“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.