailor suit about here? He’s my son.”

  “Did you say a white sailor suit?” asked a man of middle age.

  “Yes.”

  “Why, I think I saw a boy dressed that way this morning. As I was comingdown the street, towards nine o’clock, I saw a boat going down streamwith two people in it. First, I thought the one rowing was a girl; Itook another look, and I could almost swear it was a boy dressed inwhite. They were gone down some distance, and so I couldn’t say forsure.”

  Just then a young man of about twenty-one dressed in flannels joined thegroup.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m a stranger here, and am rowingdown the river from LaCrosse to Dubuque. This morning I locked my boathere, leaving the oars in it, and went for breakfast and a little strollinto the country back of McGregor. My boat has disappeared.”

  “Was it painted green?” inquired the first informant, “and did it riderather high?”

  “Yes, that’s the boat.”

  “Well, the boat I saw, with, I thought, two boys in it, one in a whitesailor suit, must have been your boat.”

  “Strange!” exclaimed Clarence’s father. “My boy, I am sure, would not dosuch a thing.”

  “What about the other boy?” said an old inhabitant. “There’s ano-account fellow here-abouts named Abe Thompson. He was the butcher’sboy and got fired early today. He’s disappeared this morning, too, andI’ll bet my boots that he’s the one who went off in that boat.”

  “That reminds me,” put in another member of the group. “When the St.Paul came in here this morning, the passengers were all talking about asmall boy rowing a boat up near Pictured Rocks, who tried to cross theirbow. The Captain had to stop the steamboat and he said that the two boysin that boat seemed anxious to commit suicide. When the Captain roaredat the oarsman and called him a jackass, the kid smiled and asked whichone of the two he was speaking to.”

  “That was my son Clarence beyond a doubt,” said Mr. Esmond with thesuspicion of a smile. “It would be just like him to cut across the bowof a steamboat, and that question of his makes it a dead certainty. Theboy sat up until one o’clock last night reading Treasure Island. He’svery impressionable, and he left the house this morning with his heartset upon meeting with an adventure of some sort or other. It’s neartwelve o’clock now, and we were to start for the coast at one-forty.Can’t I get a motorboat around here somewhere?”

  The man who had been the first to give information then spoke up.

  “Sir,” he said, “I have a fairly good motorboat at the McGregor landing.It will be a pleasure for me to do anything I can to help you.”

  “Thank you a thousand times. Let’s get off at once. My name is CharlesEsmond.”

  “And mine,” returned the other, “is John Dolan.” The two, as they madetheir way to the motorboat, shook hands.

  “This is awfully kind of you,” continued Mr. Esmond, as he seatedhimself in the prow.

  “It’s a pleasure, I assure you. I’ve really nothing to do at thisseason, and so I pass most of my time on the river.”

  As he spoke these words, the boat shot out into the water.

  “Now,” continued Mr. Dolan, “as a working hypothesis, we may take it forgranted that those boys went to Pictured Rocks; everybody goes there. Sowe’ll make for that place and reach it, I dare say, in six or sevenminutes.”

  “I hope nothing has happened,” said the father. “This morning my wifehad a bad sick headache, and Clarence was overflowing with animalspirits. We had promised him, the night before, a ride on the river anda swim. He had never been on the Mississippi, and he was all eagerness.To make matters worse, I got a telegram this morning to send on a reporton a Mexican mine—it’s my business, by the way, to study mines here, inMexico, and, in fact, almost anywhere. That report meant two or threeh
ours of hard work. So I told Clarence to run out and get some goodboatman, if he could, and go rowing. I cautioned him to be careful aboutwhere he went swimming and not to go in alone. He promised me faithfullyto be back at twelve. Now I have no reason to think the boy would breakhis word. In fact, I had an idea that he was truthful.”

  “You talk of your boy,” observed Mr. Dolan, “as though you didn’t knowhim very well.”

  Mr. Esmond relaxed into a smile.

  “It does sound funny, doesn’t it,” he said. “The fact of the matter isthat I really have very little first-hand knowledge of him. At the ageof five, Clarence learned how to read, and developed a mostextraordinary passion for books at once. If allowed, he read from thetime he got up till he went to bed. I never saw such a case ofprecocity. It was next to impossible to get him to take exercise. Hismother did her best to restrain him, and I did my share too, though itwas very little, as I was away looking up mines nine months out of thetwelve. When the boy was eleven, it became clear that some radicalaction had to be taken. I looked around for some school that would suitor rather offset his idiosyncrasy. After no end of inquiries Idiscovered Clermont Academy in New York State, where athletics wereeverything and such studies as reading, grammar and arithmetic were asort of by-product. Clarence has been there for three years, and, up toa week ago, his mother and I never saw him from the time of hisentrance. Well, he’s a changed boy. He is fairly stout, and muscularbeyond my most sanguine hopes. He is up in all sorts of games. In fact,in his class—boys of twelve to fourteen—he’s the leader. All the same,I blush to say that I really know very little about my boy.”

  “Perhaps the lad is a genius,” suggested Mr. Dolan.

  “Some of my friends have made that claim and accused me of trying toclip his wings. All the same, I want my boy, genius or no genius, togrow up to be a hale, hearty man.”

  “Halloa!” exclaimed Dolan. He had turned the boat shoreward. Before theeyes of both lay in full view on the bank two suits of clothes. The boathad scarce touched the shore, when Mr. Esmond jumped from it and ran tothe spot where the clothes lay spread upon the ground.

  “My God! These are my son’s,” he cried, gazing with dismay upon thewhite sailor suit which he had caught up in his hands. His facequivering with emotion, he stood stock still for a moment, then sankupon the ground and buried his head in his hands.

  “And this,” said John Dolan, looking closely at the abandoned overalls,“belongs to that ne’er-do-well butcher’s boy. It looks bad. They musthave gone swimming here.”

  Mr. Esmond arose and looked about.

  “Where’s that boat they had?” he inquired.

  “It may have drifted away,” answered John. “Or, more probably, thatbutcher’s boy, who is a known thief, has hidden it somewhere. He knewvery well that there would be a search for it.”

  “Say, Dolan, you’ll stand by me, won’t you? I am almost in despair; thething is so sudden.”

  “I’ll do anything you want.”

  “Well, you leave me here and run back to McGregor. Send word to my wifethat I am detained—don’t let her think or even suspect that our boy isdrowned—and to put off our trip to the Coast, as I cannot make thetrain. Tell her to expect me and Clarence before supper. Then get theproper officials of McGregor to come here at once and drag the river.Hire any extra men you judge fit. Don’t bother about expense. Now go anddon’t lose a moment.”

  Left alone, Mr. Esmond made a careful search, tracing the boy’s steps intheir ascent to Pictured Rocks. He went part of the way himself, cryingout at intervals, “Clarence! Clarence! Clarence!” There was no answersave the echoes which to his anxious ears sounded far differently fromthe “horns of elfland.”

  Again and again he called. And yet Clarence was not so far away—hardlyhalf a mile down the river, locked in slumber, and, as it proved, in thehands of that bright-eyed goddess of adventure whom the reckless lad hadnot in vain wooed.

  Returning to the shore, Mr. Esmond on further investigation traced hisboy’s footprints to the river’s banks. At this juncture, severalmotorboats arrived, each carrying a number of men, and soon all werebusy dragging the river.

  At six o’clock John Dolan insisted on bringing the despairing fatherback to McGregor.

  “Dolan,” he said, as they started upstream, “have you any religion?”

  “I hope so. I’m a Catholic.”

  “I don’t know what I am;—but my poor boy! His mother ought to be aCatholic, but she was brought up from her tender years by Baptistrelations with the result that she’s got no more religion that I have.When my boy was born, I started him out on the theory that he was not tobe taught any religion, but was to grow up without prejudices, and whenhe was old enough, he was to choose for himself. All the religion heever got amounted to his saying the ‘Our Father’ and ‘Now I lay me downto sleep.’ At that school he’s been going to there’s no religion taughtat all. I wish I had done differently. Think of his appearing before aGod he never thought of. Some of our theories look mighty nice inordinary circumstances. But now! My son is dead, and without any sort ofpreparation.”

  “We can pray for him; we can hope.”

  “Well, if his soul is saved,” said Esmond gravely, “it’s not because ofme, it’s in spite of me.”

  When the bereaved father reached the hotel, the despair in his eyes toldthe tale to his wife. Let us drop a veil over that scene of sorrow—thesudden loss of an only child.