A grin went around the circle, and Diego, with a glance about the enclosure, stepped over to the melon and plucked it from the vine.
“Ah,” said he, smacking his lips, “Fray Antonio is but a poor gardener; the melon would not have stood another day. Where shall we eat it?”
That was a serious question, and the boys looked blankly at each other. It was not easy to hide in the convent grounds, especially when an angry gardener was likely to make quick search. But Diego was full of expedients. Fray Bartolomeo had often told him that if he would but give the same attention to study that he did to mischief he would surpass the best of them all.
“Tut!” said he, in answer to their looks, “it will be the easiest thing imaginable. Fray Pedro will be sound asleep, and his keys will be in his girdle. It would be a huge pity to awake him, and I will not do it, merely to ask him to open the gates. I will just slip up to him and help myself to the keys and open the gates. It will be a real mercy. Come with me.”
The business began to look too serious to some of the boys, and, if there had been any bold enough, there would have been a decided demur to this proposition; but there was none, and so they all straggled after their bold leader.
Fray Pedro, the porter, was in the state that Diego had declared he would be. He was at his post, it is true; but his twice-doubled chin was sunk into his neck, the flies had undisturbed possession of his shaven skull, and, as if it were needed, his nose gave forth to the world a defiant sort of notice that he slept.
Diego gave the melon into the keeping of his trusty lieutenant, Alfonso, and crept up to the side of the drowsy friar, and detached the bunch of keys from his ample girdle.
This was the last chance the timid ones would have to retreat, and more than one looked for encouragement at his neighbor; but Diego acted as if he expected to be followed, and followed he was.
He knew the right key, and put it in the lock and turned it softly. The bolt shot back and the door swung open. Then Diego slipped back and readjusted the keys in the friar’s girdle, and a moment later the boys of the convent school were scurrying towards the olive grove hard by.
There is probably a difference of opinion in respect to melons. Certainly the boys differed from Fray Antonio as to the ripeness of the one they discussed in the coolness of the olive grove. They thought it could not have been more delicious. There was but one fault—it was too small a melon for eleven boys. There should always be eleven melons for eleven boys.