Her home was in Cambridge-by-the-Sea,not on the Prairie-by-the-Walnut.She belonged to the dead-language scholars,not to crude red-blooded creatures like himself.He turned his face to the west and the threatening sky seemed in harmony with his storm-riven soul.He was so young--less than half an hour older than the big whole-hearted fellow who started up the bluff in picnic frolic with a pretty girl whom Professor Burgess adored.That was one reason why he had brought her up.He wanted to tease the Professor then.
He hated Burgess now,and the white teeth clinched at the thought of him.
A sudden shouting and beating of tom-toms down in the Corral,and the call in crude rhyme to straggling couples to close in,announced supper.
High above other whooping the voice of Trench,the big right guard,reached the top of the bluff:
Victor Burleigh and Elinor Wream,Better wake from Love's Young Dream,Before the ants get into the cream.
The beating of a dishpan drowned the chorus.Then down by the river Dennie's soprano streamed out,The sun is sot,The coffee's hot,The supper's got.
What?
Yes!Got!
Answering this call from the north end of the Corral,a heavy base growled,Dennie is sad,The eggs are bad;The Professor's mad At a College lad.
Burleigh!Burly!Burlee!
Come home!Come home!Come home!
"The Kickapoos are on the warpath.Let's go down and get into the running."Vic lifted Elinor to her feet with a sort of reverence in his touch.
But she did not note that it was otherwise than the good-natured grip of the comrade who had helped her up the steep places half an hour ago.
Descent was more difficult,and it was growing dark rapidly.
Vic held her arm to keep her from falling,and once on a sliding rock,he had to catch both of her hands,and half-lift her to solid footing.
Her shining eyes,starbright in the gloom,the dainty rose hue of her cheeks,the touch of her soft white hands,and her need for his strength,made the shadowy path delicious for her companion.
The call of the wild was in that evening camp in the autumn woodland,in the charm of the deepening twilight warmed with the red glow of the fires,in the appetizing odor of coffee,the unconventional *******,the carelessness of youth,the jolly good-fellowship of comrades.
To Professor Burgess it had the added charm of newness.
All the pleasures of popularity were his this evening,for he was young himself,he dressed well,and he had the grace of a gentleman.
The enjoyment of the day gave him a thrill of surprise.
He was already dropping the viewpoint of Dr.Joshua Wream for Dean Fenneben's angle of vision.And in these picturesque surroundings he forgot about the weather and the prudence of getting home early.
"Throw that log on the fire,Vic.It begins to look spooky back here.
I've just had my ear to the ground and I heard an awful roaring somewhere."Trench,who had been sprawling lazily in the shadows,now declared,"Say,I'd hate to be penned into this place so I couldn't get out.
There's no skinning up that rock wall even if a fellow could swim the river,and I can't,"and the big guard stretched himself on the ground again.
"What's that old story about the Kickapoos here?"somebody asked.
"Dennie Saxon knows it.Tell us about it,Dennie,AND THEN WE'LLALL GO HOME."The last words were half-sung.
"Be swift,Dennie,be quite swift.I heard that noise again.
I'm afraid it's a stampede of wild horses."Trench,who had had his ear to the ground,sat up suddenly.But nobody paid any attention to him.
"Come,Denmark Saxon,let's close the day in song and story.
You tell the story and then I'll sing the song,"somebody declared.
"Aw-w-w!"a prolonged chorus."Make your story long,Dennie;make it lengthy."