In which Ben, the gypsy, associates himself with the Bright-eyed Goddess in carrying out her will upon Master Clarence Esmond, and that young gentleman finds himself a captive.

It was the time when the night-hawk, soaring high in air and circling wantonly, suddenly drops like a thunderbolt down, down till nearing the ground it calls a sudden halt in its fall, and cutting a tremendous angle and letting out a short sound deep as the lowest string of a bass violin shoots up into the failing light of the evening; it was the time when the whippoorwill essays to wake the darkening sky with his insistent demands for the beating of that unfortunate youth, poor Will; it was the time when the sun, having left his kingdom in the western sky, stretches forth his wand of sovereignty from behind his curtains and touching the fleecy clouds changes them into precious jewels, ruby, pearl, and amethyst; it was, in fine, the time when the day is done and the twilight brings quiet and peace and slumber to the restless world.

However—and the exception proves the rule—it did not bring quiet and peace and slumber to Master Clarence Esmond. In fact, it so chanced that the twilight hour was the time when he was deprived of these very desirable gifts; for his sleep was just then rudely broken.

First, a feeling of uneasiness came upon his placid slumbers. It seemed to him, in those moments between sleeping and waking, that a very beautiful fairy, vestured in flowing white, and with lustrous and shining eyes, appeared before him. She gazed at him sternly. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” murmured Clarence. “I’ve been looking for you, star-eyed goddess. Be good enough, now you’re here, to supply me with one or two first-class adventures in good condition and warranted to last.” In answer to which, she of the starry eyes extended her wand and struck her suppliant a smart blow on the forehead. As she did this, the light in her eyes went out, her form lost its outline, fading away after the manner of a moving picture effect into total darkness.

Clarence’s eyes then opened; it was not all a dream—the loose board above him had fallen and struck him on his noble brow. Also, although his eyes were open, he could see very little. Almost at once he realized where he was. Almost at once he recalled, with the swiftness thought is often capable of, the varied events of the day. Almost at once, he perceived that the boat, no longer drifting, was moving swiftly as though in tow.

Clarence sat up. There was a splashing of the water quite near the boat. He rubbed his eyes and peered into the gathering darkness. A brown hand, near the prow, was clasped to the gunwale. Then Clarence standing up looked again. From the hand to the arm moved his eyes; from the arm to the head. Beside the boat and swimming vigorously was a man, whom, despite the shadows of the evening, Clarence recognized as young and swarthy. They were rapidly nearing shore.

“Say!” cried Clarence. “Look here, will you? Who are you?”

The swimmer on hearing the sound of the boy’s voice suspended his swimming, turned his head, and seeing standing in what he had supposed to be an empty boat, a young cherub arrayed in a scanty suit of blue, released his hold and disappeared under the water as though he had been seized with cramp.

The boat freed of his hand tilted very suddenly in the other direction, with the result that the erect cherub lost his balance so suddenly that he was thrown headlong into the waters on the other side.

Simultaneously with Clarence’s artless and unpremeditated dive, the strange swimmer came to the surface. He had thought, as our young adventurer subsequently learned, that the figure in the boat was a ghost. But ghosts do not tumble off boats into the water; neither do ghosts, when they come to the surface, blow and sputter and cough and strike out vigorously with an overhand stroke, which things the supposed ghost was now plainly doing. The stranger, therefore, taking heart of grace, laid the hand of proprietorship upon the boat once more. Clarence from the other side went through the same operation.

“What did you spill me for?” he gasped.

“I didn’t know anyone was in the boat,” returned the stranger with a slightly foreign accent. “When you stood up and spoke, I was plumb scared.”

“I really think I’m rather harmless,” remarked the boy, blithely. “Never yet, save in the way of kindness, did I lay hand on anybody—well hardly anybody. Where are we anyhow?”

“We’re on the Mississippi River,” returned the other guardedly.

“Oh, thank you ever so much. I really thought we were breasting the billows of the Atlantic.”

Meanwhile, they had drawn within a few feet of the shore, on which Clarence now cast his eyes. On a sloping beach in a grove surrounded by cottonwoods blazed a ruddy fire. Standing about it but with their eyes and attention fixed upon the two swimmers was a group consisting of a man a little beyond middle age, a woman, apparently his wife, a younger woman, a boy a trifle older and larger than Clarence, a girl of twelve, and five or six little children. In the camp-fire’s light Clarence perceived that they were, taking them all in all, swarthy, black-haired, clad like civilized people, and yet in that indescribable wild way of which gypsies possess the secret.

“Come on,” said the man, as the boat touched the shore.

“Excuse me,” said Clarence politely, “but I’m not dressed to meet visitors. The water is fine anyway; and it’s not near so dangerous as it’s cracked up to be. Can’t you get a fellow at least a pair of trousers?”

“You’ll stay here, will you?”

“I certainly will,” answered the youth, turning on his back and floating. “I’ve had enough of being out on the Mississippi to last me for several weeks at the very least. Go on, there’s a good fellow,—and get me something to put on.”

With a not ill-natured grunt of assent, the man walked up the sloping bank. As he passed the watchful group he uttered a few words; whereupon the larger gypsy boy came down to the shore and fixed a watchful eye upon the bather, while the others broke up and gave themselves to various occupations. Clarence’s rescuer went on beyond the fire, where two tents lay pitched beside a closed wagon—a prairie schooner on a small scale. After some search in which the young woman assisted him, he issued from the larger tent with a pair of frayed khaki trousers and an old calico shirt.

Returning to the river’s edge, he beckoned the swimmer, who, quick to answer the call, seized the clothes and darted behind the largest cottonwood. Clarence was dressed in a trice.

“I wish,” he observed, walking up to his rescuer, “to thank you for saving me. I’ve never been on a big river before; and I was afraid to try swimming. I say,” and as Clarence spoke, he gazed ruefully at his nether garment, “who’s your tailor?”

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Clarence Esmond, age 14, weight 110 pounds, height five feet two in my—”

“And how did you come to be in that boat?”

Clarence, involuntarily gazing at his frail craft and noticing that the older gypsy, assisted by the boy, had already beached it, and was now getting ready to give it a new coat of paint, proceeded to tell at some length his various encounters with the bright-eyed goddess of adventure since his departure that morning from McGregor. While he was telling his rather incredible tale all the party gathered about him. Not all, he observed, were gypsies. The little girl of twelve was as fair-skinned as himself. She was a beautiful child, with face most expressive of any passing emotion. It was to her that Clarence presently found he was addressing himself. One of his subtle jokes, lost on the gypsies, drew a smile of appreciation from the little girl. She was dainty in her dress—which was in no respect gypsy-like.

“There’s another adventure here,” Clarence reflected. “Where did they get her?” However, he was content to keep these thoughts to himself. At the conclusion of his story, Clarence addressed himself to the young man.

“And now, sir, where am I?”

“You’re in Wisconsin.”

“Oh, I’ve crossed to the other side, have I? And about how far down the river am I from the town of McGregor?”

“You are—” began the younger gypsy, when his senior cut him short, and spoke to him hurriedly for some minutes in a language strange to Clarence’s ears.

“I say,” interrupted Clarence, “my folks must be awful anxious about me. Would you mind letting me know how far I am from McGregor? I want to get back.”

“You are over thirty-five miles from McGregor,” said the older man, thoughtfully doubling the actual distance.

“Whew! Where can I get a train? I’ve got to get back.”

“Hold on,” said the elder; “what does your father do?”

“He’s a mining expert.”

“Is he rich?”

“I suppose he is. That’s what people say; and if you get me back, I’ll see that you’re paid.”

Again the two men conferred. Watching them eagerly, Clarence gathered these items of information: the elder was called Pete, the younger, Ben; they were not in agreement, coming almost to blows; Pete was the leader.

After further talk the two women were called into council. Suddenly the older, a withered hag with deep eyes and heavy and forbidding brows, turned to Clarence.

“Your hand!” she said, laconically.

“Charmed to shake with you,” responded the amiable adventurer, extending his open palm.

Instead of clasping it, the woman caught it tight, and dragging Clarence close to the fire began eagerly to scrutinize the lines on his palm.

“You’ll live long,” she said.

“Not if I have many days like this,” commented Clarence.

“You’ll have lots of wealth.”

“No objection, I’m sure, ma’am.”

“You will learn easy.”

“That’s the very way I propose to learn.”

“You’ll marry three times.”

“Oh, I say; cut out at least two of those wives, won’t you?”

“You’ll have a big family.”

“No objection to children, ma’am.”

Suddenly the woman paused, gazing fixedly at the boy’s palm.

“Oh!” she suddenly screamed. “The cross! the cross! It’s there. I see it. Say, boy, you’re a Catholic.”

“You’re another,” retorted Clarence, indignantly.

“You are! You are!” And with a cry like that of some wild animal, the woman ran and hid herself in the larger tent.

“Boy,” said Pete, “we’re going to take care of you.”

“Thank you; but if it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon take care of myself.”

“You’ll do as I tell you,” said Pete, gazing angrily at the lad. “You may be a fraud. We will find out, and if your story is true, we’ll see about getting you back to your people.”

“Oh, you will, will you?—Good night!” and with this Clarence turned and dashed up the river. Pete, followed by Ezra, was after him at once. The old man was quick to catch up with him, and he made this fact known to the boy by striking him with his closed fist a blow on the mouth which brought him flat to the earth. Pete kicked his prostrate prey as he lay, and was about to renew his brutality, when Ben roughly pulled his senior away.

“Look here!” cried Clarence ruefully, as he picked himself up. “Next time you want me to do something, tell me. You needn’t punch ideas in through my mouth. I guess I can take a hint as well as the next one.”

“You’d better do what Pete says,” whispered Ben not unkindly. “It’s no use trying to get away from him. I’ll be your friend.”

“Thank you. By the way, would you call kicks and cuffs adventures?”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, I was singing the praises of the goddess of adventure this morning. I wanted to meet her the worst way. Well, I’ve been meeting her all day and I’m kind of tired. If I get my hands on her, I’ll hold her under water till she’s as dead as a door-nail.”

“Oh, yes!” said the mystified Ben.

But the adventures of that day were not yet over, as Clarence, to his cost, was soon to learn.