Chapter 1

KILLYKINICK

By MARY T. WAGGAMAN

Author of "Billy Boy," "The Secret of Pocomoke," "White Eagle," "Tommy Travers," etc.

THE AVE MARIA

NOTRE DAME, INDIANA

Copyright, 1917 By D. E. HUDSON, C. S. C.

KILLYKINICK.

I.--THE "LEFT OVERS."

It was the week after Commencement. The corridors, class-rooms, and study hall of Saint Andrew's stretched in dim, silent vistas; over the tennis court and the playground there brooded a dead calm; the field, scene of so many strenuous struggles, lay bare and still in the summer sunlight; the quadrangle, that so lately had rung to parting cheer and "yell," might have been a cloister for midnight ghosts to walk. The only sign or sound of life came from the open archways of the Gym, where the "left overs" (as the boys who for various reasons had been obliged to summer at Saint Andrew's) were working off the steam condensed, as Jim Norris declared, to the "busting" point by the last seven days.

A city-bound college has its limitations, and vacation at Saint Andrew's promised to be a very dull affair indeed. The "left overs" had tried everything to kill time. At present their efforts seemed bent on killing themselves; for Jim Norris and Dud Fielding, sturdy fellows of fourteen, were doing stunts on the flying trapeze worthy of professional acrobats; while Dan Dolan, swinging from a high bar, was urging little Fred Neville to a precarious poise on his shoulder.

Freddy was what may be called a perennial "left over." He had been the "kid" of Saint Andrew's since he was five years old, when his widowed father had left him in a priestly uncle's care, and had disappeared no one knew how or where. And as Uncle Tom's chosen path lay along hard, lofty ways that small boys could not follow, Fred had been placed by special privilege in Saint Andrew's to grow up into a happy boyhood, the pet and plaything of the house. He was eleven now, with the fair face and golden hair of his dead girl-mother, and brown eyes that had a boyish sparkle all their own.

They looked up dubiously at Dan now,--"daring Dan," who for the last year had been Freddy's especial chum; and to be long-legged, sandy-haired, freckle-nosed Dan's chum was an honor indeed for a small boy of eleven. Dan wore frayed collars and jackets much too small for him; his shoes were stubby-toed and often patched; he made pocket money in various ways, by "fagging" and odd jobbing for the big boys of the college. But he led the classes and games of the Prep with equal success; and even now the Latin class medal was swinging from the breast of his shabby jacket.

Dan had been a newsboy in very early youth; but, after a stormy and often broken passage through the parochial school, he had won a scholarship at Saint Andrew's over all competitors.

"An' ye'll be the fool to take it," Aunt Winnie had said when he brought the news home to the little attic rooms where she did tailor's finishing, and took care of Dan as well as a crippled old grandaunt could. "With all them fine gentlemen's sons looking down on ye for a beggar!"

"Let them look," Dan had said philosophically. "Looks don't hurt, Aunt Win. It's my chance and I'm going to take it."

And he was taking it bravely when poor Aunt Win's rheumatic knees broke down utterly, and she had to go to the "Little Sisters," leaving Dan to summer with the other "left overs" at Saint Andrew's.

"Swing up," he repeated, stretching a sturdy hand to Fred. "Don't be a sissy. One foot on each of my shoulders, and catch on to the bar above my head. That will steady you."

Freddy hesitated. It was rather a lofty height for one of his size.

"You can't hold me," he said. "I'm too heavy."

"Too heavy!" repeated Dan, laughing down on the slender, dapper little figure at his feet. "Gee whilikins, I wouldn't even _feel_ you!"

This was too much for any eleven-year-old to stand. Freddy was not very well. Brother Timothy had been dosing him for a week or more, and these long hot summer days made his legs feel queer and his head dizzy. It was rather hard sometimes to keep up with Dan, who was making the most of his holiday, as he did of everything that came in his way. Freddy was following him loyally, in spite of the creeps and chills that betrayed malaria. But now his brown eyes flashed fire.

"You're a big brag, Dan Dolan!" he said, stung by such a taunt at his size and weight. "Just you try me!"

And catching Dan's hand he made a spring to his waist and a reckless scramble to his shoulders.

"Hooray!" said Dan, cheerily. "Steady now, and hold on to the bar!"

"Do you feel me now?" said Fred, pressing down with all his small weight on the sturdy figure beneath him.

"A mite!" answered Dan. "Sort of like a mosquito had lit on me up there."

"Do you feel me now?" said Fred, bringing his heels down with a dig.

"Look out now!" cried Dan, sharply. "Don't try dancing a jig up there. Hold to the bar."

But the warning came too late. The last move was too much for the half-sick boy. Freddy's head began to turn, his legs gave way--he reeled down to the floor, and, white and senseless, lay at Dan's feet.

In the big, book-lined study beyond the quadrangle, Father Regan was settling final accounts prior to the series of "retreats" he had promised for the summer; while Brother Bart, ruddy and wrinkled as a winter apple, "straightened up,"--gathering waste paper and pamphlets as his superior cast them aside, dusting book-shelves and mantel, casting the while many an anxious, watchful glance through the open window. The boys were altogether too quiet this morning. Brother Bart distrusted boyish quiet. For the "Laddie," as he had called Freddy since the tiny boy had been placed six years ago in his special care, was the idol of the good man's heart. He had washed and dressed and tended him in those early years with almost a woman's tenderness, and was watching with jealous anxiety as Laddie turned from childish ways into paths beyond his care. Dan Dolan was Brother Bart's especial fear--Dan Dolan, who belonged to the rough outside world from which Laddie had been shielded; Dan Dolan, who, despite tickets and medals, Brother Bart felt was no mate for a little gentleman like his boy.

"They're quarely still this morning," he said at last, giving voice to his fear. "I'm thinking they are at no good."

"Who?" asked Father Regan, looking up from the letter he was reading.

"The boys," answered Brother Bart,--"the four of them that was left over with us."

"Four of them?" repeated the Father, who, with the closing of the schools, had felt the burden of his responsibilities drop. "True, true! I quite forgot we have four boys with us. It must be dull for the poor fellows."

"Dull!" echoed Brother Bart, grimly,--"dull is it, yer reverence? It's in some divilment they are from morning until night. There's no rule for vacation days, as Mr. Linton says; and so the four of them are running wild as red Indians, up in the bell tower, and in the ice pond that's six feet deep with black water, and scampering over the highest ledge of the dormitory roof, till my heart nearly leaps from my mouth."

"Poor fellows!" said Father Regan, indulgently. "It's hard on them, of course. Let me see! Colonel Fielding and his wife are in the Philippines, I remember, and asked to leave Dudley with us; and Judge Norris couldn't take Will with him to Japan; and there's our own little Fred of course,--we always have him; and--"

"That dare-devil of a Dan Dolan, that's the worst of all!" burst forth Brother Bart. "It's for me sins he was left here, I know; with the Laddie following everywhere he leads, like he was bewitched."

"Poor Danny! Aren't you a little hard on him, Brother Bart?" was the smiling question.

"Sure I am, I am,--God forgive me for that same!" answered Brother Bart, penitently. "But I'm no saint like the rest of ye; and Laddie crept into my heart six years ago, and I can't put him out. Wild Dan Dolan is no fit mate for him."

"Why not?" asked Father Regan, gravely, though there was a quizzical gleam in his eye.

"Sure, because--because--" hesitated Brother Bart, rather staggered by the question. "Sure ye know yerself, Father."

"No, I don't," was the calm reply. "Dan may be wild and mischievous--a little rough perhaps, poor boy!--but he will do Freddy no harm. He is a bright, honest, manly fellow, making a brave fight against odds that are hard to face; and we must give him his chance, Brother Bart. I promised his good old aunt, who was broken-hearted at leaving him, that I would do all I could for her friendless, homeless boy. As for mischief--well, I rather like a spice of mischief at his age. It is a sign of good health, body and soul. But we must try to give it a safer outlet than roofs and bell towers," he added thoughtfully. "Let me see! If we could send our 'left overs' some place where they could have more freedom. Why--why, now that I think of it" (the speaker's grave face brightened as he took up the letter he had been reading), "maybe there's a chance for them right here. Father Tom Rayburn has just written me that Freddy has fallen heir to some queer old place on the New England coast. It belonged to his mother's great-uncle, an old whaling captain, who lived there after an eccentric fashion of his own. It seems that this ship was stranded on this island more than fifty years ago, and he fixed up the wreck, and lived there until his death this past month. The place has no value, Father Tom thinks; but he spent two of the jolliest summers of his own boyhood with an old Captain Kane at Killykinick."

"Killykinick?" echoed Brother Bart. "That sounds Irish, Father."

"It does," laughed Father Regan. "Perhaps the old captain was an Irishman. At any rate, there he lived, showing a light every night at his masthead to warn other ships off,--which was quite unnecessary of course, as the government attends to all such matters now."

"It must be a queer sort of a place," said Brother Bart, doubtfully. "But it might do Laddie good to get a whiff of the salt air and a swim in the sea. He isn't well, Brother Timothy says, and as everyone can see. He has a touch of the fever every day; and as for weight, Dan Dolan would make two of him. And his mother died before she was five and twenty. God's holy will be done!" Brother Bart's voice broke at the words. "But I'm thinking Laddie isn't long for this world, Father. There's an angel-look in his face that I don't like to see." And the old Brother shook his head lugubriously.

Father Regan laughed.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that! I've seen plenty of just such angels, Brother Bart, and they grew up into very hardy, mortal men, who had to scuffle their way through life like the rest of us. But Freddy is looking a little peaked of late, as I noticed on Commencement Day. I think that, as you say, a breath of salt air would be good for him. We might send all four off together to this place of his."

"Is it Dan Dolan with the rest?" asked Brother Bart, in dismay.

"Why, of course! We couldn't keep poor Dan here all alone," was the answer.

"He'll have Laddie climbing the rocks and swimming the seas like--like a wild Indian," said the good man, despairingly.

"What! That angel boy of yours, Brother Bart?" laughed the priest.

"Aye, aye!" answered the good Brother. "I'm not denying that Laddie has a wild streak in him. It came from his poor young father, I suppose. Arrah! has there never been word or sign from him, Father?" queried Brother Bart, sorrowfully.

"Never," was the grave reply,--"not since he disappeared so strangely six years ago. I presume he is dead. He had been rather a wild young fellow; but after his wife's death he changed completely, reproached himself for having, as he said, broken her heart, and got some morbid notion of not being a fit father for his child. He had lost his faith and was altogether unbalanced, poor man! Luckily, Freddy inherits a fortune from his mother, and is well provided for; and now comes this other heritage from the old great-uncle--Killykinick. I really think--O God bless me! What is the matter?" asked the speaker, turning with a start, as, reckless of rules and reverence, two white-faced boys burst unannounced into the room.

"It's--it's--it's Freddy Neville, Father!" panted Jim Norris.

"Laddie,--my Laddie! What's come to him?" cried Brother Bart.

"He's tumbled off the high bar," gasped Dud Fielding, "and he is lying all white and still, and--and dead, Father!"

II.--OLD TOP.

There was a hurried rush to the scene of accident; but first aid to the injured had already been rendered. Freddy lay on the Gym floor, pillowed on Dan's jacket, and reviving under the ministration of a sturdy hand and a very wet and grimy pocket-handkerchief.

"What did you go tumbling off like that for?" asked Dan indignantly as the "angel eyes" of his patient opened.

"Don't know," murmured Freddy, faintly.

"I told you to stand steady, and you didn't,--you jumped!" said Dan.

"So--so you'd feel me," answered Fred, memory returning as the darkness began to brighten, and Brother Bart and Brother Timothy and several other anxious faces started out of the breaking clouds. "But I'm not hurt,--I'm not hurt a bit, Brother Bart."

"Blessed be God for that same!" cried the good Brother, brokenly, as, after close examination, Brother Timothy agreed to this opinion. "And it wasn't the fault of the rapscallions wid ye that ye're not killed outright. To be swinging like monkeys from a perch, and ye half sick and lightheaded! Put him in the bed, Brother Timothy; and keep him there till we see what comes of this."

So Freddy was put to bed in the dim quiet of the infirmary, to watch developments. Brother Timothy gave him an old fashioned "drought," and he went to sleep most comfortably. He woke up feeling very well indeed, to enjoy an appetizing repast of chicken broth and custard. But when this went on for two days, Freddy began to grow restless.

Infirmary life was very well in school time; indeed, when there were other patients not too sick to share its luxuries, it proved rather a pleasant break in the routine of class-room and study-hall. In fact, a late epidemic of measles that filled every bed had been a "lark" beyond Brother Timothy's suppression. But the infirmary in vacation, with no chance for the pillow fights that had made the "measles" so hilarious, with no boy in the next bed to exchange confidences and reminiscences, with no cheery shouts from the playground and quadrangle, with only the long stretch of bare, spotless rooms, white cots, and Brother Timothy rolling pills in the "doctor shop," the infirmary was dull and dreary indeed.

"Can't I get up to-day, Brother?" asked Freddy on the third morning, as Brother Timothy took away a breakfast tray cleared to the last crumb of toast.

"No," replied the Brother, who from long dealing with small boys had acquired the stony calm of a desert sphinx. Beneath it he was a gentle, patient, wise old saint, who watched and prayed over his patients in a way they little guessed. "No, you can't."

"Gee!" said Freddy, with a rebellious kick at the counterpane. "The bump on my head is gone and I'm not sick at all."

"We're not so sure of that," answered Brother Tim. "You've had temperature."

"What's 'temperature'?" asked Freddy, roused with interest.

"Never mind what it is, but you'll have to stay here till it goes," answered Brother Tim, with decision.

And Freddy could only lay back on his pillows in hopeless gloom, watching the shadows of the big elm by his window flickering over curtain and coverlet. The great elm--or "Old Top," as it had been affectionately called by generations of students--was the pride of the college grounds. Many a newcomer felt his heart warm to his strange surroundings when he found the name of father or grandfather cut into the rough bark, where men who had made later marks on history's page had left youthful sign manual. More than once the growth of the college buildings had threatened to encroach upon Old Top; but the big elm held its prior claim, and new dormitory or infirmary was set back that it might rule with kingly right in its historic place.

Many were the stories and legends of which Old Top was the hero. In the "great fire" its boughs had proven a ladder of safety before modern "escapes" were known. Civil-War veterans told of hunted scouts hiding, all unknown to the Fathers, in its spreading branches; while the students' larks and frolics to which it had lent indulgent ear were ancient history at many a grandfather's fireside.

But, like all things earthly, the big tree was growing old; a barbed wire fencing surrounded the aging trunk, and effectively prohibited climbing the rotten and unsafe branches. Even cutting names was forbidden. Freddy had been the last allowed, as the "kid" of the house, to put his initials beneath his father's. It had been quite an occasion, his eleventh birthday. There had been a party (Freddy always had ten dollars to give a party on his birthday); and then, surrounded by his guests, still gratefully appreciative of unlimited ice cream and strawberries, he had carefully cut "F. W. N. 19--" beneath the same signature of twenty years ago. It was then too twenty years ago. It was then too hilarious an occasion for sad reflection; but lying alone in the infirmary to-day, Freddy's memories took doleful form as he recalled the "F. W. N." above his own, and began to think of his father who had vanished so utterly from his young life.

He had only the vaguest recollection of a tall, handsome "daddy" who had tossed him up in his arms and frolicked and laughed with him in a very dim, early youth. He could recall more clearly the stern, silent man of later years, of whom the five-year-boy had been a little afraid. And he retained a vivid memory of one bewildering evening in the dusky parlor of Saint Andrew's when a shaking, low voiced father had held him tight to his breast for one startling moment, and then whispered hoarsely in his ear, "Good-bye, my little son,--good-bye for ever!" It was very sad, as Freddy realized to-day (he had never considered the matter seriously before),--very sad to have a father bid you good-bye forever. And to have your mother dead, too,--such a lovely mother! Freddy had, in his small trunk, a picture of her that was as pretty as any of the angels on the chapel windows. And now he had "temperature," and maybe he was going to die, too, like some of those very good little boys of whom Father Martin read aloud on Sundays.

Freddy's spirits were sinking into a sunless gloom, when suddenly there came a whistle through the open window,--a whistle that made him start up breathless on his pillow. For only one boy in Saint Andrew's could achieve that clear high note. It was Dan Dolan calling,--but how, where? Freddy's window was four stories high, without porch or fire escape and that whistle was almost in his ear. He pursed up his trembling lips and whistled back.

"Hi!" came a cautious voice, and the leafy shadows of Old Top waved violently. "You're there, are you? Brother Tim around?"

"No," answered Freddy.

"Then I'll swing in for a minute." And, with another shake of Old Top, Dan bestrode the window ledge,--a most cheery-looking Dan, grinning broadly.

"How--how did you get up?" asked Freddy, thinking of the barbed wire defences below.

"Dead easy," answered Dan. "Just swung across from the organ-loft windows. They wouldn't let me come up and see you. Brother Bart, the old softy, said I'd excite you. What's the matter, anyhow? Is it the tumble--or typhoid?"

"Neither," said Fred. "I feel fine, but Brother Tim says I've got temperature."

"What's that?" asked Dan.

"I don't know," replied Freddy. "You better not come too near, or you may catch it."

"Pooh, no!" said Dan, who was poised easily on his lofty perch. "I never catch anything. But I'll keep ready for a jump, or Brother Tim will catch me, and there will be trouble for sure. And as for Brother Bart, I don't know what he'd do if he thought I had come near you. Jing! but he gave it to me hot and heavy about letting you get that tumble! He needn't. I felt bad enough about it already."

"Oh, did you, Dan?" asked Fred, quite overcome by such an admission.

"Rotten!" was the emphatic answer.

"Couldn't eat any dinner, though we had cherry dumpling. And Brother Bart rubbed it in, saying I had killed you. Then I got the grumps, and when Dud Fielding gave me some of his sass we had a knock-out fight that brought Father Rector down on us good and strong. I tell you it's been tough lines all around. And this is what you call--vacation!" concluded Dan, sarcastically.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" said Freddy. "The tumble didn't hurt me much. I guess I was sort of sick anyhow. And to fight Dud Fielding!" The speaker's eyes sparkled. "Oh, I bet you laid him out, Dan!"

"Didn't I, though! Shut up one eye, and made that Grecian nose of his look like a turnip. It ain't down yet," answered Dan, with satisfaction. "He fired me up talking about Aunt Win."

"Oh, did he?" asked Freddy, sympathetically.

"Yes: said I ought to be ditch-digging to keep her out of the poorhouse, instead of pushing in with respectable boys here. Sometimes I think that myself," added Dan in another tone. "But it wasn't any of that blamed plute's business to knock it into me."

"But it isn't true: your aunt isn't in the poorhouse, Dan?" said Freddy, eagerly.

"Well, no, not exactly," answered Dan. "But she is with the Little Sisters, which is next thing to it. And I ain't like the rest of you, I know; and don't need Dud Fielding to tell me. But just let me get a good start and I'll show folks what Dan Dolan can do. I'll be ready for something better than a newsboy or a bootblack."

"O Dan, you'll never be anything like that!" said Freddy, in dismay.

"I have been," was the frank reply. "Given many a good shine for a nickel. Could sell more papers than any little chap on the street. Was out before day on winter mornings to get them hot from the press, when I hadn't turned seven years old. But I ain't going back to it,--no, sir!" Dan's lips set themselves firmly. "I'm on the climb. Maybe I won't get very far, but I've got my foot on the ladder. I'm going to hold my own against Dud Fielding and all his kind, no matter how they push; and I told Father Rector that yesterday when they were plastering up Dud's eye and nose."

"O Dan, you didn't!"

"Yes, I did. I was just boiling up, and had to bust out, I guess. And when he lectured us about being gentlemen, I told him I didn't aim at anything like that. I wasn't made for it, as I knew; but I was made to be a man, and I was going to hold up like one, and stand no shoving."

"O Dan!" gasped Freddy, breathlessly. "And--and what did he say?"

"Nothing," answered Dan, grimly. "But from the looks of things, I rather guess I'm in for a ticket of leave. That's why I'm up here. Couldn't go off without seeing you,--telling you how sorry I was I let you get that fall off my shoulders. I oughtn't to have dared a kid like you to fool-tricks like that. I was a big dumb-head, and I'd like to kick myself for it. For I think more of you than any other boy in the college, little or big,--I surely do. And I've brought you something, so when I'm gone you won't forget me."

And Dan dived into his pocket and brought out a round disk of copper about the size of a half dollar. It was rimmed with some foreign crest, and name and date.