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A Boy Knight

by Martin J. Scott · English · Gutenberg #32365 · 312,159 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Boy Knight

Author: Martin J. Scott


        
Release date: May 13, 2010 [eBook #32365]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32365

Credits: E-text prepared by Emmy, D Alexander, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team


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E-text prepared by Emmy, D Alexander, and the Project Gutenberg Online
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Transcriber's note:

      Ellipses match the original text in number and spacing.





A BOY KNIGHT

by

MARTIN J. SCOTT, S. J.







[Illustration]

New York
P. J. Kenedy & Sons

Copyright, 1921
P. J. Kenedy & Sons
Printed in U.S.A.




          TO
          MR. AND MRS. NICHOLAS F. BRADY
          WHOSE SOCIOLOGICAL ACTIVITIES HAVE BROUGHT THE
          SPIRIT OF KNIGHTHOOD INTO MANY HOMES
          THIS VOLUME
          IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED




CONTENTS


          Chapter                     Page
            I. CROSS ROADS               3
           II. THE NEW QUEST            56
          III. COMRADES                104
           IV. THE FIELD OF HONOR      137
            V. THE HOLY GRAIL          178
           VI. THE COST OF HONOR       210
          VII. KNIGHTED                225




A BOY KNIGHT




Chapter I

Cross-Roads


IT was late November and a little snow had fallen. Three boys were on
their way down Park Avenue to school--the Regal High. One of the boys,
Frank Mulvy, carried his lunch in his pocket. He did not live far away,
but his mother was to be out for the day and had put up a lunch for him.
As the boys came down the avenue, an old man whom they had never seen
before, met them. He asked them for a few cents to get something to eat.
It happened that none of the boys had any money. They told him so, and
passed on. The man gave them a searching look and groaned.

When the boys had gone a block and turned the corner at Gody's drug
store, Frank Mulvy made an excuse to loiter a moment, and then turning
quickly, ran up the avenue. He overtook the poor man and handing him
the lunch which he had in his pocket, said:

"I'm sorry I have no money, sir, but here is something to eat."

"God bless you, boy," the old man sighed, as he almost snatched the
little package.

The boy had no lunch that day.

Frank Mulvy was fourteen years old. He was a freshman at Regal, a member
of the football team and the secretary of the "Boy's Club" attached to
St. Leonard's Church. The office was elective and Frank had been chosen
with hardly a dissenting vote.

The Club met three times a week in a large room of the parish house
where the boys, about ninety in number, had a good library, billiard
tables, games of various kinds and other attractions. Once a week the
priest in charge, Father Boone, gave them a little talk on something of
interest and profit to boys. Usually these talks were very welcome to
the lads as Father Boone did not so much talk virtue as illustrate it,
and that not merely by stories, but rather by his own way of saying and
doing things. The boys liked him.

Frank was Father Boone's right hand man, and the director was glad that
the boys had elected him secretary, although he had given no indication
of his preference. He allowed the boys the greatest latitude and found
generally that they did the right thing. While Father Boone would be the
last to give it as the cause, the fact was that they did the right thing
because he himself did. He always endeavored to create an atmosphere of
trust and manliness. The morale of the Club was proof that he had
succeeded, for altogether the boys were a fine set, and the director
considered that Frank was the best of the lot.

Father Boone was very liberal, but if he once drew a line he never
allowed it to be crossed. The boys knew that. They used to say, "Father
Boone is all right but if he tells you what to do, you'd better do it."

One day, just five weeks before Christmas, Father Boone called Frank
aside and said to him:

"I have a bit of good news for you. A friend who is interested in the
work of the Club has given me one hundred dollars to spend as I like on
you boys. You are all very fond of music, and I am thinking of buying
some fine records for our victrola. What do you say?"

Frank replied, "I guess it's all right, Father. You know best what the
boys want."

The priest added, "I have another plan also, but I am not certain which
to adopt. I was thinking of taking the boys down to hear John McCormack.
We could get ninety seats together--it's far ahead--and treat the crowd
to a ride both ways. How does that strike you?"

"Pretty good, Father," said Frank. "But," he continued, "suppose we put
it up to the fellows. Then you are sure to satisfy them."

"Capital!" exclaimed the priest, "and now you go ahead and put it to a
vote."

It was surprising how short a time it took to pass the word around. Soon
every one knew that something out of the ordinary was up.

When the boys had assembled, Frank put the matter before the Club, and
all without hesitation declared for John McCormack. They had heard his
records on the victrola, and were desirous of seeing and hearing
himself. When Frank informed the director, Father Boone said:

"That's all hunky dory," an expression he used when he was well
satisfied, and when the committee which the boys had sent to thank him
for his kind thought appeared, he said:

"That's all right, boys; that's the best fun I get, doing something for
you fellows."

After that, McCormack's were the only records to be heard in that club
room. Every boy played his favorite, time and again.

"I wonder if he sings much better than his records," said Tommy Hefnan.

"Of course," retorted Dick Brian. "That is foolish question four million
and two."

"O! I don't know," said Tommy. "I heard some records that were better
than the performer. You remember that war song we had last year? Well, I
heard his Nibbs himself sing it at a vaudeville show, and I liked the
record better."

"Well, his Nibbs isn't McCormack," snapped Dick, "and you'll see the
difference when you hear him."

So the boys were pretty well worked up over the concert, and awaited it
eagerly. Most of them were in moderate circumstances and the limit of
their entertainment was the movies. For them to see the great McCormack
was what in the old days it meant to the country lads to see Barnum's
Circus.

There were, as we have said, ninety boys in the Club, from eleven to
fifteen years of age. When they got to sixteen, they were obliged to
drop membership, and were encouraged to join the older boys' club, which
admitted those from sixteen to nineteen. Most of the lads did that. In
Father Boone's time, however, the boys hated to leave the younger club.
It was amusing to see the growing youngsters torn between two emotions.
On the one hand, every boy wanted to be big, to get closer to manhood.
On the other, he dreaded the loss of the Club. For Father Boone
certainly made it a very desirable place. It was because membership was
so highly regarded that he was able to set a high standard for his boys
and keep them up to it.

For every vacancy there was a score on the waiting list. Every mother in
the parish wanted her boy to get into the Club. Frequently the director
would be stopped in the street by a good mother who would say to him,
"Father, my boy Jimmie is one of the best boys in the parish. Won't you
please have him in mind for the next vacancy?"

Now and then, however, a boy of the wrong sort would get into the Club;
one whom nothing good seemed to affect. The boys themselves usually
took such a one in hand, and made it pretty hot for him. They knew that
their own welfare depended on the general conduct, and they took good
care of it.

Bill Daly was what the boys called a "tough nut." They nicknamed him
"Bull." "Bull" had got into the Club by the kind-heartedness of Father
Boone. His father was a drunkard and his mother was a hard-working
woman. Bill was the only child. Father Boone had got him a good job
downtown and placed him in the Club to help him along and to put a
little refinement in him. The boys knew that he was Father Boone's ward,
as it were, and tolerated a lot from him, but Bill took the
consideration which he received as a sign of his "pull," of his
superiority over the others. He was the oldest boy in the Club and
different from all the others. On several occasions a fist fight was
barely averted when he tried to bully some smaller boy.

The boys never told Father Boone about Bill,--first, because the
director had let them know that he did not want any tattling, and
secondly, because most of them felt sorry for the fellow, and saw that
his one chance for making something of himself was by remaining in the
Club. If they fancied that Father Boone knew nothing about Bill,
however, they were much mistaken. In fact, there was little going on
that he did not know. But as he said, "A man has to see a lot and yet
not see it." For reasons of his own, he saw and yet did not see the
doings of Bill.

When Frank Mulvy was elected secretary, Bill had tried hard to get the
place, but as soon as he saw that the sentiment was all for Frank, he
joined in. Nevertheless, he had it in for Frank. He was tired hearing
the fellows say "Frank this," and "Frank that." He could not understand
how, without trying for it at all, Frank got the esteem and affection of
everybody.

One day Father Boone came into the Club and announced that he wanted a
very important errand done and that he was going to select a boy for it.
Everybody thought Frank was "it," and to the surprise of all, Bill was
chosen. He threw out his chest, gave a superior look at the crowd,
especially at Frank, and received his commission. As soon as he was
gone, Father Boone called the boys together and said, "I know you are
surprised that I am fooled in William Daly. I can see it in your faces.
Boys, I know all about him. I have been on the point of discharging him
several times. But if he is sent out of this Club, he will go to the
devil. Of course I know there is a limit. But in his case that limit is
going to be 'the limit.'"

Saying that, he left.

Frank immediately said to the crowd, "I say, fellows, let's give Bill a
show. He means well. His home is a pretty bad place, and I guess he is
not half to blame." The boys agreed with Frank.

When Bill returned, he came in swaggering and going over to Frank, he
said, "You think you're the whole bunch, don't you? Well, you see you're
not. I'd punch you, you stuck-up kid, if you were not the pet of the
Boss." Bill's language was as low as his ideals.

The blood rushed to Frank's face, his hands tightened, his jaws set, and
he was about to resent the charge, when, recalling what Father Boone had
just said, he suddenly relaxed and smiled. "That's all right, Bill;
we'll be friends yet."

Bill swaggered over to a set of boys at the other end of the room, and
said, loud enough for all to hear, "A great kid, that Mulvy. He don't
know when he gets a slap in the face. I just gave him a good one, but he
takes it like a sissie."

"Now, look here, 'Bull,' I want none of your 'sissie,' do you
understand?" Frank exclaimed, his voice trembling.

"Who are you calling 'Bull,' little girl?" roared Bill. "Another word
and I'll smash you."

The "sissie" and the "little girl" got under Frank's skin. For a moment
he neither saw nor heard anything. He was ready to fight. His blood
tingled. But he gripped himself and swallowed his retort just as Daly,
mistaking the silence for cowardice, rushed forward and struck him a
blow in the face. Like a flash, the color came to Frank's face. He had
gone _the limit_ and the lion in him was let loose. Any fellow who had
played football against Frank would have known what that meant. With
set, determined face, speaking not a word, he squared off.

"So you want to fight, do you, you doll?" roared Daly.

Not a word from Frank. Instead, he held his attitude of fight and
approached his tormentor.

"Oh, you are pie for me, candy kid. I could lick you with one hand.
You'll never want another fight when this is over."

Never a word from Frank. The crowd made a circle. The whole thing
happened so suddenly that it was in full swing before they knew it.

As Frank came up to Daly, the bully hauled off and gave him a straight
blow on the forehead. It rang like a ball from a bat. It staggered
Frank. But he came right on. He did not strike a blow, but simply stood
up before his opponent with arms at guard. Again Daly launched a blow.
This time it took Frank on the top of the head. Bill was nearly two
years older than his opponent and much taller and heavier. But Frank had
grit. The fellows said that they never knew anyone who had so much
"sand" as Mulvy. He needed it now. Daly was infuriated. He rushed at
Frank hitting him on the head and neck and chest. All of a sudden,
without a word, straight from the shoulder, Frank sent a terrific jolt
to Daly's jaw. He roared and tore and threatened. Frank did not open
his mouth. He kept his eyes on Bill, and was cool and firm. He waited
for the next on-rush. It came like a whirlwind. Bill crashed into him,
swinging blindly in his rage, hitting here and there. Frank took his
punishment and coolly studied his opponent.

Bill rose on his toes to come down with a swing on Frank's face. In an
instant, while Bill's face was completely unguarded, Frank drove home a
blow right on his nose. The blood spurted and at the sight of it, both
fighters clinched and pounded as hard as they could. Finally, in the
struggle, Frank slipped and fell. Immediately, Bill was on top of him.

By this time, Bill realized that he was in a fight. Frank's blows,
though fewer, told effectively and Bill began to fear that if the fight
went on, he might lose it. So, as he had Frank under him, he yelled, "Do
you give up?" No reply. "Do you hear, do you give up? I have given you
enough. If you say you are licked, I'll let up." Not a word from Frank.
Instead, he wriggled from under, worked himself free, smashed Daly a
fierce blow on the ear, and another on the jaw. Bill had all he could
take and as they stood up again, face to face, the "Bull" and the
"Girl" paused, glaring at each other.

"I'll stop now if you will," muttered Bill.

"Do you take back what you said?" shouted Frank.

"Yes," whispered Bill.

"Am I a sissie?" demanded Frank.

"No," replied Bill.

"Shake," said Frank, holding out his hand.

They gripped hands. It was over. The crowd got around Frank, patted him
on the back, and in various ways showed him their approval. Daly,
abandoned by everybody, slunk away towards the door to make a hasty
exit. He knew he was done for. The Club was no longer a place for him.
He was disgraced, "licked by a kid." But he would get square. Leave that
to him.

As he was about to open the door to go out, Frank broke from the crowd
and going toward Bill, said: "Daly, you are not such a bad fellow. You
might have licked me if you had wanted to keep it up. I say, let's be
friends."

"I'm no dude, I don't belong to your '_bunch_,'" he retorted angrily, as
he slammed the door behind him.


(II)

Daly was angry with himself, with Mulvy, with the Club, even with Father
Boone. He was desperate. Instead of going home, he waited around the
corner. He was boiling with resentment. He must do something to square
things. After thinking awhile he decided to try to "queer" the crowd
with Father Boone and break off the McCormack treat. But how was he to
do it? If he could only bring some discredit on the Club, it would hurt
the fellows as well as Father Boone. That was it. He acted quickly on
the thought. Going back, he waited on the opposite side of the street,
in the shadows, until the last light in the Club was out. He knew a way
of getting into the building by a basement window, but when he tried it,
he found that it was locked. Fearing that someone might still be within,
he withdrew to the opposite side of the street again and waited a half
hour. When he was certain that there was nobody in the Club, he crossed
over and tried one window after another. All were locked. He turned to
the door under the front steps. It was bolted, as usual. Looking up to
the story above, he saw a window slightly opened. But it was too high
for him to reach. Just then, a policeman came along. Bill heard his
steps and concealed himself in the areaway. He began to reflect that he
was taking a risk. "Suppose the cop caught me," he said to himself. But
his resentment was greater than his caution, and so he kept at his
design.

He figured that by a long reach from the railing of the steps to the
window sill, he might get a hold and enter. Up he leaped to the railing,
and by a supreme effort, clinched the window sill and swung over. It
took him but a minute to open the window and enter. Once in, he went
straight to the room where the fight had occurred. He threw everything
about in disorder, broke several chairs, threw down two large pictures
from the wall, overturned the victrola and records and made the place
look like the scene of a mob fight. He then went upstairs to the
library, threw the books around, damaged some, overturned a desk, upset
a table and spilled ink on the floor. "I guess that's enough for one
round," he said, and cautiously went to the window and got out
unobserved.

Next morning when the janitor came to set things in order, he scarcely
believed his eyes as he looked upon the wreckage before him. He
straightway went to Father Boone.

"Impossible, my good man!" the director exclaimed. "You must be
mistaken."

"Perhaps I am," he replied, "and you may be mistaken too when you see
it."

The janitor was so agitated and vehement that the priest went over to
the Club rooms to see for himself. There it was. Worse, in fact, than
the janitor had described. What did it mean? His boys! St. Leonard's
Boys' Club! With the instinct which was part of his nature, he divined
at once that this was an enemy act. Who the enemy was, what his motive,
he could not say. But his instinct told him it was not his boys. He told
the janitor to put everything in order. He sent for the carpenter to
mend the chairs and tables and hang the pictures. He himself got some
acid and removed the inkstains from the floor. The Club was never
occupied except evenings, and by the time it was open, everything was in
ship-shape.


(III)

That night as the boys came in, in twos and threes, they talked over the
fight, and what they were to do in regard to Daly. Of course not one of
them suspected that anything had occurred after they left. When Frank
came in, they gave him a cheer. He was now the official and popular head
of the crowd. He had won his leadership last night by the means most
admired by boys, courage and generosity, and he took his honors
modestly.

After talking on various phases of the fight, the crowd turned to Frank,
who as yet had said nothing.

"What's the matter, old man? Why are you so glum?"

"O, nothing," answered Frank.

They went about their evening's amusements, some to play billiards, some
to read, and some to hear the victrola, but they generally returned to
talk over the events of the previous evening. Frank sat silent and
moody. Soon Dick Brian came up to him. Dick was what you would call a
little _man_. He was quiet, thoughtful, affectionate and very wise.
Frank and Dick were close friends. Dick thought that Frank was the
finest boy in the world, and Frank had intense admiration for Dick's
fearlessness and candor.

"Well Frank, what's up?" asked Dick.

"O, is that you, Dickie boy?" replied Frank.

"Yes, it's me, but you are not you," answered Dick. "What's the matter?
I guess I know."

"Well, what?"

"You are worried over the 'Bull' and the racket," whispered Dick.

"Put it there, kid," replied Frank, extending his hand. "You are a wise
lad, you struck it right."

Dick was two years younger than Frank, but he had an old head. That made
them confidants.

"Come upstairs, Dick, I want to talk to you."

Alone with Dick in the secretary's room, Frank began:

"Father Boone will be here soon. I don't know just how to act. If I
considered myself only, it would be easy. I'd go and make a clean breast
of the whole affair. But there is Daly, and the crowd. I know that
Father Boone is tolerating a lot from Bill because he has hopes of
setting him right. It'll be an awful blow to him if he knows that the
crowd is down on Bill and that the secretary was the cause of it. I know
you'll say that I'm not the cause of it, that I did only what any fellow
would do. But we fellows of the Club aren't just any fellows. A whole
lot's been done for us, extra. And especially for me. I got all that
last night, before I struck back. But gee, I lost my head when he called
me a girl, and simply had to fight. I kept thinking of it all last night
and what Father Boone'd say. Not that he minds a fight. You remember on
the outing last month, two fellows had a scrap. He just said, 'It's
better to let the bad blood out than to keep it in.' He didn't even ask
who they were. And he never wants any tattling either. That is why I
feel this affair so much, and also because Daly is concerned. Father
Boone is so terribly decent with us that I just hate to think he will be
disappointed in any of us, and that I couldn't take Daly's slurs and
laugh them off."

"You big boob," put in Dick after listening gravely to all. "You'd be
just what he called you if you did that."

"I know, I know," repeated Frank, "but I feel terribly sore about the
whole thing."

"Take my advice, Frank, go direct to Father Boone when he comes in, and
tell him the whole thing from A to Z. He'll understand. Besides, I'll
bet a hat he knows it already."

"I hope he does," added Frank.

They went down to the crowd which was now all together. The fellows did
not expect to see Daly, but some of them thought that he might show up
to brave it out. When Father Boone came in, smiling as usual, a word for
this lad, and that, a tap for Jack and a handshake for Tommy and Willie
and John, no one would ever have suspected that he knew anything out of
the ordinary.

Generally on entering, after greeting the boys, he went to his office
and straightened out the details of the preceding day. After that he
would circulate among the boys, asking one if his father got the job he
recommended him to, another how his mother was, a third what his marks
were for the last school month, and so on. He knew them all, and all
about them. He was their big brother. In his presence there was no
restraint. He knew them so well, and they understood him so well, that
he was like one of them. If a dispute were on, and he came in, it went
on just the same. He knew boys and loved them, and they realized it.

He was wise enough to know that boys are boys. That was the secret of
his success. The result was that he could do anything with them. A word
from him and they would leave off what most pleased them. A suggestion
from him and they would do what was hardest and ordinarily most
disagreeable. Very kind he was, also firm as a rock. And they knew it.
He never went back on his word, as they knew by experience. The
consequence was that with very few words, he accomplished what he wanted
done.

This evening he looked around at the crowd. There was something the
matter. That was evident. He knew he could find out by asking but he
never did that. He began now to observe. There was a restraint evident
among the boys. That was unusual. Not so much hilarity. He ran his eye
over the crowd. He could see at a glance, just who was and who was not
present. Daly was always conspicuous, because he was so noisy, but Daly
was not among those present tonight. Usually the boys were scattered,
some in one room, some in another. Not so tonight. They were all in the
same room. Generally they were interested in the games. Tonight they
seemed to be interested in him. Putting things together, he concluded
that the crowd as a crowd was in the mix-up, and that the boys were on
the lookout for something to happen. Frank sat off in a corner looking
pensive. That was not his way.

Poor Frank was in torture. He was hoping that Father Boone would go
upstairs so that he could follow him and explain matters.

And Father Boone was hurt because no one volunteered an explanation.
Surely Frank would say a word. But no, no one at all made any reference
to the wreckage of the night before.

"Why don't they speak up? They're all concerned in it. It isn't a case
of being an informer. They know I don't want tattlers around. But this
is different. This is a serious matter. Damage was done. It is a
question of justice. And they know my mind on that. And that secretary
owes me a report. He is an official. I've told them often enough that
when an official reports matters pertaining to his office, it is not
'squealing,' but duty. They all understand that; Frank especially. Well,
I'll wait here fifteen minutes longer, and if they don't explain, I'll
take action."

Father Boone went upstairs and after fifteen minutes left, in a very
sober mood.

It was some minutes later that Frank, thinking the director was
upstairs, went up to open his heart to him. But Father Boone was not in
his office. Frank descended to the "gym," stayed awhile and then went
home. He had a bad headache. The night before he had not slept. He could
not eat. When he got home, however, he decided to get the thing off his
mind before going to bed, and tired as he was, he started back to the
Club, hoping to find Father Boone. But the priest had not returned.
Hesitating a moment, he finally decided to go to the rectory and have it
all over with. But at the rectory they told him that Father Boone was
out on a sick call and might not be back for a couple of hours.

"Well, I've done my part," said Frank, and back home he went, somewhat
relieved.


(IV)

Next night, Father Boone came into the Club not looking as pleasant as
usual. He came late, too; not his wont. He greeted few, and his face
showed firm. The boys whispered one to another, "He's on."

Frank now felt that he was a culprit. Something told him that Father
Boone knew the whole matter and that he was cut up because Daly was
concerned. It was too late now to go to him and make a clean breast of
it. What must Father Boone think of him for driving Daly out of the
Club. Forgetting all his efforts to do the right thing, Frank saw only
that Father Boone was offended. He blamed himself as the cause of it and
gloomily admitted that he had not been man enough to inform the
director. That hurt him. Once more, when the priest went up to his
office after a few minutes stay with the boys, Frank was determined to
go to him and take the consequence.

Meanwhile, Father Boone had come to a decision. There had been some
rowdyism in the Club. Furniture was broken, serious damage was done. It
certainly was the work of more than one or two. By their very attitude,
the boys showed their guilt. Yet no one, not even the secretary, had
explained. Taking down a large sheet of paper, the director wrote on it
in big letters,

          "The McCormack treat is off,
                          JEROME BOONE."

Pressing a button, he summoned Frank. As Frank heard the bell, a lump
formed in his throat. He felt sure that every fellow in the room could
see how his knees shook. But he was glad, in a way, that matters were
coming to a head. He expected that Father Boone would give him a good
scolding and that that would settle it. He was all prepared for the
interview, but was not admitting, even to himself, how near the tears
were to flowing.

As Frank approached the desk, Father Boone was writing. Frank hoped he
would not look up, and as he stood there for a second, it seemed an
hour. Then, without pausing or turning toward Frank, Father Boone said
in a low, measured voice: "Take that notice, Mulvy, and put it up on the
board below." That was all. Frank stood perfectly still for a moment,
clutching the jamb of the door while Father Boone went on writing. If
the director had turned but a little, he would have seen agony and
anguish in Frank's face, and he would have understood. But he kept on
writing and Frank remained standing, unable to move a step.

Then a hard feeling crept into the boy's heart. He felt that he was
being dealt with unjustly, that he was condemned unheard. Every bit of
his pride came to the top and the boy who, a few seconds before, was
ready to blame himself for Father Boone's disappointment, now would not
have yielded an inch. Father Boone was Frank's ideal. He thought more of
him than of anyone outside his own family. But suddenly he saw the
priest as a hard-hearted and unjust man. For the moment he was glad to
find that he was in an out-and-out struggle. "No explanations now," he
reflected, "time for all that is past." The director had not given him a
chance to do the right thing and now he, too, would show his mettle.

There was an air of defiance about Frank as he walked down the stairs
and posted the notice on the board.

The crowd gathered quickly. As they read the brief lines on the
notice-board, the wave of disappointment that passed over them could
almost be felt in the air.

Of course the boys had told their parents of the McCormack treat and now
it was off. That meant explanations. They usually kept the Club's
affairs entirely to themselves, but the McCormack affair was altogether
different--good news to those at home. How could they explain why it
was off? Everybody knew that Father Boone never made promises without
fulfilling them. Now every mother and sister and--yes--every father
would want to know why this treat was cancelled. These and other things
ran through the boys' minds. But, above all, the sentiment most keenly
felt was regret that Father Boone had had to take such action. They knew
he was even more delighted to do them a kindness than they were to
receive one. Dick Brian expressed the feeling of the crowd when he said:
"Gee, it's tough on us, but it's worse on Father Boone."

Frank heard the comments with a cynical smile. He said not a word, but
was rather pale. One of the lads inquired of him, "How did Father Boone
find it out?"

"Search me!" Frank replied.

"I say," whispered another, "I'll bet 'Bull' squealed to get square with
the crowd."

Tommy Hefnan edged up to Dick. "What's up, anyway? Father Boone never
did anything before if the fellows scrapped. He usually let them have it
out and appeared not to know about it. What's up now that he is soaking
the whole crowd for this scrap?"

"Search me!" answered Dick. "The only line I can get on it is there's
something else that we don't know. We've got to take our medicine, of
course, and you can be sure Father Boone knows what he's doing. If there
is anything wrong, it's somewhere else."

"That's what I say," echoed Tommy as he sauntered off.

Frank and Dick lived near each other and generally went home together.
That night, Frank tried hard to assume indifference, but wise Dick saw
through the disguise and finally asked him point blank, if he did not
feel cut up over the affair.

"No, I don't," Frank almost yelled, in reply. "It's not a square deal.
If Father Boone has anything against us, why doesn't he come out with
it, and not hit blindly and in the dark?"

"Well, I get what you're aiming at," answered Dick, "but you know,
Frank, that Father Boone is the squarest man going. He knows what he's
doing, and there's a reason. I'll stand by him, no matter what happens."

This cut Frank like a knife. He knew Dick was manly and wise. He also
realized that every word he said was true. Nevertheless, he felt like
punching him for saying it.

The rest of the way, they walked on in silence, until they came to
parting, when Frank abruptly put out his hand and said, "You're all
right, Dick." Then, as the younger boy turned the corner, Frank
reflected:

"Yes, he's all right. The kid has more balance than I have."

At the door of the Mulvy apartment, Frank met his mother. She saw at
once that whatever was troubling her boy, was even worse tonight than it
had been before. Then she had said nothing but tonight she was truly
alarmed at Frank's pallor.

"Why, what on earth is the matter, dear?" she exclaimed, as he entered
the room. "You are as white as a sheet and trembling all over." As she
spoke she put her arms around him and gave him that silent sympathy
which only a mother can impart. That was the one thing Frank could not
resist. He could fight anything but kindness. At his mother's gentle
pressure, his eyes filled and for a moment he could not answer. His
words were all choked back by strange sounds in his throat, but his
mother waited and presently, when he was sufficiently composed, the
whole story came tumbling out. He told his mother all that had
happened. He omitted nothing. For a while she made no comment. Then with
the tenderness of a mother who knows her boy, she said,

"Frank, you've done nothing to be ashamed of. There's more to that
affair, I'm sure. And above all, Father Boone does not act rashly.
Remember now, mother says so."

Frank felt a weight lifted from his heart. He went to his room, knelt
down at his bedside, under the crucifix hanging from the wall, and
making an act of contrition for his faults of the day, asked God to give
him the grace to do right always. Then turning to a little shrine at the
head of the bed, where a large picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus was
hung, he said, "O Heart wounded for me, give me strength to bear this
hurt for love of Thee."

He arose, feeling that he had offered something to our Lord. That
brought peace to his soul and a few minutes later he was fast asleep.


(V)

By the time Frank was ready for breakfast next morning, Mrs. Mulvy had
made up her mind to see Father Boone and find out what the trouble was.
She was certain that there was something back of it all. She knew
Father Boone, and she knew Frank, and further, she knew how they
esteemed each other. Father Boone had often stopped her in the street to
tell her what a fine boy Frank was. And Frank was never tired talking
about Father Boone, admiring him for this and for that, but mainly for
himself.

Nothing was said by mother or son on the important topic until Frank was
leaving the house to go to school. Then, as he kissed her, he said,
"Mother, I want you to promise me something."

"Very well, dear."

"Remember now, it's a promise."

"Certainly, Frank."

"Well, mother, I want you to promise that you won't say anything about
what I've told you and that you will not let Father Boone know I told
you. Even if you should meet him _accidentally_," he said slyly, "you
are not to let on."

She hesitated a moment.

"You promised, Mother. It's too late now to consider," he urged.

"Well, just as you say, dear," she answered. And she felt that perhaps
it was better to let the matter adjust itself, after all. "True love
never runs smoothly," she mused, "and I am sure Father Boone and Frank
are very fond of each other."

When Frank got back to school and mingled with the boys, the peace of
the night before and his mother's assurances all seemed to vanish. He
could not see any justice in the way Father Boone had acted.

"It was entirely unfair," he kept thinking. "The whole thing was out of
measure with the fault. After all, a scrap is a scrap. Lots of fellows
fight and make up and it's all over. I made up with Daly, or at least I
tried to. Why should the crowd be punished for one or two? I know what
I'll do. I'll go straight to Father Boone this evening and tell him the
whole thing. Then if he wants to, he can punish me, not the whole
crowd."

Meanwhile, in his room at the rectory, Father Boone too was considering
the same subject. "Boys are not ingrates, as a rule," he reflected.
"True, they may be thoughtless and impulsive, but I have generally found
them appreciative. But there is Mulvy,--straight and open as he usually
is,--and he hasn't offered a word of explanation. He had his chance,
when I sent for him to post that notice but--not a word. And he surely
saw I was indignant. It's not like him. What can it be? Is he afraid of
the crowd? Hardly. But I can't get away from that wholesale disorder and
breakage--the work of a mob. Those boys seem to care for me--but--they
know how this kind of thing affects me. They've had two days to reflect.
Not one boy to say a word! It is not the thing in itself that I care
about. There's a big bill for damages, but I don't give a fig for that.
It's the principle back of it all. Here--all these years, I've been
holding up high standards to them and they fall down just when they
should stand erect. I hated to call off that McCormack treat, but--what
could I do? Well, I'll have to see it through now." And at that he set
his jaws, and it was easy to realize that he would see it through.

He had hardly finished his musings when the rectory door-man came to his
room and said that a young man was below to see him. He went down and
found Dick Brian awaiting him. It was not Father Boone's nature to be at
odds with any one, and so when he came upon Dick thus unexpectedly,
forgetting for the instant that war was on between him and the club
boys, he saluted the lad wholeheartedly. The next instant, recollecting
that there was a hostile camp to deal with, he quickly tightened up and
said, "Well, my boy, what is it?"

Dick, though ordinarily very self-possessed, was not quite composed
under the circumstances. He summoned as much calm as he could and said,
"I have come, Father, to say that there must be some mistake. The boys
would not do anything to displease you. It's not the McCormack treat
that they are thinking about. It's you. Of course, they feel sore that
it is off, but they can stand that, but we don't want you to feel that
we are not grateful."

It was quite a speech even for Dick, but he got it out and every word
rang true. The director realized it, which only increased the mystery.
"If the boys were so considerate of him," he reflected, "why did they
not explain? They should know that he would do what was right in the
matter. If there were any allowances to be made, they ought to know that
he would make them. It was not as if it were an individual affair. The
whole Club was in question. A riot had occurred. And just because the
boys knew he never went about prying into things he had a right to
expect a full explanation. But Dick's speech didn't explain."

Father Boone's next remark was true to his principle of not asking for
information in such cases. "And is there anything else you wish to say?"
Poor Dick! That took his breath away. He stood silent for a moment and
when the priest turned to leave, he picked up his hat and started for
the door. But just at that moment something--was it the suggestion of a
trembling lip in the last glimpse he had of Dick's face, or just his own
kind instincts that made Father Boone turn back?

"I thank you, little man," he said, "for coming to say to me what you
did. I _am_ put out by this affair and I don't know yet what to think of
it. At any rate, Dick, you did the right thing in coming here." So
saying, he opened the door for the lad, who went out not knowing just
what to make of it all.


(VI)

On the same evening Dick met Frank on the way down to the Club. He began
at once:

"I say, Frank, Father Boone is terribly cut up over this thing. Do you
know what I think? Something or somebody has set him wrong. It is not
his way to take on so about a scrap that he didn't even see. I tell you,
old man, I believe that 'Bull' has got in some dirty work. He has not
been around for two days, and how do we know what he may have told
Father Boone?"

"Wise guy you are, kid. I have been wondering myself, but I was too
stupid to reason out any kind of explanation. I'd not be surprised if
you have it right. At any rate, I guess I'll try to see Father Boone
tonight and have it out. I should have done it before, but I got my back
up when he ignored me, and became as stiff as he was stout."

When they reached the Club, the fellows were all sitting around
discussing the matter in groups. The Club was not itself, that was
clear. As Frank and Dick entered, Tommy Hefnan exclaimed, "Say, fellows,
let's send a committee to Father Boone. Let's elect a committee to go
and straighten out the fuss."

To this some of the boys objected, maintaining that it looked like
weakness. Others said that it might seem as if they were doing it to
get the McCormack treat back. To this one of the older lads rejoined,
"Let us tell him before we begin, that we know the treat is off and that
although we regret it, we regret something else much more."

"That's not half bad," echoed several.

"And it's the truth, too," muttered Tommy.

There it was again--in plain words. What really worried every boy in the
Club was the fact that somehow, they had disappointed Father Boone.
Every fellow there owed him something for special favors in addition to
all he had done for the crowd as a whole. And every fellow knew that the
very best way to pay Father Boone back, was to be the kind of boy that
the director wanted him to be.

What was to be done? Everybody was too devoted to Father Boone to
deliberately ignore one of his very strongest principles--"_the
tell-tale is not a man of honour_"--and of all the crowd only two had a
right to speak, because only two had actually taken part in the fight.
Frank had tried to see Father Boone, without success thus far--and Bill
evidently was steering clear of the affair.

Even then, why should a scrap cause the director such great worry--they
thought--unless he was angry because it had happened right after what he
had said about Bill, and had resulted in his leaving the Club. As for
Frank--well, every boy knew that he would do the same himself under the
circumstances.

As for Father Boone, the more he thought of the whole affair, the more
he was sure of his first decision. It was a free fight in which most of
the boys had had some part; only Frank deserved special censure because
he had failed in his official capacity. By now the director was
beginning to be concerned about Daly who had not appeared at the Club
since the disorder. He did not want the boy to get away from his
influence and so decided to call at his home.

While the boys were discussing the advisability of sending a committee
to the director, he was on his way to Daly's house. When he got there,
he was met at the door by Mrs. Daly. She was a large slovenly woman. The
home was like herself. It was on the top floor of a side street
tenement. A dark and crooked stairs led up to it. Father Boone reflected
that some people were like that stairway, and when he reached the top
floor and saw before him Bill Daly's mother, he thought that poor Bill
was to be pitied more than anything else. "I must hold on to that boy if
possible," he mused. "After all, it's not they who are well who need the
physician, but they who are ill."

Mrs. Daly conducted him into a dirty room. He was asked to please pass
through to the parlor. Groping his way through two dark bed-rooms, with
no light or ventilation except from a small window opening upon a shaft,
he came to the parlor. Apparently, it was more of a clothes room than
anything else. On the couch, which was a bed at night, on the table, and
on the chairs were articles of wearing apparel. Father Boone had to
remove an armful of assorted garments from a chair to get a seat. His
hostess was not at all concerned. It was her normal surroundings.

Mrs. Daly was glad to see the priest. Her heart was good and her
religion meant something to her in spite of everything. But she was
dragged down by conditions, like many another. Some natures are superior
to environment. Hers was not.

"And how is Mr. Daly?" began the priest.

"Drinking as usual," she replied.

"Well, that's a great cross," he continued, "but I hope a turn for the
better will come, some time."

"I hope it comes before it's too late," she sighed. "He has all of us
nearly as bad as himself with his ways. He drinks his money and leaves
nothing for the home, but what Willie brings in. God bless you, Father,
for the job you got Willie. It is the only steady money that comes in."

"How is William?" asked the priest. "I've missed him from the Club the
last few days, so I have just dropped in to see how he is; I hope he is
a good boy."

"Oh, Willie is a good enough boy, he might be worse," answered Bill's
mother. "His father sets him no good example, and the poor boy has to
put up with a lot of abuse. The wonder is that he is any good at all."

She wiped her face with her apron, and sat down on the edge of a chair.
She was evidently in a mood to talk. The kindliness of the priest seemed
to invite her confidence, for she began:

"Mike was a good man before the drink got him. We had our nice little
home and his wages came in as regular as Saturday night. We went to
church together every Sunday morning and God was good to us. But when
Willie was about six years old, his father got a job over at King's
automobile place. He was ambitious and started in and learned how to
drive a taxi. He was out day and night. His money came in fast, and he
was good to me and Willie.

"At first, everything went all right, and I thanked God. But soon, he
began to leave off Church on Sunday from time to time. After a while, he
dropped it entirely. Then he got in with a bad set. It was not long
before he came home under the influence. I cried before him and begged
him to let the liquor alone. He did for a while, but he began again and
kept it up. Then he lost his job. He got another easy enough but he kept
at the drink. And then he began to hold back his money. And it wasn't
everyday that we had something in the house to eat. I had to sell things
from the house to buy food. If I didn't, he would come home drunk and
start a fight. And when there was nothing more to sell he began to beat
me. If Willie cried, he beat him. The poor boy was often black and blue.
Things went on from bad to worse. I had to have him arrested, although
it broke my heart. It was a disgrace to us all. Willie was ashamed to go
out and play with the other boys. One day as he was going along the
street, two boys yelled at him and called his father bad names. Willie
liked his dad, even if he was in jail, because he knew what a good
father he was once.

"When the boys yelled at Willie, he got afraid and ran. But they ran
after him. I suppose if he stood, they wouldn't have chased him. They
caught him and beat him. He tried to get away and then he struck out.
You see, Father, Willie was a big boy for his age, and very strong. He
takes after me. But he never knew his strength. Well, this time he just
struck out. He knocked one of the boys down, gave another a fine black
eye, and both of them took to their heels. It soon got around that my
Willie was a terror. All the boys got afraid of him. He had his own way
after that in every gang, and he got into a lot of scrapes, but he was
always good to his mother.

"When his father got out of jail, he was surprised to see the difference
in Willie. Well, to make a long story short, the father has been
drinking ever since, and that's nearly eight years ago, and my heart is
broken. If it were not for little Willie, I don't know what I'd do."

The priest was a good listener. Although this was but another of the
many similar stories which he had heard, there was something pathetic in
the mother's pride, and in her love of Willie.

The home explained itself now. Poor woman. Discouraged and without
sufficient means, she had drifted and the home had drifted with her, and
Willie too.

Just then footsteps were heard, and as the door opened Bill stood there.
He was amazed on seeing the priest. It flashed on him that he was found
out but he didn't want his mother to know. He made a sign to the priest
to say nothing for the present. Father Boone understood it at once and
was glad to see this consideration of the boy for his mother, although
it didn't tell him how much Bill knew of the Club mystery.

Daly was a shrewd lad, and after his mother withdrew, he kept his
composure. He had to find out first how much the priest knew. Was it
just the fight he came to see about or the wreckage? And how could he
handle it so that even if everything came out, Father Boone would not
cause him the loss of the job he had got him? Bill decided to fence as
cleverly as possible and not tell a bit more than he had to. The priest
began.

"Well, William, I hope you are not ill. I've missed you from the Club
the past few nights?"

"O, I'm all right," answered Bill.

"Have you any reason for staying away?" asked the priest. There was
silence for a moment.

"He is fishing," thought Bill.

Father Boone looked him steadily in the eye and repeated, "I asked you,
Willie, if there was any reason for your staying away?"

"Better ask Mulvy," Bill replied, with a grin.

Father Boone's heart sank. He wanted to clear Frank--and everybody
else--but here was the secretary's name again. Bill's answer and his
manner both implied that Frank was in the affair deeper than the
director had even suspected.

"I hope," he said aloud, "I shall not be disappointed in you, William.
No matter what has happened, I want you to continue in the Club." With
that he took his departure. But as he left the house he reflected that
if William Daly ever got away from his influence, he might go down hill
fast. There was one thing that gave him hope, and that was the boy's
love for his mother. He knew that a boy who was so fond of his mother
had something to work on.


(VII)

Down the dark and crooked stairs Father Boone made his way. When he got
to the street floor and opened the door and took in the clear sunlight,
he thought, "Will this dark passage of mind in which I find myself
terminate in a clear understanding?" While going along he reflected that
so far every step had only led into darker ways. He had tried to
convince himself that Frank was not cognizant of the mischief. He could
not understand how such a boy would fail him. He felt as mean for
himself as he did for Frank. To be so utterly deceived in a boy! Frank
should have reported it, even though he had no part in it. Decision and
consequences should be left to the director of the Club.

When Frank had taken office, it was made clear to him that the
secretary as an officer was obliged to keep the director informed
concerning matters of importance. This wreckage was a matter of the
greatest importance. It had taken him a whole day to restore the place
and had cost him no small sum of money. Besides, it was not only that;
the breakage indicated a big disturbance. There had been a free fight,
evidently, and bad blood. Perhaps there was a division in the Club. It
was Mulvy's business to report the affair and leave the rest to the
director. He failed to do so. That in itself, in a boy like him, was
worse by far than a dozen fights.

Every thing tended to convince Father Boone that Frank had taken a false
step. In this indignant mood, he reached the Club about half an hour
before closing time. The boys were waiting for him. He was hardly seated
in his office, when he heard a knock at the door. Looking up he saw
three boys before him. "Well?" said Father Boone sternly, for by now he
was in a fighting mood. The committee consisted of Frank, Dick and
Tommy. Frank was spokesman.

"We have come, please, Father, in regard to the trouble in the Club. We
have been chosen as a committee to see you about it. We . . ." He got
no further.

"We!" shouted the director. "We! Is this committee secretary of the Club
or are you?--you sir, Frank Mulvy. Here it is the third day since the
disgraceful affair occurred and you--you sir, Mr. Frank Mulvy,
Secretary, have kept me in the dark on a matter that it was your
official duty to report! Do you understand, sir! that you are the
secretary of this Club; and you have duties as well as privileges?"

Poor Frank! If some one had struck him a blow between the eyes, he could
not have been half so stunned. He had to exert all his power to master
his feelings. He tried to speak. His throat refused to let the words
out. Was he to go away again misunderstood? Was he to have the agony of
it all over again? He was helpless, speechless. And there sat the
director, indignant and angry.

While Frank was trying to get himself together, the director arose,
dismissed them, and left his room and the Club.


(VIII)

After the interview, if such it could be called, the committee went back
to the crowd. On the way downstairs, Dick turned to the spokesman. "Why
didn't you speak up, Frank?" Frank's soul at that moment was on fire.

"Speak up?" he fairly yelled, "and what were you 'boobs' doing? Why
didn't you back me up! You stood there like dummies. You'd think we were
culprits the way he sailed into us. And neither of you opened your
mouths."

"That was your job," retorted Dick, "and you got cold feet as soon as he
looked at you. I thought you had more sand."

"Sand!" echoed Frank, "maybe you'd do better. Didn't you have your
chance yesterday at the rectory? And you said yourself that you went out
of the place like a sheep. Don't talk to me about 'sand'. You know
yourself it's not lack of courage, either on your part or mine. I could
face any one else and have it out. But when I saw his face, and heard
his voice, I just wilted. You can't fight a man that's already wounded.
The thing is hurting him worse than it hurts us. But I'll be blamed if I
know what's up. It's more than that scrap we had, I'm sure of that."

By this time they were down with the rest of the boys.

"Well?" they exclaimed anxiously.

"It's all up," said Frank. "He wouldn't even listen to us. He gave me an
awful roast."

"Gosh, fellows, it's tough," added Dick. "You should have seen the way
he fired at us. Before we caught our breath, he up and left. We stood
stock still for a moment, and didn't know where we were."

"It seems," said Frank, "that he is terribly put out because I did not
officially report the matter."

"Well, you'd think there was a robbery or a murder or something like
that, the way you fellows talk," said Ned Mullen. "A scrap is a scrap,
and that's all there is to it," he added, "and I don't see the reason
for all this fuss, except it may be because he is angry that an official
was in it."

He paused for a moment and, as the crowd seemed to concur with him, he
continued, "I say, Frank, why don't you write him a note? He can't fire
at that, nor run away from it. If you write the note, I'll take it to
him, or if you don't like that, mail it."

The proposal struck the fellows as sensible and practicable. Frank
agreed to have the note ready by the next night and to read it to the
crowd before sending it. After a little further talk, they wound up the
evening and started for home.

As Ned was going out, Frank signalled him to hang back a little. He gave
the same hint to Dick. In a few minutes the three were together, Frank,
Dick and Ned.

Ned Mullen was one of the smallest boys of the Club. He was a bundle of
nerves and laughter. Wherever Ned was, there was mirth. Everybody liked
him. These three were close friends. They were three of a kind. Ned had
won his class-medal three years in succession. Dick was always first or
second in his class, and besides he had had the great distinction of
winning the diocesan gold medal for the best English essay. Frank had
led his class as far back as the boys could remember.

When they were alone, Frank said to Ned, "Well, little bright eyes,
you've certainly saved the situation. I was just about desperate when
you 'butted in.' I had made up my mind to resign and clear out
altogether. But I guess if Father Boone gets our explanation, it will
fix things all right."

"Why didn't you go to him in the beginning, Frank?" asked Ned.

"I did, kid, but I got cold feet." And then he told Dick and Ned all
that had occurred from the start.

"There's more to it than appears," suggested Dick.

"You said it," added Ned, and then continued, "I never saw Father Boone
like this before. The fellows have got into lots of worse scrapes than
this, and he only laughed. Why, you remember that day in the woods last
month, on the outing. Do you suppose he didn't know all about that fight
between Barry and Dolan? And he never said a word. Except about a week
after, if you noticed, he wanted two boys to go on an errand to Bailey's
and he sent them. It turned out that they had to help at putting on
labels for the Hospital Fair and Mrs. Bailey gave them a dollar each.
They came back chums. Father Boone doesn't 'grouch' or snarl if a fellow
breaks out. He just says nothing, or else mends matters quietly in his
own way."

"Say, Ned, that's quite a speech," exclaimed Dick, a bit envious. "You
ought to have been on that committee."

At that "Bright Eyes" chuckled and soon he had the others laughing.

After a moment Frank announced, "I want you fellows to help me out with
this note. I never did anything like it before. I've written lots of
compositions. But this is diplomatic work."

Ned tapped his forehead and took on a look of deep thought. Dick coughed
and struck the attitude of a thinker.

"O, laugh if you like, but if you had been through what I have, you
wouldn't think it was a joke," muttered Frank.

"Well, what do you want us to do?" asked Dick.

"Put our heads together and send the right kind of note," answered
Frank.

"I say," suggested Dick, "suppose we each write a note and the one
that's best, goes."

"Good idea," replied Frank, "and let's do it now, right here."

So they sat down to frame the note. For ten minutes not a word was
spoken. Each boy at his own place was poring over a few lines he had
written and then scratched, and then written again.

The silence was broken at last by Frank's voice exclaiming, "Well, who's
through?" No reply. "I say fellows, I can't get started."

"Ditto," echoed Dick.

"Me too!" chimed in Ned.

Each boy had about ten pages partly written and scratched or torn. They
had never before realized the arduous task of a diplomat. For this had
to be a real diplomatic note. A lot was at stake, and a single word
might spoil everything. At least so they fancied.

"Let's do it at home, and get down here early tomorrow night and settle
it," said Dick.

"Agreed," exclaimed Frank and Ned together. And so hearty was their
approval that they left without even putting the stopper on the ink
bottle, let alone picking up the scribbled and torn papers.




Chapter II

The New Quest


The diplomats had hardly gone ten minutes when Father Boone came into
the Club to get something he had forgotten in his indignant exit. On his
way down from the office he passed through the library, and of course
noticed the disordered papers on the table. The sheets were scribbled on
and scratched and some were crumpled and torn. He paused to put things a
bit in order, and his eye caught his own name on one of the papers. It
began, "Dear Father Boone," and the same salutation headed several more
of the sheets. "Oho, what's this?" he exclaimed. As the note was
addressed to him, and lying there on the open table, he read:

"Dear Father Boone, I want to tell you in writing what I could not say
to you in person. I tried to but somehow I could not."

This is as far as it went. On the next page he found the following: "If
I could only let you know that what hurts us most is that" and there it
stopped. Another page had this, "I am sure there is something besides
what we know, because we have done nothing that should so...." and there
it ended.

He recognized Dick's handwriting on another sheet which read as follows:
"Dear Father Boone, the boys realize that you must have a good reason
for your dis....". That was the abrupt ending. "We know from experience
that you never pun....." No more. Evidently Dick had got stuck fast.

The next pile of paper seemed to have little or nothing on the
sheets. The first page the priest took up had "Ned" written all
over it. For variety there was here and there "Ned Mullen."
Evidently Ned was hard pressed for a start when he filled that
sheet. On the next page there was a little more variety, but
not much more literature. Here and there over the page were
scrawled the names of Ned--Ned Mullen--Hank--Dick--Father
Boone--Bull--and a drawing of a dog. Poor Ned must have been hunting
hard for a good introduction.

Father Boone sat down near the table. His thoughts had taken a new
turn. These lads, he recalled, were on the committee. Evidently they
wanted to set something before him, and were very much in earnest about
it. Such insistence indicated a serious state of affairs. He should have
heard them out instead of withdrawing in indignation. Still, he had done
that only to impress them with the seriousness of their conduct.

When they saw his indignation, why did they not expostulate? But no,
they said not a word. He would have been glad to hear their side, but at
his first harsh words, they simply stood there. Yet this attempt at
reaching him by note was a good sign. But why did they not give some
evidence of regret? Their manner was not at all that of boys who felt
they had seriously offended. And Frank, why _had he_ not come like a man
to talk it over? "I had thought," he reflected, "that Frank Mulvy had
more consideration and more heart."

His eye fell just then on a half-torn sheet of paper on the floor. He
picked it up from under the chair and found on it these lines:

"Dear Father: We are all terribly cut up and Frank most of all. We don't
mind what's done nor what may happen to us, but we feel awfully sorry
for. . . . . . ."

That was all. That scrawl of Ned's fairly upset the priest. It was so
candid, so genuine, so earnest. And it was not intended for anyone's
eyes. It was an unsuccessful attempt to utter what was in the heart.
Under the stress of the situation it was the most natural thing for the
boys to leave the table littered with scraps to be swept up by the
janitor next morning. His own coming in was an accident.

He got some relief in considering that these boys had stayed after the
others, and filled eight or ten pages in an effort to explain. It meant
that they were all right. He had known it all along! He had had to do
violence to himself to believe that they would be guilty of anything
inconsiderate. He knew how they felt towards him. These notes were a
proof. Boys who were not grateful and considerate would not go to such
pains to rectify matters. And here he had been for three days, firmly
set against them. Perhaps it was their very regard for him that had kept
back the explanations. He felt happy in thinking so, for his boys meant
a great deal to him. Tomorrow he would waive all formalities and
precedents and settle things. He would hit the nail right on the head,
state his feelings and his amazement at what had occurred and take
whatever explanation they gave. These notes showed him that at heart the
boys were the right kind. And that was the main thing.

He had got so far, when back again came the scene that had met his eyes
when he entered the Club rooms with the janitor. Broken chairs, pictures
down, ink on the floor, overturned tables.

"No . . ." thought he, "that is too much; for such vandalism there should
have been an explanation or an apology. And I can't forget that Frank,
no matter what his share or his feelings, should have been true enough
to his duties to come and tell me. It's not the damage; it's the
principle of the thing. What is the use of giving my time to the boys
unless I can hold them up to certain standards? This is a social club
under a priest's direction, and it should stand for what is best in the
formation of character.

"Too much harm is done young fellows by giving in to sentiment. They may
resent my attitude now, but they will thank me for it later. If I take
a firm stand, it will be a lesson to them for life. They will realize
that the right way is the best way. They must be shown that although
honor is not necessarily sanctity, it is, nevertheless, a very close
attendant on it. Some boys think that if they don't break one of the
Commandments, they are all right. They fail to see that the
Commandments, although they must be absolutely kept, are only the big
mile posts on the way of life. A boy may easily lose his way unless he
cultivates the home virtues and the social virtues.

"That's what this club is for, to make the boys better sons and brothers
and later on, better citizens. Anything that is mean must be shunned. A
mean act, a mean fellow, must not be tolerated. If a boy is mean or
indecent, and he can't be set right, he must go. It may hurt him and his
prospects, but that is better than to hurt a crowd and their prospects.
A disgraceful affair has happened in the Club, followed by dishonorable
conduct. I'll see it through." And, hitting the table with his fist, he
exclaimed, "I'll see it through."


(II)

Meanwhile, Frank had got home, and as he would not have much time
tomorrow, he decided on writing his note to Father Boone before going to
bed. The rest of the family were out, except his mother. He sat down at
his study desk and took up his task. He did not know how to begin. If he
could only get a start, the matter would be easy. But that start would
not come. Finally he buried his head in his hands, half thinking, half
discouraged.

"Why," he thought, "should I do any writing at all? I've been 'on the
square.' I have no apology to make. It seems that the harder a fellow
tries to be square, the harder he gets hit. There's 'Bull,' the cause of
all this row. He's a regular thug. Yet he gets off easy. No worry, no
hurt feelings, no penalty. And here I am, fretting and stewing, and I
haven't done a thing I can put my hand on. Father Boone's treated me
like a dog. I don't deserve that from him. He's done a lot for me, of
course, but that doesn't give him the right to jump on me." Springing
up, he brought his fist down on the table with a bang, and said aloud,
"I'll not stand for it--from Father Boone or anybody else."

He looked up in defiance only to see his mother standing before him.
Good mother that she was, she took in the situation at once. She did not
say anything, but sat down alongside him, and took his hand in her own.
When he had calmed down a bit, she said, "Won't you let mother help you,
dear? You know we always make a good team."

Frank did not reply. He turned his face away. He was deeply agitated.
His mother knew his tenderness and his strong will. She knew there was a
tempest raging in his soul, and her heart ached for him. She put her arm
about him and pressed him a little closer.

Presently he gasped in choked and vehement words: "I have . . . always
. . . tried to do . . . my best . . . and this . . . is . . . the
result." Again his mother felt the convulsive trembling through his
body. But under her tactful sympathy this paroxysm soon passed off and
with considerable calm he gave her the outlines of his trouble.

Mrs. Mulvy not only knew her boy, but she knew Father Boone as well. Her
heart told her there was a misunderstanding, and a big one at that.

"Now, my dear," she began, "you have suffered a lot but you have not
done anything you should be sorry for."

Here Frank interrupted her with a kiss.

"But I am sure," she continued, "that Father Boone has suffered a lot
too; maybe more than you. I know how much he thinks of you, and if he
has taken this stand you can be sure he has a strong reason for it and
that it has caused him pain. We don't know his reason but we do know
that he is good and just and very kind, and that he never would be so
indignant without cause. My boy, there is a third factor somewhere in
this matter, and both you and Father Boone are suffering for it."

"That's what Dick and Ned said, mother," replied Frank, "but for the
life of me I can't figure it out."

"It may be," she answered, "he takes the fight so seriously because
you're an officer of the Club--and the highest one."

"But, mother, he doesn't know yet who was in the fight. No one has told
him, and he never pumps the fellows. All he knows is that there was a
fight, and I don't know how he got that. Maybe someone heard the racket
and told him."

"Perhaps that is just it, and whoever told him may have exaggerated the
affair, and Father Boone feels hurt that such a serious matter did not
reach him by the right way. You see, dear, Father Boone is very
honorable himself, and he expects his boys to be very careful of honor.
That might be the explanation, although I still believe there is
something more to it."

After a pause, Mrs. Mulvy continued, "And then, Father Boone might feel
hurt at what I have referred to, but he would never punish the whole
Club for a thing like that. It's all a mystery, I must admit, no matter
which way I turn. I have been thinking considerably over it since the
first night you spoke to me, and I cannot make head or tail of it.
Except this, that I am certain there is something you and I do not see
about it."

"I guess you are right, mother. But what do you advise me to do?"

"That is just it," she replied, "I don't know what to do. If he were not
a priest, I would go to him for an explanation right away, but I know
that he knows his business and is fair. So I guess it is better to leave
it in his hands."

"O mother, I am so glad you said that. I was afraid you'd go down to
see him, and then I'd get 'kidded' by the fellows. They would say that I
had to get my mother to fight my battles. I was going to make you
promise that you would keep out of this thing, but now I don't have to.
You are the good little mother."

"But," she interrupted, "I am going to ask you for a promise. No matter
what happens, and no matter what the other boys do, you won't ever do
anything or say anything disrespectful to Father Boone, or about him?"

"O, that's easy, mother. I had made up my mind that that was one thing I
couldn't do--anything that would reflect on him."

She kissed him proudly, and a big load was lifted from his heart.
Nothing would matter now. His mother was with him. He could stand
anything with her back of him. He withdrew to his bedroom and knelt down
before his little altar to offer the sufferings of the day as a
sacrifice to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. "Sweet Jesus, I have suffered
much today. Take my sufferings as penance for my sins and as
thanksgiving for bestowing on me such a good mother, and give me
strength to bear everything rather than offend Thee." He arose
light-hearted.

A few moments later his mother heard him humming a hymn to the Blessed
Virgin:

          "Mother dear, O pray for me,
           When far from heaven and thee
           I wander in a fragile bark
           O'er life's tempestuous sea."

"He is all right now," reflected Mrs. Mulvy as she went to her room
smiling.


(III)

After his soliloquy, Father Boone went to the rectory in a firm frame of
mind. When he got there, he found Mrs. Daly waiting for him. She came,
she said, to ask his advice about Willie and his father. The father came
home drunk nearly every night, and in such a condition, that Willie
could not only defend himself, but could also injure his father.
Tonight, she went on to relate, they had an awful time. She had to
interfere to prevent serious harm to one or both.

"Only for Willie being so good to his mother I would not dare rush in
between them. But I know that no matter what happens, he would never
hurt me. So tonight I threw myself right between them, and separated
them. Father, I am getting tired of this life. It's not Christian. I
was brought up well, and though you mightn't think it, I know the
difference. So I came to see you to ask your advice. Should I put him
away again? It did no good last time. He came out every bit as bad as
before, and worse. Now what am I to do?"

The priest listened sympathetically, and when she paused, he asked, "Is
he home now?"

"He is, your Reverence."

"Well, I'll go over and see him."

He showed her to the door, told her to say nothing to her husband, and
promised he would be over inside an hour. Some thirty or forty minutes
later he was poking his way up the dingy and dirty stairs to the Daly
flat. Bill was out. No doubt the home had few attractions for him. Mr.
Daly had been pretty badly shaken up by the encounter with his son, and
sat fairly sobered on the edge of the bed. The priest entered, made a
sign to Mrs. Daly to withdraw, and crossing the room, sat down alongside
Daly.

"Well, Michael," he began, "I have come over to see you because I know
you need a friend. You know I married you, Michael, and baptized Willie.
You were a fine man then, none better, and you and the Missus were very
proud of the baby. Well, Michael, you have got clean off the track--and
it does not pay, does it, Michael? You had your nice little home and a
tender wife, and a boy you were proud of. And all that is gone now,
Michael. And pretty soon you'll be gone, too. It does not pay, does it?
For the bit of pleasure you get from the liquor, see the price you have
paid. It was not the ten cents nor the quarter you put over the bar, but
it is this ruined home, Michael Daly. It is a slave and a sloven you
have made of your wife, and it is driving the boy to the police, you are
doing. Now, in God's Name, Michael, stop it. It is not too late. I will
help you, and the wife will help you and Willie will help you. I know
you had a fight with him just now, but that is past. It was the liquor
did it. Tell me, Michael, you will be a man and cut the stuff out?"

Tears were forming in the man's eyes as the priest looked at his
upturned face.

"I'm a beast and no man," he moaned, "I'm down and out. I'm a curse to
myself and my own. I'm not worth your bothering about me. Let me alone.
Let Mike Daly go his way, he's done for. The devil of whisky has got
him and he'll get him for good some day."

"Mike Daly," said the priest firmly, "you are down, God knows, but you
are not out. And you are not going to be."

"That's all very well. It's that easy to say, but you don't know the
grip that this devil has on me. I've tried and tried and tried, only to
fall back again into the gutter. I tell you it's all up with me."

"If it is up with you, it is because you want it to be so," said the
priest. "But I tell you, Mike Daly, you are on the brink of hell and the
only thing that keeps you from falling into it, is the slender barrier
of life. Do you realize that you may be called out of life to judgment
any moment without warning? My God! man, where is your faith? If you
break the law of the government, you know what would happen! And is not
God's law more sacred? Do you suppose you can trifle with the Almighty?
Because God does not punish you on the spot, do you think you can ignore
Him?"

By this time Daly was quite himself. He had never had such a talking to.
The words went right into his soul. He knew about punishment for a man
if he breaks the law of the country. And it surely was true that God's
law is more serious. That hit him hard. The priest saw that the man was
wavering, and he continued:

"Now, Michael, I'll tell you what we will do. But first I shall ask you
an honest question, man to man. Do you want to get away from the vile
stuff?"

"I do," fairly roared Daly.

"Good," said the priest, "that's half the battle. Now, I want you to
know that I am the best friend you've got on earth outside your own
family. I shall ask you to do nothing but what is for your own good.
Will you trust me?"

"I will, so help me God!" he shouted.

"And it is God who is going to help you," said the priest. "You are
going to be a man again, Mike Daly. I guarantee that. _Do . . . you
. . . understand . . . that?_" said the priest slowly and firmly.

"I do," answered the now aroused and interested man.

"Then listen: You are just a 'bum' now--a low down, bar-room 'bum.'
Nobody wants you around. You can't get a job anywhere. I am going to
get you a good job. You won't go back on the priest if he gives his word
for you?"

"So help me! No," cried Mike.

"Now, another thing," said the priest. "When you went to church every
Sunday, and received Holy Communion once a month, you were a good
God-fearing man. That's where we begin. You make a friend of God first
of all. It's hard enough to go through life right with God and with His
help, but it is impossible without it. It's years since you have been to
church, and the Sacraments, and you know these have been the most
unhappy years of your life."

Just then Bill entered. He was surprised to see the priest talking to
his father. Immediately he supposed that he had come to complain about
the breakage and mischief at the Club. But he was set right almost
immediately.

"William," said the priest, kindly and proudly, "come over here and
shake hands with your father."

The boy hesitated.

Again the priest spoke: "William, come and take the hand of a man that
is never going to touch liquor in his life again. Your father is a new
man."

"O father, father!" cried Bill, as he rushed across the room.

No words. Tears of the father and son as the two embraced.

The priest, meanwhile, had gone into the kitchen to tell the good news
to Mrs. Daly. She rushed in to find the father and son weeping over each
other.

"O Michael, Michael," she shouted, "I knew the Blessed Mother would
never let you go to the end as you were!" And she fairly fell on them
both.

The priest withdrew, and would have left altogether, but that he had not
finished his work. After a while, he came into the room and said, "All
three of you kneel down." They got on their knees. "May God Almighty,
the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, bless you."

"Amen" responded the three.

"And may the Blessed Mother help and protect you."

"Amen" again came the response.

They arose. It was a transfiguration. Determination and pride on Daly's
face, love on Mrs. Daly's, and gladness on the boy's.

"Now, Michael, I want you to go to confession next Saturday night and
receive Holy Communion on Sunday," said the priest. "You do your part,
and God will do His. You have given Him no opportunity to help you these
past years. You have kept away from Him, your best Friend and Helper."

"Never again," said Daly, firmly.

"Straighten up now," said the priest, "and come to see me Monday
morning. I'll have a job for you by that time. Here's a few dollars to
get some clothes. You can pay me back when you have it to spare.
Good-bye."

For sometime after the priest went away, they spoke not a word. They
could not, for something seemed to lodge in their throats. When Mrs.
Daly found that she could use her voice, she went to a little box on the
bureau, kept carefully in the midst of all the confusion, and taking out
her rosary of the Blessed Virgin, she went over to her husband and son
and said, "And now let us thank her." They knelt down, said the beads
and finished with the prayer:

"Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our
hope; to thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve; to thee do we
send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn
then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, and after
this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus. O
clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary."

There is joy even in heaven over a sinner that doth penance.


(IV)

The effects of Father Boone's visit at the Daly home began to show at
once; the father, mother and son were transformed. Michael Daly spoke of
it first. "I've not had a day's luck since I've been away from the
Church, and I'm going to get back."

"O Blessed Mother, do you hear him?" exclaimed Mrs. Daly. "Holy Mary,
pray for us sinners now."

"I've had my last drink, so help me!" continued Daly. "I've said it
often before, and gone back to the dirty stuff. But something new has
come into my life. Father Boone's words burned right into my soul. And
every word he said was true, so help me!"

All the while, Bill was wondering. Could it be real? It all seemed so
new to him. For eight years he had heard nothing but blasphemy and
abuse from his father, and here he was now, talking and acting like a
man. Was it a reality? He could hardly believe his senses. But there was
his father arm and arm with his mother. That certainly was real. It was
years since he had seen anything like that before. The sight, so
unusual, began to overpower him. He ran to his father and cried out, "O
Dad, Dad, Dad!"

For a moment he could say no more.

"It's all right, Willie boy," said his father. "Dad's all right, and
he's going to stay so."

It is true that Willie had become more or less a "tough." His
environment had hardened him. He had had to fight his way along. But one
thing always stood by him, his affection for his mother. Something else
also was a big factor in keeping him from going altogether bad. He never
failed to say his morning and evening prayers. His early training under
the good Sisters at the parochial school served as an anchor to hold him
to his religion. The prayers he had learned there, the pious mottoes on
the walls, the example of the Sisters, all had made a strong impression
on his young mind although his conduct often failed to show it.

He remembered also some of the incidents they had related. One in
particular never left his mind. In consequence of it, he had resolved
never to say an immodest word or do an unclean deed. No boy ever heard
an impure word from Bill, no matter how rough he might be. He would
fight, yes. He would swagger and bluster. But he could never forget the
promise he had made one day in church, before the altar of the Blessed
Virgin, that he would never say anything to make her blush. And so far
he never had, although he had often been with companions whose
conversation and conduct would bring the crimson to any decent face.

He had from his faith a realization of the presence of God in the world.
He remembered a large frame in the class room wherein was the picture of
a triangle. In the center was an Eye. It seemed to be looking right at
him, no matter where he was, and under it was written, "The All-Seeing
Eye of God." The Sister one day had said to the boys that they should
always live in such a way that they should be glad God was looking at
them. That made a great impression on him. Of course, he often forgot
the Eye. But on one occasion, when he was strongly tempted to steal,
and the two boys with him did steal, he saw that Eye, and remained
honest. The day after, the two fellows were caught and sent to the
reformatory for a year. The Eye of God meant even more to him after
that.

On another occasion, he could have received an afternoon off by lying,
as did several of his companions. But the Eye was looking at him, and he
would not tell the lie. It is true, there was many a slip, for poor Bill
was only human and a boy. And after all, religion does not suppose we
are all saints. Its purpose is to make us such. It has hard work on some
material. But no substance is too hard for it, if only it has half a
chance. Bill, although a 'bad nut' as many called him, was not so bad as
he might have been. If it were not for his religion, poorly as he
practised it, he would have gone to the bad utterly. So Bill now stood
facing a new thing in his life. His father was turning in a new
direction. Would he keep on in it, or fall back, as so often before?

There was something different about this event, Bill felt. He had never
seen that peculiar and stern look in his father's eyes before. And he
remembered that the Sisters had often told them how God would help us do
things that we could not do ourselves if we truly turned to Him. It did
seem as though his father had truly turned to God. Bill also remembered
how every day the Sister had had the whole class say one "Hail Mary" for
those who were in temptation.

He went to his bedroom, closed the door, took out an old prayer book
and, opening it to a picture of the Mother of God, he prayed earnestly,
finishing with "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners _now_ and
at the hour of our death, Amen." Then he added, "Blessed Mother of God,
strengthen my poor father and make him good and sober."

Bill reflected that Father Boone had once told the boys that if they
wanted anything of God or of the Saints, they should add sacrifices to
their petitions. "Blessed Mother, in thy honor and for my father's
reform, I will leave off smoking until I am twenty-one." He arose
renewed and light-hearted.

All next day he revolved in his mind the scurvy trick he had done at the
Club. He knew the pride Father Boone took in having things nice there.
In reality it was the priest who had suffered by his wreckage, he
reflected, not the boys. Sure, they had suffered, too. The McCormack
treat had been called off. That was a mean trick. He had "queered" the
crowd to get square on one or two. And after all, what had he to square?
Mulvy had fought him straight.

The more he thought on it, the more Bill felt ashamed of himself. By
night he had fully made up his mind to go over to the Club, make a clean
breast of it all, and take the consequences. "And I'll offer that up
too," said he, "for Dad."


(V)

At the Club the next evening, all the fellows were talking matters over.
Father Boone was upstairs in his office. He had said to himself a dozen
times, "I must keep a hold on that boy Daly. He is a diamond in the
rough. I'd like to know how many of these fellows downstairs would be
much better if they went through what he has experienced. I must see to
it that he gets a fair show. The fellows are down on him. Maybe they
have had cause, but they've got to help me give the fellow his chance.
Another reason for getting at the heart of this affair without any more
delay--a boy's soul and his welfare are at stake."

The boys below were pretty glum. Things were not the same. A shadow was
over the place. When Frank came in, however, his face was so placid that
at first they thought he had adjusted matters.

"Well, old man, what's the good news?"

"Nothing yet, fellows, but I guess it'll come out all right."

Just then the door opened, and in walked Daly. For a few seconds no one
said a word. They just looked at him in astonishment.

Daly's walk to the Club had been hard going. The nearer he got to it,
the more he hesitated. What would Father Boone say? Facing the boys was
one thing--he could fight down his mean deed, but how about Father Boone
and his interest in his father--and the job he was going to get him?
Would this revelation knock that all to pieces? How could Father Boone
trust a man whose boy broke into a house and smashed things up?

All this stood out boldly before Bill. So did the Eye of God. "He sees,
and I'll go ahead and trust in Him," he concluded. And so he went up the
steps leading to the Club door, passed timidly along the hallway and
opened the door, where the boys were discussing the committee affair. As
he stood in the doorway, silence held the crowd. After a moment,
indignation broke loose. It showed itself first in looks of contempt,
then in moving away from him.

"That's all right fellows, I'm the goat, and I deserve to be."

They thought he was sarcastic. But the words came from his very soul.

Mistaking him, they flung back cutting remarks: "You're a Billy Goat,
all right," came from one quarter.

"So you've changed from a Bull to a Goat" greeted him from another side.

For a few seconds Bill felt like rushing in and striking right and left.
But he checked himself. It was a violent effort and showed on his
countenance.

"It's a nice fix you've got us in," shouted Tommy Hefnan.

Of course that meant to Bill that they knew the whole story of the
damaged room. "Fellows," he exclaimed, "I did a mean trick and I'm
willing to take my medicine." The boys saw in this only a reference to
the fight.

"That's all right, Bill," exclaimed Frank. "It was my fault as much as
yours. We shook hands on it when it was over, and as far as I'm
concerned, it's ended." Then turning to the crowd he said, "I say,
fellows, let's call it square," to which they more or less willingly
agreed.

Bill now felt that he was small compared with his late opponent. He saw
Frank do by a word what he himself could not do by words or blows. He
waited until he got the opportunity, and then gave Frank a signal that
he had something to say. Frank stepped aside.

"I want to make myself right with the 'bunch'," Bill told him. "I came
over for that. But if I start to speak, they'll 'ride' me. You can help
me. I got to say, Mulvy, that you're a far better fellow than I am, in
every way. I was a skunk to bring on that fight. And I was worse than a
skunk in doing what I did afterwards. But I'll be hanged if I'm going to
stay one. I'll take all that's coming to me and square myself. You know
what I mean?"

He paused for a reply, but Frank's ideas were in too much confusion to
permit a ready answer. This was strong language to apply to a mere
fight. It suggested that there was truth in the surmise of Ned Mullen,
that there was more than the fight to account for the unusual stand
taken by Father Boone in the affair.

Bill cleared his throat nervously, to continue, when the clang of fire
bells sounded, and the rushing of the fire engines and trucks along the
street brought the boys in a stampede to the door and the street
windows. Frank and Bill were carried along with the others.


(VI)

Ordinarily, the passing of a fire engine engaged the crowd's attention
but a few moments. The dashing engine and hose-cart always made a good
spectacle. But now as the Club boys looked along the street, they saw
not only smoke but flames. And they heard screams. All the fellows
rushed out and followed the engine to the place where the police were
roping off the fire line. The hook-and-ladder came along at a tearing
pace. The firemen jumped from the truck, hoisted up the long,
frail-looking ladder, and threw it against the cornice of the roof.

The shock somehow unhitched a connection at the last extension. The
ladder hung suspended by only a light piece of the frame. In the window
right under the ladder was a woman, and a child of four or five years.
The firemen felt that if they brought the ladder back to an upright
position, the last extension would break and they would not be able to
reach the window. On the other hand, the ladder, as it stood, could not
sustain a man's weight. A minute seemed an hour.

One of the firemen started to take the chance and run up. His foreman
pulled him back. "It's sure death, Jim," he shouted. "That ladder won't
hold you. You'd drop before you could reach them."

The foreman was right. The men were willing enough but there was no
chance of reaching the top, or halfway to it.

Now Father Boone came running up. On learning that lives were in danger
he had hastened to the Church, gotten the holy oils, and hurried over to
be of service, if occasion required.

The cries of the woman and child were piercing and heart-rending. The
life nets were spread and the men shouted to them to jump. But they were
paralyzed with fear. One of the firemen was heard to exclaim, "I wish I
weighed a hundred pounds less, I'd risk that ladder."

Bill Daly, in the forefront of the crowd, heard him. Two lives at stake!
He weighed a hundred pounds less than that man. And, as he hesitated, a
great fear clutching at his heart, his mind was filled with a medley of
thoughts, in which mingled the idea of sacrifice for his father's
reform, the Eye of God, his own worthlessness, his confession not yet
made, and the glory of heroic deeds. Again a terrible, piercing cry from
above. Without a second's waiting, without warning, before the firemen
knew it, he had rushed under the rope, over to the truck, and like a
cat, was on his way up the ladder.

Bill had often seen the firemen couple the ladders in the station near
his home. He knew if he got there in time he could put the detached
parts together. Up he went, hands and feet, as fast as he could move.
The ladder swayed. The men yelled to him to come back. He evidently
heard nothing and saw nothing but that dangling extension, which was all
that separated him from death. Without slowing up a bit, he reached the
uncoupled extension, fastened it, and made the ladder secure. Hardly had
it fallen into place, when several, firemen were on their way up. The
thing was done.

The excitement of it over, Bill suddenly realized that he was high up in
the air. The climbing of the firemen made the ladder sway. Before anyone
realized what was happening, Bill lost his balance, tottered, fell over
completely, and went headlong down. The men below holding the life net
under the window, saw him totter and changed their position as fast as
possible in order to get under him. But he fell so suddenly that they
hardly had time to shift. They had scarcely got into position, when down
he came into the net, before it had tightened up. The fall was
considerably broken, but he landed hard enough to make the thud
distinctly heard. And there he lay in a heap, limp. He was unconscious.
They lifted him out, carried him over to the Club room, and sent for a
doctor.

Meanwhile, Father Boone, who had been the first to reach him, hastily
anointed him and gave him conditional absolution. He was about to return
to the fire to be on hand in case others were injured, but one of the
firemen came in just then and said that the woman and child were
rescued, and that the fire was under control.

So the priest sat beside Bill, holding his hand, and patting his
forehead. Instead of a doctor, an ambulance arrived. Bill was carried on
a stretcher into the wagon, and with a warning clang, it was off for the
hospital. The doctor was on one side of him, the priest on the other.
Neither spoke. Both kept their eyes on the patient. The doctor held his
pulse, and moved his eyelids to observe the extent of the danger. A
hasty examination at the hospital emergency room showed a badly injured
arm and side, and a bruised, but not fractured, skull.


(VII)

Having been assured that the case was not fatal, Father Boone boarded a
trolley and soon found himself near the Daly tenement. He was used to
errands like this. And yet this had something different about it. Often
had he carried sad news to wives and mothers and fathers. But there was
an element of tragedy in this case. Only the day before, he had left the
Dalys starting out on a new way, father, mother and son. And now the
link that bound father and mother, if not broken, was very close to it.
Would the news start Mike Daly drinking? Would it harden him, or would
he see in it the hand of God?

With these thoughts in his mind, he rapped gently at the door. Mrs. Daly
met him all radiant. A wonderful change had occurred. The room was neat
and clean, she herself was as tidy as a pin and in walked Daly himself,
greatly improved by a clean shave and a clean collar. "I want to see
both of you together," he said. "I have a bit of good news for you."

They walked into the front room. It was really decent now. The home as
well as the occupants had undergone a change.

"Mr. and Mrs. Daly," began the priest, "I want to congratulate you. You
have a boy to be proud of. You have someone to live for. Willie is a
hero. He has just saved two lives at a fire."

At the word fire, and at not seeing their boy along with the priest, a
certain apprehension seized them both. Neither spoke for a moment, and
then Daly said, "And where is the boy?"

"He is all right," answered the priest. "He got a few scratches and
bruises, but it is nothing much. He is a real hero, and all the boys are
talking about him. I just thought I'd be the first to bring you the
news."

"Tell us about it, Father dear," exclaimed Mrs. Daly.

The priest now felt that the worst part of his task was over. In a
reassuring tone he narrated all that had happened. He made up his mind
to tell everything just as it was, because he felt it was better for
them to get it from him and with him near, than in any other way.

When he got to the fall from the ladder, the mother screamed and fell
back in her chair. The priest was not unprepared for this. He dashed
cold water into her face, and soon she came to, moaning and uttering
pious ejaculations for her son. By the time the priest was ready to
leave, both father and mother were composed and resigned.

"You should thank God, both of you," said Father Boone to them, "that He
has left you your boy. It is a lesson to all of us to live in such a way
as to be always ready to meet God whenever He calls us out of life. Now
you, Michael, no matter what happens, don't you ever think that the
liquor will drown your sorrow. I'd rather see Willie a corpse than to
see you drunk again."

"And so would I myself, so help me!" exclaimed Michael.

The priest nodded, satisfied that now Michael was out of the pit. He
gave them the hospital address, and advised them not to go before the
next day, unless they received a message. No news, he assured them, was
good news.

No news might be good news, but not for a mother. Hardly had the door
closed when Mrs. Daly put on her things and made ready to start for the
hospital.

The priest had a good deal to think about. There was a possibility that
Willie's condition was serious on account of internal injuries. What a
blow it would be to the parents if he should die! When he reached home,
the first thing he did was to telephone to the hospital and inquire
about the boy. He was informed that the patient was resting quietly.
"That is good," he said to himself, "for I should not be at all
surprised if Mrs. Daly ran down to see the lad tonight." With that he
went over to the Club, wrote a few letters, and then returned to the
rectory for the night.


(VIII)

The boys were late leaving the Club after the excitement of the fire.
They spoke in suppressed tones. Admiration and regret prevailed--admiration
for Bill's daring deed--regret for their conduct to him just before.

"Gee!" said Tommy, "I'm sorry I sailed into him the way I did."

"And who would have thought he was such a daring chap!" exclaimed Dick.

"It only shows," added Ned, "that you never can tell what's in a
fellow."

"We called him the 'Bull'," said Frank, "and in one way we were right,
for that was the bulliest thing I ever saw. My hat is off to Bill Daly."

After a while, they turned to speculating on his condition.

"I hope it's nothing serious," remarked Dick.

"Suppose we wait until Father Boone comes back," added Tommy. "He'll
tell us exactly what's the matter."

After it had got to be late, Frank observed, "I'll bet he's waiting for
Bill to regain consciousness, and there's no telling when he'll be back.
Let's wait a quarter of an hour more, and then if he's not here, we'd
better go."

They all assented to this and when the time was up, they started to
leave. Frank, however, signalled to Dick and Ned and Tommy, and they
loitered about until the rest had gone.

"Fellows," began Frank, "I had a letter all written to Father Boone
about the scrape we're in, but I tore it up, I'm surer than ever that
something worse has happened than that fight. I don't even believe that
Father Boone knows who was in it. But that scrap was the basis of
something else, something really serious. Bill Daly knows what it was,
believe me. He came here tonight to straighten things out. Did you see
how he came in, and how he stood the 'gaff'? Would he have taken all
that from kids like you unless he had something big troubling him? And
that's not all. He got me aside and began to talk confidentially,
hinting at something dark, you know. He was just getting ready to accuse
himself when the fire engine came along, and you know the rest."

The three others nodded in agreement with Frank and awaited further
light on the matter.

"That's all," he continued, "except that I never saw such an exalted
look on any boy's face as when he leaped for that ladder. It just seemed
to say 'I know you've got me down bad, boys, but here goes to show you
that there is some good left in Bill Daly.'"

In point of fact, Bill had never given the boys a thought when he made
his plunge for the ladder. But the look of exaltation, as Frank called
it, was there nevertheless. Its source was higher than Frank gave him
credit for.

"Now I maintain," asserted Frank, "that the fellow was glad of the
chance to set himself right with the Club. And from what he hinted at,
I'm certain, too, that he did something to 'queer' us with Father
Boone, something pretty bad, too, for I never before knew Father Boone
to take such measures as he has in this affair."

"You're a regular Sherlock Holmes, old man," observed Dick.

"Sherlock Holmes or not," said Frank, "you'll find out before this thing
is settled that I'm right. A man like Father Boone does not change his
character over night. Something has happened to make him take this
attitude, and I'd give my hat to know what it is."

Frank's hat may not have been worth much, but it seemed to be the limit
of his disposable property--to judge by the extreme earnestness with
which he risked it. At all events the boys felt that Frank was keenly
convinced of his position, and as he was always careful about his
conclusions, they were inclined to agree with him.


(IX)

In this frame of mind the chums parted. The others went directly home.
Frank made some excuse for loitering and as soon as they were gone, took
his way in the direction of the hospital. It was fully ten o'clock, and
the hospital was nearly a mile off. He had to walk, but by a combination
of brisk walking and occasional sprints, he got to the place in short
time.

Everything was quiet about the immense building. In the main vestibule
Frank found a matter-of-fact, middle-aged man standing behind a desk,
over which was a sign--"Bureau of Information." Several people were
seated on a long bench nearby, waiting to be conducted to friends or
relatives who were patients, or to get word of their condition.

Frank approached the desk timidly, and said to the clerk, "May I ask,
sir, how William Daly is?"

At the words 'William Daly,' there was a scream and a flutter from the
bench, and in a moment a woman stood before Frank and put her arms about
him, crying as she did so, "Do you know my Willie? Are you one of Father
Boone's boys?" Without waiting for an answer, she went on, with sobs and
exclamations, to give a fond mother's estimate of the best boy in the
world.

As Mrs. Daly told of her Willie's affection for her, she broke down
completely. The clerk summoned a nurse. Mrs. Daly was taken into a side
room, and under the firm but kind management of the nurse, she soon
calmed down. Frank, although so tender-hearted, was not an expert at
giving sympathy. Indeed, it was good that he was not, for in Mrs. Daly's
hysterical condition, sympathy would have made her worse. The excitement
was hardly over when word came from the office that William had regained
consciousness, and that he was out of danger. The messenger also added
that he was sleeping quietly, and that it was not advisable to disturb
him now, but that his mother would be welcome to see him in the morning.

Mrs. Daly turned to Frank. "You are one of Willie's friends?"

Frank reflected on the fight and the contemptuous terms that Bill had
used toward him, but he also remembered their final talk, and so replied
without hesitation, "Yes, Mrs. Daly."

"Oh, he was the good boy to his mother! And it's a hard time of it he's
had, with no one knowing how much the poor boy went through to help his
mother. O Blessed Mother of God, help him from your place in heaven!"

Frank was affected by the emotion which was again overcoming the fond
mother, but he said as calmly as he could, "Don't you think we had
better go home now, Mrs. Daly?"

"No, I can't go home and him up there," she replied.

"But you can't stay here all night," objected Frank. "Come home with me
now. That's what Bill would want if he had the say."

"Is that what you call him--Bill?"

"O, for short you know, Mrs. Daly. Boys always take short cuts."

"I never called him anything but Willie," she sighed and started to cry
again.

"Won't you come home now?" Frank asked tenderly.

"I've got no heart to go anywhere while he is up there," she again
declared.

Frank now realized that things were getting serious. His own mother
would be anxious about him, and the hospital bench was not a place for
Mrs. Daly to spend the night. He tried all his persuasive powers, to no
effect.

While he was in this state of anxiety, he heard a voice at the desk ask,
"Is William Daly doing nicely? Has he regained consciousness yet?"
Looking up, Frank, to his great joy, saw Father Boone. At the same
instant, hearing a sob and looking in its direction, the priest
perceived Mrs. Daly and Frank. He stepped over to where they were.

"Good gracious, my dear woman," he exclaimed, "this is no place for you
at this hour. And you, Frank? I must say I am glad to see you here, but
we must all go home now. Wait for me a minute. I'll just run upstairs
and see William." As a priest, he had access to the wards at any hour of
the day or night. It occurred to him that the patient might be conscious
by that time, and he decided to see him and hear his confession if
possible. He was conducted to Daly's bed, and saw that he was sleeping
soundly. He knew that sleep was the best medicine; so he left the
patient, after giving him his blessing.

"He is sleeping like a baby, Mrs. Daly," was the way he saluted the
mother, as he drew near. Then, waiting for neither _yes_ nor _no_, he
took it for granted that they were all going home. Under his dominant
and kindly manner, Mrs. Daly was like a child. Father Boone called a cab
and gave the driver the order to take both Mrs. Daly and Frank to their
homes. He put a bill in Frank's hand to pay the fares, and without
waiting for thanks or protestations, closed the taxi door, and walked
briskly homeward.

Father Boone felt, after the crowded events and impressions of the day,
that he needed the walk back to the rectory to clear his head. "I was
right," he declared to himself, "Mulvy is all gold. The consideration of
that boy! I've gone wrong somewhere! Frank's too tender-hearted to cause
me pain, deliberately, and he is too brave to shirk responsibility--to
fail in the discharge of his duty. Deductions do not avail against known
characteristics. A boy of Mulvy's character doesn't do a cowardly thing.
I know that--evidence or no evidence. And yet--that plagued mystery
keeps staring me in the face! If they had told me they'd had a
free-for-all! I can make allowances. I know boys. Here it's nearly a
week, and not one word in regard to the affair. And they know I am all
cut up over it.

"What's up anyway? Why didn't I send for Mulvy after the first day and
demand a report or explanation? Pride, I suppose; hurt, at their lack
of confidence in me. Well, the only thing is to get down from my high
horse now. I've got to begin with myself.

"And yet," his thoughts swung around, "I don't know as it is pride
exactly. There's the fitness of things--just indignation. Our Lord
himself had to show it to the Scribes and Pharisees. I want those boys
to know they're not acting right. That's my real motive." He sighed
deeply. "Here I am again between post and pillar. I don't know what to
do. I want to take the stand that will be of true benefit to the boys,
not merely now but later."

So reflecting, he reached the rectory. A few minutes later, the light in
his room was out and he had finished a busy and painful day.

Meanwhile, Frank saw Mrs. Daly home, and in a little while he was
dismissing the chauffeur at his own door. Quickly he ran up the steps of
his apartment house and in a moment had climbed the three flights of
stairs. Everybody was in bed but his mother. Her first words were, "O my
boy, what has happened to you? I was alarmed at your staying out so
late."

Frank felt he should at least give some account of himself at once. In
the most matter of fact way, he narrated the evening's events. But his
mother discerned his generous heart beneath his words, and she was proud
of him--so brave and so tender. And especially was she glad that Father
Boone had found Frank at the hospital with Mrs. Daly. She knew how that
would affect the misunderstanding, and she was more than satisfied with
the turn of affairs when Frank finished his recital by saying, "I tell
you, mother, Father Boone is a brick." Then, as he feared that this did
not convey a great deal of meaning to her, he added, "He is 'some' man."

"And somebody is 'some' boy," echoed his mother, kissing him good-night.

Frank went to his room, said his prayers and jumped into bed. "I'll
sleep until noon," he muttered, as he got under the covers. He closed
his eyes, but although he was dead tired, he could not sleep. Indeed, it
seemed he was more wide awake than at midday. The clock struck twelve,
and still his mind was all activity.

He saw himself chatting with Daly--heard the fire-clang--saw Bill run
up the ladder--beheld him waver, totter and fall--saw his limp body in
the net--heard the afflicted mother speak of her Willie--her good boy
Willie, whom the boys called "Bull". And then there was Father Boone,
always in the right place, and doing the proper thing, cool, firm, kind,
commanding. And this was the man he was on the outs with. Was it more
likely that a boy like himself would be wrong or Father Boone?

"I'm a boob," he accused himself. "I should have gone to him at the
start. Even if he were cross--most likely he'd heard there was a row,
and I was in it. Then, of course, he'd feel hurt that I hadn't shown him
more confidence. But great guns! I did go up to make a clean breast of
it, and got 'cold feet'. But that's not his fault. That's how the whole
blame thing began. Gosh, I wish I had some of Bill Daly's sand!"

He had begun to feel a little drowsy. The clock struck one and he was
murmuring "a little . . . of . . . Bill . . . Daly's . . . 'sand' . . .
Bill . . . Daly's . . . sand . . . sand . . . . sand . . . . . . .
sand!" And off he fell into the land of nod.




Chapter III

Comrades


It was full daylight when Bill Daly opened his eyes the next morning. On
all sides of him were beds. Nurses and doctors were walking noiselessly
up and down the ward. He did not know what to make of it. He had never
been in a hospital before, even as a visitor. He had to make an effort
to collect his thoughts.

O yes! the fire. That shaky ladder. The woman and the child at the
window crying for help. His quick ascent up the ladder. The
adjustment--a sudden sensation of dizziness--and then! Yes, he must have
fallen.

Just then he moved his arm a bit, and a moan issued from his distorted
mouth. He knew now--who he was and what had happened. He changed the
position of his head and a groan escaped him. He moved his body ever so
little, and pain shot all through it. "Oh, Oh, Oh," he groaned. After
that, for a moment, he lay as quiet as possible. "O, I'm a girl, all
right," he told himself. "What am I groaning about? I'll bet Mulvy would
take his medicine. That's 'some' boy, Mulvy. Never grunted once, and I
hit him all over. O for a little of his 'sand.'"

Just then he moved his arm again, and another moan escaped him. A nurse,
passing by, heard him.

"That's all right, little man," she said, "it's painful, but no broken
bones; you'll be on your feet soon." Bill shut his jaw tight. His
suffering recalled to his mind a story one of the Sisters had told the
class a few years previously, of a little boy led into the Roman
Amphitheatre to be tortured for the Faith. They made him hold burning
coals in his hands and told him that if he dropped them he was giving
incense to the idols. He held the coals until they burned right through
his hand. A martyr. His picture was hanging on the wall of the class
room. An angel was placing a crown on his head and he looked--happy!

"I've been a pretty tough nut," Bill soliloquized, "guess this is my
punishment. That martyr kid didn't do any harm. I've done a lot. The
fellows aren't a bad set. They gave me a pretty good show. They didn't
butt in on the fight. What grit that Mulvy has! I'd have given up, if he
was on top--but not him! Gee--the way he just squirmed from under, and
started in, as if only beginning. No wonder he plays football! A
fellow's eyes tell you when you can't lick him. And cool as a cucumber!
And then--'Let's shake!' 'Some boy' that Mulvy kid! And what a cur I was
to go and smash things the way I did! And spoil the fellows having the
McCormack treat. I'm pretty 'yellow'. And then Father Boone comes over
and straightens things out and puts Dad on his feet!

"Well, I'm through with the roughneck stuff. Pretty painful--but you
don't catch me groaning again. I'll 'offer it up', like Sister said, for
the love of God, to atone for my sins. I've got the sins all right. So
here goes for the 'offer up' part. No more grunts, Bill Daly."

He had hardly finished his resolve to bear his pain patiently and
without murmur, as an offering to God, when the doctor and nurse
approached his bed.

"Well, sonny," began the doctor, "you did quite a circus stunt, I'm
told."

Bill grinned for reply, as the doctor proceeded to examine him. It was
necessary to press and probe and lift and handle him generally. Every
pressure and every slightest movement caused him exquisite pain. But not
a murmur escaped him. Once or twice there was an "Oh!" in spite of his
best efforts, but not a complaint nor a whimper. Doctor and nurse were
surprised. Finally, the doctor said, "Son, either you are not much hurt
or you are the pluckiest lad I've ever examined."

"I don't know about the pluck, doctor," he replied, "but I do know that
if I were hurt much more, it would be all over with me."

He had hardly finished the words when he fainted. When he came to, the
doctor said, "Boy, nothing but dynamite can kill you, and I want to tell
you that your name is pluck." They left him for a few minutes and when
the nurse returned, she remarked: "You are not seriously injured, but
you will be pretty sore for some days, and I want to tell you, you are a
little hero."

When she was gone, Bill mused: "I wonder what she'd say to the 'little
hero,' if she saw that damaged room and knew it was spite? I'm getting
mine. I'll cut out the 'hero' stuff, for a while anyway."

About an hour later, as he was lying quietly on his back, he was
delighted to see his mother coming towards him. The sudden movement he
made, hurt him dreadfully but he quickly mastered himself, and gave no
indication whatever of the pain he experienced. The nurse had given the
mother strict orders not to touch him but, when she saw her Willie there
before her, the great love she bore him made her forget everything. She
threw her arms about him and before he could say a word, had given him a
hug and a hearty kiss. It was almost as bad as the doctor's examination.
Willie writhed in pain, but he uttered no complaint.

"O my dear, dear boy," exclaimed Mrs. Daly, seeing his efforts at
suppressing the pain. "The nurse told me not to touch you, and here I've
almost squeezed the life out of you, and made you suffer in every part
of your body."

His suffering was so intense that it was some minutes before Bill could
reply to her. At length he said, "O mother, I'm so glad to see you. It
seems so long since I left the house yesterday and, mother, life seems
so different."

This exhausted him. He just lay still, his mother's hand on his
forehead, and her eyes looking into his. In his weakened state, tears
soon gathered, not of pain, but of gratefulness, of emotion from a high
resolve to bury the old Bill Daly and to live anew.

By degrees they began to talk. She told him of the night before, and the
meeting with the boy at the office below, and his kindness to her. Bill
was all interest. She could not recall the boy's name and she was a poor
hand at description. Bill mentioned a number of his corner chums. The
Club boys did not even enter his head. "Think hard, mother, and see if
you can't get it. I want to know. I didn't think anyone cared so much
for me."

"O yes, now I remember," she replied, "When Father Boone came in he
called him Frank."

That was too much for Bill. He thought of a thousand things all at once.
His mother, only half understanding, continued: "He was one of the
nicest boys I ever saw. When we got to our house, he took me by the hand
and says, 'Don't worry, Mrs. Daly. You've got one of the finest boys in
the world, and he'll be home with you soon,' and his voice as kind and
as tender as a woman's, God bless him!"

Bill was still thinking. This was the boy he had provoked to fight, the
one who had had to take the brunt of the director's anger! Mrs. Daly was
rambling on when Bill looked up and asked her if Father Boone had been
around.

She was not a little surprised. "Didn't you know about him, dear?" she
inquired. Then she proceeded to tell everything in detail, from the time
that Father Boone brought her the news until he closed the taxi door and
sent her home with Frank. The narration seemed to Bill like a story from
a book. He had the illusion, again, of not being a party to the events
at all, but just a spectator. Then the thought of his ingratitude came
back full force. The kindly and tactful deeds of Father Boone bored into
his soul like a red hot iron. What an ingrate he was. Hero! indeed. Such
a hero!

While he was thus reflecting, the nurse came over and informed his
mother that it was time to go now, as the doctors would be in soon.
Reluctantly she bade good-bye to her boy. Wiser by experience, she did
not embrace him, but just bent low and kissed him gently on the
forehead.


(II)

The doctors made their usual round of the ward, and when they came to
Daly, the physician who had dressed his bruises the night before
remarked, "Here's the hero kid." The head doctor looked at him kindly.
"Well, little man," he said, "the next time you go to a fire, send us
word so we can see you perform." They all laughed at this, and Bill
smiled. After the examination, the doctor assured him, "Nothing the
matter, my boy. You're sound as a dollar, just a little shaken up and
bruised; and you'll be out in a few days."

When Mrs. Daly came in again about four o'clock in the afternoon, she
was over-joyed to hear the good report of her son's condition. She saw
now, however, that he was very serious. Indeed, it had been the most
serious day of his life.

All day long Bill had been reflecting on what his mother had told him of
Father Boone and of Frank. He had begun to realize that he had something
to do besides being grateful to them both. There was a duty to perform.
It had been hard to go to the Club when he intended to tell them about
the breakage. And now it seemed ten times harder. How could he do it?
After all the goodness shown him, to be obliged to admit that he was a
thug. The thought had tortured him all the day. It was still racking his
mind when his mother came in.

If only Father Boone would come around, he reflected. It would be easier
to make a clean breast of it to him. He would understand. Father Boone
seemed to understand everything. He'd see, too, that the Bill who had
done the rough stuff was changed. He'd know without a lot of explaining,
how some things hurt more than pain. The thing to do was to tell Father
Boone and let it all rest with him.

That was Bill's conclusion and his resolve. He did not dare tell his
mother. He wondered how much the boys knew. His mother, sitting
admiringly at his side, told him one piece of news which pleased him
greatly. Father Boone had got his father a good job and he had started
in right away. That was why he was not down with her to see him. But he
would be around in the evening. While she was telling this, Bill
interrupted her.

"O mother, see," he whispered, indicating two nuns who were coming
toward them, "and one of them is Sister Mary Thomas."

They were Sisters from the school which Daly had attended before he went
to work, and they greeted the mother and her boy sympathetically. After
a bit, Mrs. Daly recalled that her husband returning from work would be
waiting for his dinner, and she hurried away. The Sisters stayed for
some time, giving Bill that comfort which they alone can impart. Before
going Sister Mary Thomas placed a crucifix and a pair of beads in his
hands. "He suffered for you, William," she said, "and you must also
suffer for Him--now especially."

He watched them going out, as he might gaze on departing angels. Then
his eyes were turned toward the crucifix. "He suffered in mind as well
as body for me," he mused. For Bill was remembering many things now,
which he had not recalled since the Sisters had taught them to him in
his school days. Calvary had a meaning for him now--an atonement for sin
and a restoration to goodness. "Some job--to tell on myself," he sighed,
"but I'll show the Lord that I mean business."

About seven o'clock in came Frank. Bill was both glad, and not glad, to
see him. Everything Frank did for him only made matters harder for Bill.
And yet he wanted that boy near him. Bill recognized the combination of
strength and goodness in Frank. Indeed, one reason for the fight, had
been his envy of Mulvy. But Bill's disposition had undergone a change.
After what his mother had told him Frank appeared as a boy of nobler
mould than the rest.

Frank began with an offhand, "Well, how goes it, old man?"

"Fine," answered Bill.

"You're all right, Bill. Your stock is pretty high now at the Club."

But Bill was thinking of other things than compliments, and after a
moment's silence, Frank decided that the patient was suffering a good
deal, and that he'd better go.

"No, don't go yet, Mulvy," Bill begged, "stay with a fellow a little
while."

"Why, you are crying, old man," said Frank, as he looked into his face,
"you must be suffering terribly. It takes a lot of pain to make you
cry."

"It's not pain," he whispered. "It's something worse."

"O, I know, old fellow. You're thinking about your father and mother.
But you're not seriously hurt, the nurse told me. Father Boone has been
around to see your folks, and he has made them feel all right."

"It's something worse than that," answered Daly. "If I told you, you'd
cut me dead, and so would the other fellows."

"Come now, old chap, you are not yourself. You've nothing to worry over.
You're a guy that's got sand."

This had a reassuring effect on Bill. A doctor or a nurse might
compliment him, but what do they know? But when a boy tells you you have
"sand," that's different!

Frank was soon relating to him the fall into the net--the first account
Daly had heard of it. Frank went on to tell about the ambulance and
Father Boone, and the priest's visit to his parents, and again how the
priest came late at night and went up to see him, his kind words to his
mother, and finally his sending her home in the taxi. It all seemed like
a movie to Daly.

For some time he lay perfectly quiet. Then, although it cost him a deal
of pain, he reached for Frank's hand and grasped it firmly. Their eyes
met. Bill felt a great yearning to tell Frank everything. He had fully
determined to tell only Father Boone. Even that would be hard. But now
he really wanted to tell Frank. It would be such a relief!

While they were still grasping hands, he began, pausing after each
sentence and speaking with an effort:

"Mulvy, I'm a cur . . . don't stop me . . . I'm worse . . . Let me go on
. . . please . . . I've got to get this off my mind or bust . . . I'm
bad, clean through, but from now on, never again . . . You've got a good
home. . . . You don't know what mine was . . . drunkenness, fights and
the like . . . I've lived in the streets . . . nothing but roughnecks
. . . became the worst of the lot . . . My Dad was sent to jail . . . Ma
and me were in a bad way . . . no money for rent or food . . . Somehow
Father Boone turned up . . . helped us out . . . Then he got me a job
. . . After that he put me in the Club . . . I didn't fit there . . .
You know that . . . Something you don't know . . . I hated the bunch
because they were decent . . . picked a fight with you . . . You licked
me . . . yes you did . . . I had to clear out . . . But I was yellow and
a thug . . . I fought underhand against you all . . . I did the meanest
thing out."

At this point Frank tried to remonstrate with him, but at the same time
he was keenly interested in what was coming.

"I hated the whole bunch and Father Boone and everybody. So when the
crowd left, I sneaked back and broke a lot of chairs, overturned tables,
tore down pictures, threw over the victrola, spilled ink on the floor. I
knew it'd queer the crowd with Father Boone and spoil the McCormack
treat. I got square . . . but . . . well, someone else has got square
too. There are different kinds of pain, and my worst now is not my
injuries."

There was a moment's silence. Frank was too much amazed to say a word.
Bill continued: "I'm taking my medicine. If I'm not the right sort the
rest of my life, I hope to be cut and quartered. Look at Father Boone
right afterwards helping my Dad . . . He'n' I had a terrible scrap. We'd
have killed each other only for mother. Then she got Father Boone to
come over. I don't know what he did--but--well, it was all different
when I got back. Dad put out his hand to me. We knelt down. Said the
'Hail Holy Queen.' Father took the pledge. I felt like a whipped cur,
all next day. I saw I'd have to square myself at any cost. That's why I
came to the Club. You know the rest."

Here he paused, heaved a sigh, and exclaimed, "O God, what a relief."

Frank's feelings can be imagined. Here was the key to the mystery, and
Father Boone justified. Apparently he had known all about the wreck--and
it was natural to suppose that it was the work of a crowd. What a
surprise to the director to see that damaged room! And worse--no
explanation. It was all clear to Frank now. The fog was lifted. The
missing parts of the picture fitted into place. But what of Father
Boone?

After a brief silence, which seemed to both a very long while, Frank
gave an extra squeeze to Daly's hand and said, "It's all right, Bill,
we'll stand together. You can count on me to the limit."

The look of gratitude in Daly's face told Frank that there was now a
special bond between them.

"You have told me so much, old man," he said, "that I suppose you won't
mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"All you want," replied Daly.

"Well, first of all, does Father Boone know anything about the affair?"

"Not as far as I know. I was intending to tell him that night of the
fire, but you saw how it turned out. First I was going to tell the
fellows, and then see Father Boone and squeal on myself to him."

"Daly--that was a dirty job . . . but it's past and done. You're no
longer yellow. Only one in a million would come back as you're doing.
We're chums, Bill Daly, through thick and thin."

"I like you for that, Mulvy, and I hope you'll never regret it. Here's
something," he continued, timidly showing the crucifix in his other
hand. "I've promised Him, never a crooked thing again,--and a promise to
Him means no going back." They joined hands--and hearts. They were
comrades now. With a look which showed that the past was buried, Frank
tenderly said,

"How's the pain, old man?"

"Well, since I've told you so much, I'll tell you a little more. It's
something awful. I'm not doing any baby stunts,--but--just the same I've
got an awful dose. While on the broad of my back, thinking, and in pain,
I remembered that martyr boy the Sister told us about, who held the
burning coals in his hands, and I said to myself, 'Bill Daly, that kid
didn't have your score, but see what he endured for God.' And that's
when I promised. I just told Him I deserved it all, I'd take it for
penance, and I promised to cut out the cry-baby stuff."

"Daly, you're a brick."

To which Bill rejoined, "And Mulvy, you're all gold--twenty-two carat."

"You'll get over that, Daly," replied Frank. "I must be going now. Mum
is the word. What you've told me, is the same as not said. I'll not
breathe it to a living soul."

A tempest raged in Frank's soul. His was a magnanimous character, and it
pained him to think that circumstances should have framed for Father
Boone, such a strong case against him. The director had placed absolute
confidence in him. No wonder he showed such indignation. "And wasn't it
just like Father Boone--to turn in a half dozen men and fix things up at
once, and then wait for developments as if nothing had happened!"

Frank made his way toward the Club. "If I can get hold of the janitor,"
he thought, "I can find out all I want to know." He turned off to the
street where the janitor lived, and soon found his man.

"Good evening, Mr. Dunn," he began.

"Good evening, sir."

In an apparently indifferent manner, Frank led up to his objective. But
old Dunn suspected something right from the start. It is true that
Father Boone had not imposed silence in regard to the mischief at the
Club, but the janitor was a sensible and loyal man, and he judged that
if Father Boone wanted anything to be said about the affair, he would
say it himself. The indifference that Dunn displayed whenever Frank
tried to lead up to the point, was amazing. The boy finally gave up the
flank attack and tried the front.

"Mr. Dunn, that was quite a bit of damage we had over there the other
day, wasn't it?"

"Quite a bit," said Dunn, "but I guess Daly was not hurt as badly as we
thought at first."

"Oh, I don't refer to the fire, but to the Club," observed Frank.

"There was no fire at the Club, as far as I know," remarked Dunn.

"No, but there was a whole lot of breakage over there, and you know all
about it. Now, how in the name of Sam Hill did they fix things up by the
time we got there in the evening?"

"Young man, if you want to know anything about the Club, I think you'll
find Father Boone in his office at his usual hours. And now good night!"

"By gum," muttered Frank, "the old snoozer's no fool. I'll bet if he had
an education, he'd be on top somewhere."

Meanwhile, Father Boone was in the Club office attending to the little
matters that came up daily. He was poring over a letter which had come
in the afternoon mail. It was written on exceptionally fine paper, and
was signed "James Roberts." The director indulged in a moment's
speculation. "Roberts, Roberts," he reflected. "New name to me. I wonder
what he wants. I hope it's not a complaint," he sighed, as he turned
back to the first page.

          "Reverend Sir:

          I trust you will pardon my addressing you without
          knowing your name. I am sending this letter to the
          head of the Boys' Club, as that is as definite as
          I can be for the moment. Later, I hope to call on
          you personally.

          I have just returned from Cuba and found my family
          in the Hotel Plaza instead of at their home, where
          I left them. They have informed me of what you
          already know better than myself. It was my house
          that was on fire, and my wife and daughter
          attribute the saving of their lives to a boy of
          your Club, who hitched up the detached ladder, and
          in doing so, met with such a dreadful accident.

          I've been home for only an hour, but my first
          duty, I consider, is to convey to you my gratitude
          and to inquire what I can do for the boy. If you
          will let me know where he is, I shall have a
          trained nurse sent to care for him, and I shall
          consider it my privilege to do anything else that
          is possible.

          I await your reply.

                                    Gratefully,
                                          James D. Roberts."

Father Boone never allowed his correspondence to accumulate. Every
evening saw his desk cleared. No letter that called for a reply was left
over for the next day, if he could possibly help it. He answered this
letter even before he read the rest which were on the table before him.

          "My dear Mr. Roberts:

          I want to thank you for your letter. The boy is
          out of danger, and is getting the best of care at
          the Lawrence Hospital. I shall let him know of
          your kind inquiry, and of your wish to be of
          assistance to him.

          With kindest regards,

                                 Sincerely,
                                    Jerome Boone, S.J."

"A good man to interest in Willie's family," he reflected, as he
addressed the letter.

Father Boone was always planning how he could help people. Every time he
made the acquaintance of anyone in a position of authority or influence,
he seized the opportunity to remark:

"If you ever need a good bright boy, let me know, and I shall send you
one with whom you will be satisfied."

In this way, he got many a boy placed in a good position. Often, too, he
got jobs for their fathers. He was always so careful to recommend only
the right sort, that a word from Father Boone was the best
recommendation a man or boy could have in getting work.

Just as he finished his letter to Mr. Roberts, he heard a knock at his
door, and a moment later, a bright little chap of about thirteen
presented himself.

"Good evening, Vincent," said the priest. "What can I do for you?"

"Please, Father," began the lad, "my father is home from work three
weeks now with rheumatism, and mother says would you give me a line to
some place downtown to get a job?"

"Well, my little man, have you got your working papers?"

"Yes, Father, my mother went with me to the City Hall this morning and
got them."

"It's too bad, Vinc., that a bright boy like you must give up school so
soon. But I suppose your mother wouldn't do this unless she had to. I'll
get you a place, and then we must see about your keeping up your studies
at night school." He wrote a line or two, and addressing the envelope,
gave it to the boy.

"Now, Vincent, I am sorry to do this, but you just make the best of it.
I'm sending you to a very nice place with a good chance for advancement.
The pay is not much, but you're only thirteen, and it's a fine start.
Now that you are starting out, mark well what I say: Make yourself so
useful that when there is a vacancy higher up, you will be the first boy
they'll think about. And what you do, do pleasantly. Good-bye and God
bless you. And," he added, as Vincent was going out the door, "let me
know from time to time how you are doing."

The boy had gone but a few steps when, with a jerk, he wheeled round and
returned. "O Father, excuse me," he faltered, "I forgot to thank you."

"That's all right," said the priest. "The best way to thank me will be
to let me hear a good report of you."

The priest's next thought was, "I must run down to the hospital, and see
Willie. But he does not worry me so much just now as Frank does. I can't
make out his conduct in regard to this Club mix-up. He is certainly an
honorable boy and most considerate, and yet he has left me in the dark
all this time. He knows that 'committees' are not my way of doing
business. After last night, I'd like to drop the whole matter. But it is
not an affair of sentiment. I must see it through for his sake, and for
the sake of the rest also. If nothing develops before tomorrow night,
I'll take the initiative myself. I hate that, and I'd much rather they'd
do the right thing of their own accord. But,--" he shut down his desk,
put on his hat and coat, and started for the hospital.

Frank, at the same time, was on his way from Dunn's to the Club. Once
more he was going straight to the director,--to tell him now, that there
must be a misunderstanding, and that he was sorry to see him grieved.
He saw the director's point of view--of course he couldn't explain--but
perhaps Father Boone would understand that he wasn't really slipping so
badly.

He was walking pretty fast, with his head down, his chin buried in his
coat collar, and his hands deep in his pockets. Buried in his thoughts,
he did not see Father Boone approaching on his way to the hospital. The
priest was almost on top of him before he was aware of his presence.
Looking up suddenly he tipped his hat and stammered--"Good evening,
Father."

"Good evening, sir," answered the priest and hurried on.

Frank stopped. He was dumfounded. "Good evening, _sir_! _Sir_, is it? So
it's '_sir_' now? Good evening, _sir_." He kept on repeating the phrase,
indignation following his astonishment. He knew where the priest was
going, and realized that the interview with him could not be held that
evening. Another day of torture stood before him. He was about to give
free rein to his feeling of injustice when he recollected again that the
priest with the data he possessed was perfectly right in his attitude.
So, instead of going to the Club, he turned aside and went into the
church. It was always open from five in the morning until ten at night.
Going up to the altar of the Sacred Heart, he knelt down and prayed.

Long and earnestly he poured out his soul to God, ending with the words,
"Accept, O Sacred Heart of Jesus, my sad heart as a sacrifice and bless
my father and mother and Bill Daly and Father Boone."

So saying, he arose light-hearted and made his way into the street. He
actually began to whistle, and when a boy whistles, he is all right with
the world. He did not mind now how misunderstood he might be. It was no
longer a load of lead that weighed him down. Rather, his sorrow had
turned to gold. It was something that God esteemed. He had been able to
give God something acceptable to Him, because it had cost him a good
deal. That made him happy.

Father Boone was on his way to the hospital when he had met Frank so
abruptly. For an instant he too had held his breath. Then as he hurried
on, he could not but wonder whether Frank's chin in collar, hands deep
in pockets attitude, had meant that he was trying to slink past.
Certainly his greeting had been sudden and disturbed. "Well," declared
the priest to himself, "I'll settle this whole thing tomorrow. It's gone
on long enough."

Father Boone entered the hospital and ascending the stairway leading to
the office, found himself before the Bureau of Information.

"How is that little fire hero?" he asked of the clerk.

"I'll 'phone up and see," was the reply.

"O, don't mind, I am going right up. I just asked because I thought you
had news of him here."

"It's only the serious patients whose condition we have here, Father,"
answered the clerk.

"In that case," remarked the priest, "at least he is not seriously ill;
that is some news anyway."

There was a sign on the door of the ward saying: "_Closed_, doctors
visiting." He knew that this did not apply to him, as he was allowed
entrance any hour of the day or night. Still, as it was not an urgent
case, he decided to wait until the doctors came out. The nurse at the
desk offered him her chair, which he declined with thanks.

"But, if you don't mind," he said, "I'll sit on the edge of this table."

"Certainly, Father," she replied, "until I run and get you a chair."

"No, no," he protested, "I like this much better."

So the ice was broken.

"You have got one of my little fellows inside," he continued. "How is he
getting along?"

"You mean that Daly boy?"

He nodded assent.

"Why, we are all in love with him. He is one grand boy. This morning the
doctor had to remove some loose skin from his arm, and he found that he
would have to do a little cutting of the flesh to get at some of the
skin which had become imbedded. The boy heard him say to me, 'It will
hurt him like the mischief.' The lad spoke up, 'Go ahead, Doc. If you
can stand it, I guess I can.'

"The doctor didn't want to use cocaine on it, so he took the boy at his
word. It was simply terrific, Father! We had to pull the skin out with
pincers. He just tightened his jaws, and never let out a moan. That boy
is a credit to you. He has always taken just what was given him and has
been no trouble to anybody."

As Father Boone was getting ready to reply, the doctors passed into the
next ward.

The priest went in at once to see his patient. Daly's eyes, as big as
saucers, greeted him.

"Well, that was a nice scare you gave us all, you little rascal," was
the priest's greeting. All Bill could do was grin. "They tell me there
is nothing the matter with you, that you are just a bit frightened."

"O, I don't know about the frightened part," rejoined Daly, "I guess
there was somebody else in that boat, as well as myself."

"My boy, I want to congratulate you. Not on your ladder stunt, anyone
could do that, and not fall off, either; but on your fortitude here.
True, there are no bones broken or anything like that, but you've had a
lot of acute pain to endure, and they tell me you have not whimpered.
You have given the Club a good name here. William, I am proud of you."

Poor Bill! All day long he had been fortifying his resolution to tell
Father Boone everything. But after this praise from the priest, he could
no more touch on the affair than fly. Two or three times he made an
attempt to begin, but the words stuck in his throat. They talked on a
lot of things, but after that first allusion to the Club, there did not
seem to be another opening for Bill. At last, however, he made one great
effort.

"Father," he cried out, "there is something on my mind, I must let it
out! It's got me all on fire inside. I'll burn up unless I out with it."

Father Boone could see his excitement and knowing that the boy was in an
overwrought condition, which must not be made worse, took him quietly by
the hand, patted his head and said, "Now that's all right, Willie. Don't
take things to heart so much; we'll have a good talk when you are
yourself again." He saw Bill look steadily into his eyes and swallow
once or twice, but he did not understand that the words of an accusation
were sticking in the boy's throat and blocking his speech. So thinking
that the lad had need of rest and quiet, he spoke a few kindly words and
withdrew.

Daly felt like calling after him, but before he could make up his mind,
Father Boone had gone. Usually, the priest did not leave a bedside
without suggesting confession, if the patient were at all seriously ill.
Even if the illness were slight, he frequently took occasion of it to
reconcile the sick person with God, and to bring into the soul that
comfort which goes so far to restore health to the body, besides
bringing solace and healing to the mind. But as director of the Club, he
felt a special delicacy in suggesting confession to one of his boys, and
since, just now, Bill had seemed bordering on hysteria, the priest
believed that a little reassurance was the proper thing.

"The poor boy got a worse shaking up than he is aware of," he thought,
"but it will pass off soon. I shall see him tomorrow, and arrange to
bring him Holy Communion. The dear Lord will do the rest." So he
hastened home.

Daly, meanwhile, had quieted down somewhat. But reflections came thick
and fast. "Father Boone congratulated me, did he? If he only knew what
he was congratulating! Yes, I'm a brave boy! Couldn't open my mouth.
Mulvy would act that way,--not! I wish I had a little of his 'sand.'
Gee, next time I've got to get it out--even if it chokes me!"

He turned over and tried to sleep. The lights were low in the ward now,
and a great quiet reigned. But sleep would not come. He began by
counting sheep going through a gate. One, two, three--he got up to a
hundred, and there before his eyes was a big black sheep stuck in the
gate. "That's me," he uttered, and stopped the count. Then he tried
going up a very high stairs, counting the steps one by one. At last he
got to the top and looking about he saw a room, in disorder. Broken
chairs, upset tables, pictures on the floor, and a boy spilling ink.
"That's me," he sighed. Then he rehearsed all that his mother and Frank
had told him of Father Boone's kindness. He saw the ambulance rushing
along and the priest watching tenderly over an unconscious form. "That's
me," he thought to himself.

He began to feel very thirsty. "I wish I had a drink," he sighed. An
hour passed, two, three. He heard the clock strike twelve. A nurse was
passing. He called to her and asked her for a drink of water. She drew
near to him, observed his dry hot face and glistening eyes. His tongue
was parched and thick. She felt his pulse. Then she took out a
thermometer and put it in his mouth. He submitted patiently to it all,
but when the thermometer was withdrawn, he said beseechingly, "Please
give me a drink."

The nurse assured him that she would attend to him and left his side.
Going to her desk in the corridor, she called the house surgeon. "I
think, doctor," she told him over the phone, "you'd better come up. That
Daly boy has quite a temperature." The doctor was soon in consultation
with her, and together they went to the patient. After a careful
inspection, they withdrew.

"Typhoid," exclaimed the doctor.

"I was afraid so," she replied.




Chapter IV

The Field of Honor


The next morning Father Boone, in his office, at the Club, sent for
Thomas Dunn. When the janitor came, the priest said, "It is several days
now since that room was upset. I expected the boys to report it at once.
But not even the officials have said a word to me yet. I know I could
find out about it if I wished to quiz them, but I don't want to do that.
It may have been some sort of a mix-up in which the fellows all feel
that to say a word about it would be mean. They may not take the serious
view of it that I do. So now I am going to start in, in my own way, to
get at the bottom of it. And I begin with you. Have you observed
anything that would give me a clue?"

"Well no, I can't say that I have," replied Dunn. "The lads have been
unusually well behaved since that night."

"Very well, but if you should come across anything that will throw light
on the mystery, let me know."

Dunn turned to go, but suddenly recollected something. "I don't know
whether it's much of a clue, Father, or if it's worth while mentioning,
but one of the boys was over to my house last night seeming to want me
to talk on the matter."

"Why, that's a straw that shows how the wind blows. Who was the boy?"

"Well, you know, Father, I don't know the boys much by name. But as he
was going out I called my boy Harry and I says to him, 'Harry, who is
that chap, do you know'?

"'Yes, Pa,' he says, and he gave me his name, but I forget it. I'll have
to ask Harry, if you like, and let you know this evening."

"Very well, Thomas, do so."

Dunn left, and was half way downstairs when he turned back again.
"Pardon me, Father, but I think I've got the name or near it. Harry said
the boy was Murray, but I'm not quite sure, but it was Murray, or
Murphy, or Mulvy or some such name."

At the name Mulvy, an electric spark seemed to pass through the
director. Dunn did not notice it, as he went out at once. He caught the
words "Thank you, Thomas," as he was leaving the room, and that was all.

But Father Boone! This was adding insult to injury! So Mulvy did know
something about it! And instead of coming to the director, he had gone
over to the janitor! A nice way for a trusted and honorable boy to act!

Father Boone had been trying all along to convince himself that somehow
Mulvy would come out of it clear and clean. He had thought of a thousand
excuses for the delay--questions of divided allegiance or some point or
other of honor and so on. But Mulvy's going to the janitor to get
information looked like an underhand mission, certainly. What for?--To
find out what the director knew, or how he had taken it--or to arrange
some explanation?

All these questions shot through his mind with the rapidity of
lightning. None of them carried its own answer. All of them seemed out
of harmony with what he knew of Mulvy. And yet, there were the facts.


(II)

The parochial school was around the corner from the church and club and
it was at this very hour that the department of which young Harry Dunn
was a member had been turned loose in the play yard for recess. A game
of tag was soon on, and Dunn, dodging in and out, ran right into Ned
Mullen. The collision sent Dunn sprawling to the ground. He was two
years younger than Ned, but very stocky. It was nobody's fault that he
got the bump; but nevertheless as soon as he rose to his feet, he rushed
at Ned and gave him a kick in the shins. Ned's first impulse was to box
his ears, but as the boy was so small, he merely took hold of him and
gave him a good shaking.

Dunn began to blubber. In a thrice a crowd gathered, and Dunn, seeing
that he was being teased, got ugly. Turning to Ned, who was about to
back off with Tommy, he cried out: "Yes, you belong to the crowd that
smashed up things! Father Boone will fix you!"

The threat didn't mean much to Tommy and Ned and they walked away.

Harry Dunn, however, had heard just enough from his father about the
Club damage to think he could best get even by telling his teacher
about it. So, when the boys got into their school rooms again, he tried
to tell the Sister that two fellows had thrown him down in the yard. She
paid no attention to him. After class, he went to her again, and said
that the boys who broke things at the Club were trying to pick on him.
"Mind your own business, Harry," she said, "and nobody will pick on you,
you little tattletale." As the boys say, he got "his."

That afternoon Father Boone, passing through the school after class,
stopped to talk to the Sister in the vestibule. Just then along came
young Dunn.

"Here's a young gentleman who is talking about a row at the Club," she
said to the priest, as she held the lad by her eye. She thought the boy
had made a mountain out of a mole hill, and that the director's shrug or
laugh would show the youngster where he stood. Instead, Father Boone
grew instantly serious. The Sister saw she had made a mistake, but
before she could change the subject, he said, disregarding the boy:

"It was bad business, Sister. I feel ashamed and hurt about it. I did
not think my boys would act so."

Then he continued, "But how did you know about it, Sister?"

"O, a little bird told me."

"Indeed, and may I ask what the little bird told you?"

"Really, Father, it's not worth while referring to. I shouldn't have
recalled it but for that young lad who passed us this moment. You know
him, don't you?"

"I can't say that I do."

"He is Harry Dunn, Father, the son of your janitor."

"O, that's interesting, Sister; so it seems that I know less--"

At this moment he was interrupted by a messenger who told him that he
was wanted for a sick call. He hurried to the rectory. A woman in the
parlor was waiting to give him the name and address of a sick person.
"Why, that," he exclaimed, "is the house where the Dalys live."

"Yes, Father."

"How old is this boy you say is so ill?"

"About twelve, Father."

"Do you know whether he is seriously ill; has the doctor been there?"

"O yes, Father, and he said the boy had typhoid. There is another case
in the house also, and the Board of Health has been around."

He promised to go at once to administer the consolations of religion to
the sick boy. "I am glad the Board of Health is on the ground," he said
to himself, as he was on his way over. "From what I saw of conditions
there, it's a wonder they're not all down with typhoid. I suppose Willie
would have had it, except that he is such a robust and active lad."

When the priest had finished his ministrations, he went up to the Daly
flat. After his knock at the door, he heard quick movements inside and
then a rather long silence. He rapped again. This time the door was
opened and Mrs. Daly met him. The reason for the delay was evident. She
had been crying and did not care to exhibit herself to a neighbor. But
on seeing Father Boone she broke out afresh, at the same time showing
him a telegram she had just received from the hospital. It read:
"William Daly dangerously ill. You will be admitted any hour." It was
signed by the superintendent.

Father Boone put two and two together, "Typhoid." He made up his mind
at once just what to do. "You stay here until I send a cab for you; then
come along." He himself hurried downstairs, walked quickly over to the
trolley and in ten minutes was at the hospital. Not until he got there
did he go to the phone and call up a taxi for Mrs. Daly. He had a good
start now, and could pave the way for her.

Going immediately to the ward, he found the nurse at Daly's bedside.
"Rather sudden," he remarked.

"Very," she replied.

"There were no signs last night, nurse, as far as I could see. What
seems to be the matter?"

"Typhoid."

All this was in a whisper.

He continued, "I'll just see how he is and say a few words to him before
his mother comes."

"He is delirious, Father."

"Maybe he'll know me," he said, and bent over the patient. He took his
hand gently, saying, "Willie boy, you have not said 'hello' to me yet."
No answer. "You know Father Boone, don't you, Willie?"

"Hello, Frank," was the response. "I wish I had your 'sand.' I say,
Frank," he continued, "I'm starting right when this thing is over." He
paused for a moment and then resumed. "I don't blame the fellows. I'm
down on myself now." Another pause. "Frank, you tell Father Boone I'm
sorry. I want to see him. You are a brick. I am . . . O, I'll tell . . .
the whole thing if it . . . chokes me." This last was said with an
effort.

Father Boone attributed all he was saying to delirium. He realized that
the patient's condition was serious, and prepared to give him the Last
Sacraments. As he took out the Holy Oils, and was about to anoint him
the boy's eyes looked calmly at him and he uttered the words: "Hello,
Father."

The priest was very glad that the boy was conscious, and not knowing how
long he would remain so, he started to hear his confession as quickly as
possible. He began by receiving from him a general acknowledgment of his
sins and contrition for them, intending, if time permitted, to hear his
confession in detail. "You are sorry for all the sins of your life, my
child?"

"Yes, Father."

"Say the Act of Contrition."

He began: "O my God, I am most heartily sorry for all my sins and I . . .
and I . . . and . . ."

When Father Boone saw that William was lapsing into unconsciousness, he
took a crucifix and holding it to the boy's lips, said, "Kiss the
crucifix, my child, and say, 'Jesus have mercy on me.'" As he gave him
absolution, he heard him murmur, "Jesus . . . have mer. . . ." and off
he fell again into delirium.

The priest was sorry that the confession had been cut short, but was
very glad that he was able to give him absolution. Then he anointed him,
for Daly's condition did not permit of his receiving Holy Viaticum. The
priest had barely finished the administration of the last rites, when
Mrs. Daly appeared. He quickly approached her and cautioned her sternly
not to show emotion in the presence of the patient, as any excitement
would only make his condition worse.

"O my Willie, my Willie," was her answer, and her body shook with
emotion. "Willie was the good boy, he was the good boy to his mother. O
blessed Mother, help me now in my hour."

The first burst of grief over, she really showed wonderful control and
approached the bed quite calmly. Bill was now sleeping. The mother sat
by his side with her hand on his. Seeing that the priest was waiting,
she said, "Are you waiting to give him the Sacraments, Father?"

"No, I have already done that," he replied, "but, if you don't mind,
I'll wait for you."

"No, no, Father dear," she said, "don't wait for me, for I am afraid it
would be a long wait."

He considered for a moment, and decided to leave.


(III)

On his way home, Father Boone had time to review the occurrence at the
school earlier in the day. It was the Dunn boy whom the Sister had
pointed out, as she told him the little incident. He said the Club boys
were "picking on him." It could be that they were retaliating for
something connected with the Club affair. He did not like the set of
things. But if he could have seen what was occurring in some other
quarters, he might have liked the looks of things still less.

After school, Ned and Tommy sought Frank. The Regal High was but a short
distance from the parochial school.

"Say, Frank," began Ned, "that Dunn kid is a fresh guy. Today, after
bumping into Tommy and me, he got ugly and gave me a kick. I shook him
up a bit, and he starts in and blabs about the fight with you and
'Bull.' Afterwards, he told the Sister about it, only he made it ten
times worse than it was. To hear him talk you would think we had a free
fight over there. He spoke of breaking things and a lot of stuff like
that."

Of course Frank saw at once what had happened. Harry had heard his
father mention the damaged room. He kept his surmises to himself,
however, replying, "O, don't mind that fellow, he's only a kid."

"But, Frank," continued Ned, "if you heard how the thing has spread and
how your name is mixed up in it, you'd mind."

Frank laughed off this observation, and tried to turn the talk to
something else. But as they walked along, they were stopped by at least
three different boys who asked what the row at the Club had been.

By that time Frank began to get anxious. The mix-up was bad enough to
face when only the Club and Father Boone and his mother knew. How could
the explanation ever catch up with the story--especially if young Dunn
got to talking! Of course, in the end everything would come out all
right. In due time, Father Boone would learn the truth from Daly
himself, but meanwhile--

He knew his mother was as much upset about the misunderstanding as
himself. And to have affairs still further complicated would be pretty
bad. Father Boone must know a good deal, for the place could not have
been set right without his knowledge. But he did not know who had done
it, nor any of the details. That was evident from Daly's story, and so
up to now, he was angry with Frank because he had not reported. It had
all the evidences of a free row surely--and his indignation was
justified--and especially against an official. But now suppose this talk
should reach Father Boone and that it should associate him with the
affair as one of its leaders!

The very thought made Frank shudder, until he recalled that Bill was not
only willing, but anxious to make a clean breast of his spiteful deed.
So in the end, all would turn out right. For the time being, he was
under a cloud. There was nothing to do but wait for the wind to blow it
away or the sun to dissipate it.

But even as he meditated, the cloud was getting thicker and blacker. He
had hardly returned to school for the afternoon session, when his
teacher asked him if the report were true, that he was deposed from his
office as secretary. The inquiry gave him a distinct shock. He had the
greatest respect and affection for his professor, and that Mr. Collins
should entertain for a moment the thought that he had done anything to
deserve the censure of Father Boone, was very painful to him.

"This is the first I have heard of it," Frank answered.

"I am so glad I was misinformed," was the reply.

That afternoon, Frank's thoughts could not be held in check. There was
just the possibility that Father Boone had taken some further action.
When his name was called for recitation in Caesar his mind was
elsewhere. It was not like Frank to hesitate when called upon, but now
he was at sea. The teacher saw his predicament, and having genuine
regard for him said, "Don't you agree with the preceding translation?
Smith, try that passage again." Smith repeated and Frank, now master of
the situation, took up the portion assigned him. But his mind soon
wandered away again. He began to reflect on the consideration his
teacher had shown him, and to wonder if his absent-mindedness suggested
the disquiet of a guilty conscience. It seemed as though every fellow in
the class was watching him.

When school was out, he went to Mr. Collins to thank him. "I was all
upset, sir, by what you said before class."

"I'm sorry, Frank, that I referred to the matter at all. I really was
sure, knowing you as I do, that it was a false rumor."

"Thank you, Mr. Collins."

After school, Frank went straight to the Club to see if Father Boone
were there, and to find out from him if there were anything back of the
report. The priest was not in his office. Frank turned into the reading
room and from force of habit went to look at the notice board where the
items of interest to the Club were usually posted. To his amazement he
read:

          "The Office of Secretary is hereby discontinued.
          Members will hereafter deal personally with the
          Director.

                                          Jerome Boone."

Frank's head was in a whirl. He began to get dizzy. Falling back into a
chair, he repeated again and again: "The office of Secretary is hereby
discontinued." "A direct slap!" he gasped. "Condemned unheard. It is not
fair. That's no way to deal with a fellow. It's an outrage. I did not
believe that Father Boone could do such a thing. Condemned, disgraced
and the whole parish talking about it! It will cut my mother to the very
heart. I've got to keep it from her--to put a stop to it right now. I'll
go to the rectory and have it out with him. This is what I get for not
taking a firm stand in the beginning."

He sat with his head on his arms on the table. His inclination was to
give way to his feelings, but after a moment, he jumped up, stood erect
and exclaimed, "I'll win out."

He started for the rectory, but on his way, he began to hesitate. "What
grievance have I got anyway? When it comes down to 'kicking,' what
'kick' have I got coming? From Daly's own story, there was an awful job
done. No one on earth could believe it the work of one or two. Father
Boone naturally expected some word from me. And if old Dunn told him I
was over there pumping him--? That was a bad move--puts me in deeper.
Young Dunn was only repeating what he got from his father. It certainly
looks bad. And if I start something, what can I say? I'd be cornered, no
matter which way I'd turn. The only thing to do is to lie low for a
while, and let things shape themselves. Daly'll tell the whole thing
himself and then it will be my turn. And then Father Boone--gee--I'll
feel sorry for him then!" So Frank put off his visit to the priest and
went home.


(IV)

If Frank had experienced a sense of relief in deciding not to see the
priest, it was short-lived. He walked into his home, and faced Father
Boone and his mother engaged in serious conversation. His heart leaped
into his mouth. The worst had happened! The priest evidently considered
this affair so serious that he had come to see his mother. And it would
break her heart to have a priest complain of him! And especially Father
Boone--that would be a dagger thrust! These and like thoughts flashed
through his mind in an instant.

As a matter of fact, Frank's deductions were all wrong. Mrs. Mulvy was
the President of the Parish Relief Association of which Father Boone had
charge. Hence it was not unusual for him to call on Mrs. Mulvy to give
her a list of poor to be visited and helped. He was on such an errand
now.

Father Boone's method of directing a club found no place for carrying
information to parents. He preferred to settle matters with the boys
themselves, and in a manner that would be helpful to them, and that
would leave no sting. In his mind, it would be an acknowledgment of
defeat if he had to carry a case into the home. He had never done it
yet.

After his instant of hesitation, and convinced that he knew the subject
of conversation, Frank assumed an indifferent air and stepped forward to
greet the priest. Father Boone continued to talk. Frank waited a moment,
bewildered, and then said, "Good afternoon, Father."

"Good afternoon, _sir_," was the response.

Frank stiffened, every muscle of his body became like steel. He could
not look at his mother. If he did, he might break down and he did not
want to give the director that satisfaction. So he stood facing the
priest.

All three were embarrassed. Mrs. Mulvy knew the significance of that
_sir_. Frank, sure now of his suspicions, made a desperate plunge.

"I am sorry, Father, that you felt obliged to carry this matter to my
mother, but I suppose you know best."

Father Boone literally gasped. For a moment he looked at Mrs. Mulvy,
then he turned back to Frank. Realizing that the matter had come to an
issue, and without his doing, he said, in a deliberate, penetrating
tone,

"Frank Mulvy, do you, or do you not, know anything about that shameful
destruction at the Club?" Already Frank saw his folly. He was in just
the corner he had foreseen. Acknowledgment would mean the betrayal of a
sacred confidence. Every moment of silence was agony to his mother.
Denial he could not make, for he had never in his whole life made a
conscious mis-statement. Silence was fatal. Denial was impossible.
Acknowledgment was betrayal of Bill's confidence. What could he do?

Again the priest said slowly and solemnly: "Do . . . you . . . or . . .
do you . . . not . . . know . . . about that act of destruction?"

"Speak up, Frank," his mother said, imploringly.

At the sound of that voice and the look of that face, he collapsed. His
pent up emotions of the past days burst out in sobs, his body shook
convulsively. Both priest and mother tried to soothe him. That only made
it worse. Father Boone turned away and stood at the window, looking out.
Then with only a quiet and casual good-bye, he took up his hat and left.

Hardly had the door closed behind him when Frank threw his arms about
his mother, and burst into renewed sobs. Mrs. Mulvy was puzzled and
distressed but she had full faith in her boy. She let him have his cry
out, and then said gently: "Don't mind, dear, you are mother's best boy;
she knows this will come out all right."

"O mother, if you feel that way, and will trust me, without asking me a
single question, I promise you it will come out more than all right."

"Very well, darling," she replied, "I'll say nothing again on the matter
except you yourself bring it up."

"O, I'm so glad, mother, because now I can see it through. I don't mind
what others say or think as long as it is all right with you."

"But I feel so sorry for Father Boone," she sighed. "He is apparently
all at sea. He thinks the world of you, Frank, and that is what hurts
him."

"I know, mother, and that is what hurts me, too, but there is no help
for it at present. He's got to get all the facts first--and I can't--"
He broke off and then added, shyly, "You know, mother, I think we are a
good deal the same. Only, of course, his will is so strong, he won't
show what he feels. The other day there were tears in his eyes, but he
didn't know I was seeing him."

"Mother is proud of her boy to hear him talk that way. I'm so glad that
you're not angry with poor Father Boone--it is hard on him."

"Maybe I would be, mother, if I did not know him so well."

A great load was off Frank's mind and the tension was gone. Nothing
could matter now. He could face anything and everything. He realized
that, at most, only a few days would intervene before Bill Daly would
clear up the mystery.


(V)

When Father Boone left Mrs. Mulvy and Frank, he had indeed troublesome
thoughts for companion. The conviction that Frank knew a good deal about
the matter was now absolutely sure. Evidently, also, the boy was in some
way implicated in a conspiracy of silence. His whole appearance showed
that he was holding back something and that he was doing so reluctantly.
His complete collapse indicated a great interior struggle. It also
showed that the boy was naturally high-minded and noble. For otherwise,
he never would have broken down, as he did.

But what was holding him back? Why should he fear to trust the director?
He found no answer to free him from his quandary. He would gladly settle
the whole matter, and regard the affair closed, if he considered only
his own feelings. But his duty to the boys must not be shirked because
it caused present pain to himself or others. "Better to have a tooth
pulled," he said, "than to have it the source of future trouble."

When Father Boone entered his room, he found several letters on his
desk. They were mostly Church matters. But one was different. It was on
better quality of stationery than the ordinary. The envelope and the
paper bore a monogram. Opening it, he found these lines:

          Dear Father Boone:

          I want to thank you for all your kindness to John.
          Enclosed is a little contribution for the Club.
          Hereafter, it will be impossible for John to
          attend the Club meetings, and so I request you to
          drop his name from membership.

                            Sincerely yours,
                                     Julia Harkins.
                                 (Mrs. John Harkins.)

          To Rev. Jerome Boone, S. J.

John Harkins resigned from the Club!... Anyone who knew Father Boone's
ideas about the Club would have understood at once what this resignation
meant to him. Mrs. Harkins' letter didn't explain why it was "impossible
for John to attend the Club" but it was clearly written between the
lines. John Harkins was a boy enjoying exceptional home advantages and
his refinement, manliness and social standards made him just the type to
give "tone" to the Club.

Mrs. Harkins was rightly very careful of the associations her son
formed, and Father Boone had been her guarantee that in the Club John
would mingle with perhaps poor, but good and manly boys. Evidently
rumors of the affair had reached her.

"The Club is discredited! The director has been asleep. Cockle in the
field. And here I am sitting and allowing the weeds to grow and the
wheat to be choked. I will get to the bottom of this at once. With the
Club's name in question, I am certainly justified in drastic action--in
probing the matter directly. I will send for Mulvy right away. I should
have done it long ago."

In answer to his summons, Frank was on hand a half hour ahead of time
that evening, but not ahead of Father Boone. He went straight to the
director's office and found him engaged at his desk.

"Sit down, Frank," the priest began, as he stopped work. "I am going to
get right down to business. I am speaking to you as an official of the
Club. The Club is being discredited. The parish is filled with reports
and rumors. I am being discredited. Look at that letter. Things have
gone too far. Heretofore, I have not asked you any questions on this
matter because your duty was plain. I wanted you to perform it like a
man, unsolicited. You have not done it, I regret to say, and now I must
question you like the others. The welfare of the Club is at stake, and
its fitness for carrying on its work, imperiled. Decent parents won't
want their boys to belong. It is abroad in the parish that rowdyism is
rampant here. I want to nail the nasty rumor, and place it where it
belongs. There is an explanation, and I want you to help me get it.
Frank Mulvy, did you have a hand in the wreckage wrought in the Club the
other night? Answer me _yes_ or _no_."

"No, Father."

"Do you know anything about it?"

"That I cannot answer, Father."

"You cannot answer! You cannot answer! Do you mean to say that you
refuse to do your duty? Cannot! What do you mean, sir?"

In an agitated voice, Frank replied, "Father, I cannot say any more,
except to add that I am doing what you yourself have always inculcated."

"Neglect of duty! Explain yourself, sir."

"Not neglect of duty, Father, but regard for honor. You have always held
that up to us, along with our religion, and it is honor now that makes
me decline to say more. I will answer any questions about myself or
anything that I can answer by official knowledge, and take the
consequences. More I cannot say."

"And more I do not want you to do, Frank. But tell me, why did you not
at least inform me of the wreckage; that was official?"

"Father, I did not know of that until recently."

"What, do you mean to say that all that terrible row occurred, and that
it's out all over the parish, and you, the chief official of the Club at
the time, did not know of it?"

"Father," declared Frank, in trembling tones, "I know it all looks bad,
all the appearances are against me, I have only my word and character to
stand by me."

"It is your character that has stood by you till now, sir. Were you not
Mulvy, I had acted differently. But it is because you are Mulvy that I
have trusted, until the Club and its director are discredited. But
what's the matter, boy?"

For of a sudden, Frank had turned white. He swayed a moment, but Father
Boone caught him in his arms, laid him gently on the floor. It took but
a dash of cold water to fully restore him, and for a moment he just
stared into the face of the priest. Then Father Boone noticed how his
color rushed back and his jaws set and he realized that the boy was
suffering keen mental anguish. It came to him that there was something
most unusual and extraordinary about the whole thing.

After a bit Frank said in a voice choked with emotion, "I know you have
suffered, Father, and that has hurt me." He could say no more but after
a little, he began again. "At first, I did not know anything about the
matter, and when I did know, I could not speak. I wish I could clear the
matter up, but I cannot do so honorably, and I know you don't want me to
do it dishonorably."

The priest patted him on the back and told him to do what was right and
not to think of consequences. "And as you consider silence the right
thing now, I do not wish you to do otherwise than as you are doing."

"Thank you, Father," replied Frank. "But please--I am true to you."

"Yes, I know," answered the priest, "but it's all a mystery,
nevertheless, and it must be solved, and," he added vigorously, "it
shall be solved."

Frank went below. The priest closed the door, and fell into a brown
study. "What am I to do?" he reflected. "This thing must be nailed. But
how?"

He was not looking for boys to punish, but for the solution of the
problem, and the clearing of the good name of the Club. Taking out a
large sheet of paper, he wrote in big letters for the notice board in
the library reading room:

          "Boys of St. Leonard's Club:

          This is an appeal to the boys who have the good
          name of the Club, and their own at heart. I want
          no boy to tell on another. But I do request that
          the perpetrators of that act of wanton destruction
          declare themselves to me at once. You know my
          ways, and that I am the first to make every
          allowance and to see fair play. I await in the
          office a response to this notice this very night.

                                            Jerome Boone."

The first boy to read the notice was Ned Mullen. "Whew!" he exclaimed,
with a long whistle. He ran into the games-room, "Hey, fellows, see
what's up--some notice--riot act!"

At first they paid no attention to him, saying merely, "Quit your
guying, kid."

But as he shouted out, "Frank, Tom, Dick, come see the board, a real
live circus is in town," they all dropped their games, and trooped into
the reading room.

"Gee!" was the exclamation from every throat.

"That's news."

"What row is that?"

"Wanton destruction!"

"That sounds good."

"O, but say, it's the real thing."

"That's Father Boone's handwriting. What does it mean?"

Then they fell to asking questions all together.

Finally, it settled down to what had happened, and when it happened,
and how it happened. Everybody asked everybody else what it was all
about, and everybody told everybody he did not know. Some boys got
around Frank and began to quiz him.

"Did you see any damage done, Mulvy?"

"No."

"Let's form a committee and send our regrets to Father Boone, and also
say there must be a mistake."

They all agreed.

"Name Mulvy spokesman of the committee," shouted McHugh.

Frank protested, but they paid no attention to him. Soon the committee
was formed, and was ready to go upstairs. They waited for Frank. As he
did not move they said, "Step along, Mulvy, we are all ready."

"I said no. Count me out."

"Count you out, nothing," yelled several. "You're elected, now go."

Frank did not move. Sunney Galvin, one of the biggest boys in the Club,
and a good fellow, walked up to him and said, "No nonsense, Frank, face
the music; you owe it to Father Boone and the Club to help set matters
right."

"Sunney, I said no, and that settles it."

"It settles nothing," said Sunney. "Unless you are in the scrape
yourself, you'll go like a man and do your part. You have been chosen."

"Chosen or not, I don't go. That's final," he said with vigor.

"O ho, Mulvy, so there's somebody involved after all! You wouldn't play
safe if you were not concerned."

"See here, Galvin," said Frank, "you know me well enough to know that I
am square. Give a fellow credit for knowing his own business."

"O that's very well, and all that, Mulvy. But your business here and now
is to do the duty you've been elected to. And if you don't, you're
yellow."

"Yes, and something worse," cried another.

"Do you know too much for your own reputation?" shouted another. For
although Frank was the best liked and most admired boy in the Club, boys
are boys, and they talk right out. Frank knew they had a certain amount
of right on their side and that was what helped him to swallow the
insults, which otherwise he would have resented vigorously.

The crowd was rather amazed itself that he did not resent their
insinuations more than he did. Gradually the word passed that he was in
the thing himself, and did not dare face Father Boone. Dick resented
that intensely.

"He is not, and you all know it."

"Hank, old man," he said, "clear yourself, come along with us."

"I can't, Dick."

"O nonsense," replied Dick, "you've got some honor bug in your bonnet
and you're making a fool of yourself. Come along now, and give the crowd
a solar plexus."

"Dick, please don't urge. I tell you I can't go."

The crowd stood around, listening to the dialogue, giving Dick every
encouragement and signalling to Frank to give in. When the fellows saw
his stubborn stand, they resented it. It was not fair. It looked
compromising.

While they stood, thus-minded, Dick said rather timidly, "May I ask you
a question, Hank?" There were only a few boys in the Club who could call
Frank by that name. Dick was one of them.

"Certainly, kid, fire away."

"Did you have anything to do with this racket?"

"No."

"I knew it," said Dick. "That's why I asked you. Now another question.
Do you know anything about it?"

"That's another matter," said Frank.

"We know it's another matter," shouted several, "and we've got a right
to know. It concerns the bunch."

"The bunch doesn't make wrong right," fairly yelled Frank. "The bunch
doesn't make a mean thing honorable. Yes, I know about it, and that's
why I can't go. I can't say more because I have said all I can say, in
honor."

"Honor!" hissed one of the boys, "it's queer honor that will distress
Father Boone and queer a whole crowd."

By this time the racket had grown into a half riot. The voices were loud
and raucous. Their echoes reached Father Boone above. He closed his door
as he did not want to hear what was not intended for his ears. But he
had caught enough to let him know that there was a deepening mystery
about the affair, and that most of the boys were not a party to it.

Things were gradually shaping for a fight. It was clear that Frank had
taken a firm stand. It was equally clear that the crowd was not
satisfied or in sympathy with it.

Some of the larger boys did not relish his excusing himself on the
ground of honor. Fred Gibney bawled out, "You're prating a lot about
honor, Mulvy. What about the Club's honor?"

"Look here, Gibney," snapped Frank, "I have the Club's honor as much at
heart as any of you, and you know it. But just now--" his voice
quivered, "I know how you regard the matter. I suppose I'd feel the same
if I were in your place. All I can say is that I know what I know in
confidence, and I'm in honor bound. Will that satisfy you? I have said
more than I intended to, but it's because I want to go the limit to
satisfy the crowd on my stand."

"That sounds like a book speech," retorted Gibney, "and it's all very
well for you to hide behind honor. Any of us could get out of a bad hole
that way."

"That means that you think I am lying?" questioned Frank, his eyes
fairly aglow.

"It means what you want to make of it," snapped Gibney.

Frank jumped from his place to get at Gibney. Dick got in between the
two, but found it more than he could do to restrain Frank. As blows were
on the point of being exchanged, steps were heard on the stairs, and the
boys signalled that Father Boone was on the way down. At his approach,
the boys assumed a more or less quiet posture. Not so Frank. He stood
just where he was and as he was. His fists were clenched, his whole
frame was trembling with excitement, and his face was determined and
pale.

Father Boone took in the situation at a glance. He appeared, however,
not to see the impending fight. Beckoning to Ned, he said, "I want you
and four or five boys to help me unpack something upstairs." He knew
that this interruption would give all a breathing spell, and stop
further animosity. Then like a flash, it occurred to him to settle the
whole thing then and there.

"Boys," said he, "your shouts and some of your talk have reached me
upstairs. I am very much hurt over this affair, and I know, from what
has happened, that most of you feel as I do. I caught some of the words
between Gibney and Mulvy. They reveal a lot to me. First of all,
apparently, what has happened was not the work of the crowd, but of a
few only and you are as much mystified as I am. I am glad to know that
the Club as a whole is not implicated. But a bad report has gone through
the parish in regard to that occurrence, and I am bound, in duty to the
parish and in devotion to you, to clear up the matter.

"And so I say now to you all, what I have already said by that notice, I
ask the boys who perpetrated that rowdyism or who know anything about
it, to stand out and declare themselves!"

Not a boy moved. After a moment's silence, Frank came forward and stood
before the priest. "Well, Frank, have you anything to say?"

"Only what I said to you upstairs, Father."

"Do you still feel in conscience that you can say no more?"

"Yes, Father."

"Very well," replied the priest. After a pause he continued, "I do not
want any boy to act dishonorably. But there are certain cases where
justice is concerned, where the rights of many are in conflict with
those of a few, where scandal is involved, where the instrument for
doing substantial good is in danger of being destroyed; under such
circumstances it is not only not dishonorable to speak out, but it is
highly honorable to do so. I know a boy's code of honor, and how he
regards a 'squealer.' But it is not squealing to denounce a criminal.
And in this case nothing short of a crime has been committed. Wilful
damage has been done to property, and consequent damage has been done to
reputation. If you saw a boy break into your home, and destroy valuable
things, you would not consider it squealing to denounce him to the
authorities. That very thing has occurred here. And you are in duty
bound to stop sin or crime if it is in your power to do so.

"If you know those who are guilty in this matter, it is your duty to see
to it that they declare themselves, in order that the good name of the
Club may not suffer further, and that the damage done to property may be
made good.

"With this explanation, I again ask those concerned to declare
themselves." Not a boy moved.

"Frank Mulvy, after what I have said, do you still find you are not
justified in speaking out?"

"I do, Father."

"I respect your conscience, Frank, but I am hard put to find a
justification for it. If you were a lawyer or a doctor or a priest, and
had got your information in your capacity of adviser, I could see your
point of view. But you are a boy of fourteen, and hardly of the age that
invites confidence. If I did not know you as well as I do, I should
consider you a party to the affair. As it is, you seem to be the only
boy who knows anything about the matter, or--the only one who has the
courage to say so."

Here Dick spoke up. "Father, the whole thing has us puzzled. We do not
know yet just what you refer to. You speak of damage and rowdyism. We
have not seen any. It was only by report that we heard about it and
we've got into lots of trouble denying and resenting it. Until your
notice was put up today, we treated the entire matter as a calumny. The
only row we know of was that scrap between Frank and Bill Daly. That was
nothing. Frank himself went up to tell you about that. We were all at
sea when we saw you so indignant. We formed a committee to wait on you.
As things are it looks bad for Frank. But we all know him and I--I--want
to go on record now as standing by him, if he says he can't tell, in
honor."

Frank seized his hand. "Dick, you're true blue."

"That's all right, Richard," said Father Boone slowly, and then, taking
Frank by the hand, he added, "Frank, I trust you absolutely."

"Then I am ready for anything, Father."

Gibney now came up rather sheepishly, saying "Mulvy, I hope you'll
pardon me."

"Nothing to pardon, old man, you did what any fellow would do," answered
Frank. Then he swung around to the crowd quickly. "Fellows, I feel I'm
'in bad.' Everything is against me as things go ordinarily. You have
nothing but my word for my defence. I hardly deserve such trust. But I
hope you won't regret it."

"Frank, take that notice off the bulletin board and put it on my desk
upstairs." As Frank left the room, Father Boone turned to the crowd.

"Boys, a good character is the best thing in life. Frank Mulvy's
character alone stands between him and your condemnation. If this
matter has no other issue than the present, it is worth while. I could
talk on uprightness a month, and it would not impress you as much as
what has happened before us."

At this point Frank returned and Tommy spoke up: "Will you tell us,
Father, what it is that you are so much worked up over? We don't know
what has happened, you know, about breakage and wanton destruction."

"I hope," said the priest, "that every boy here is as you are, Tommy,
wholly ignorant of the matter. That only adds to the mystery, for you
may as well expect a man to walk without legs as to have a lot of things
broken and smashed without arms. Whose were the arms, if not yours of
the Club, I'd like to know? I shall describe to you what occurred, and
leave the mystery to you."

Then in a few words he told them how he had come to the Club a few
mornings ago, and found it all upset, chairs broken, tables overturned,
pictures torn down, ink spilled on the floor, and the rest of it. As the
narration went on, the eyes of the boys got as big as saucers. If looks
and gestures were significant, they told of surprise, disgust,
condemnation. As he finished, Dick spoke:

"Father, that solves one mystery. We could not understand why you
withdrew the McCormack treat, and took on so dreadfully. We know, now,
and I for one want to beg your pardon for any feeling I had against
you."

"Me, too!", "Me, too!", came from different parts of the room.

"That is one cloud rolled away, boys," said the priest. "May it be an
augury that the others and bigger ones will vanish also. We are like
travelers in the desert who often see things where they do not exist.
Weary and exhausted caravans frequently have visions of trees and
springs which lure them on, only to see them vanish in thin air.
Scientists call it a _mirage_. Life, too, has its mirages."

"How strange," said Frank to himself, as they were leaving the room,
"Bill and I used the same expression when we were talking together at
the hospital."

The boys went home a pensive lot. But everyone of them was determined to
solve the mystery.




Chapter V

The Holy Grail


By this time the whole parish knew about the affair at the Club. Like
all reports, it increased in the telling until there was the general
impression that the Club was a pack of rowdies. Many a father and mother
wondered why Father Boone tolerated such an organization.

"I thought these boys were in good keeping," said one mother to another.

"Yes, and it's worse than we know of," replied the other, "for I tried
to get at the facts from my Johnnie, but he was as close as a clam.
Unless it was something dreadful, he wouldn't mind telling his mother."

The fact was that the boys had reached an understanding not to talk
about the affair at all. They were determined to clear the Club's name
and until they had something definite to offer, explanations, they
decided, had best be omitted. So 'mum' was the word.

Mrs. Mulvy was returning from early Mass, that morning, when Mrs. Doyle,
a woman she highly regarded, stopped her to say that it was too bad that
Frank was mixed up in the row at the Club. Mrs. Mulvy only smiled and
remarked that she thought there must be some mistake. But a little later
in the day, Mrs. Duffy called on her and after a few conventional
remarks, said "I really think it is too bad, Mrs. Mulvy, that those boys
should be up to such mischief."

"Why, what do you refer to, Mrs. Duffy?"

"I thought you knew all about it--that wholesale smash-up at the Club.
Surely it was disgraceful. Furniture broken, the pictures and walls
disfigured and the whole house ransacked. It's a wonder some of them
were not arrested."

This was news to Mrs. Mulvy. She had heard Father Boone call the doings
at the Club serious, but she supposed that they were only serious in his
eyes, because of the high standard he had set for the boys. Now she
heard for the first time of wholesale damage, of wrecked rooms and
furniture! "Are you sure of all this?" she inquired.

Mrs. Duffy replied, "It must be so, for everybody is talking about it."
Then she added, "But my boy, George, won't open his mouth about it. It
must be bad if he is afraid to let me know. I am going to take him to
the priest tonight and find out all about it, and if he had a hand in
it--well, he'll wish he hadn't."

Mrs. Mulvy was too confused to speak. She had wondered why Father Boone
was so stern when he addressed Frank as "sir." Also she had wondered at
Frank's intense emotion on that occasion. "So it was really serious,"
she reflected. "And gossip is getting Frank all mixed up with it!"

Mrs. Duffy continued hesitatingly, "I thought I'd come over to see you
first, Mrs. Mulvy, because they all say that Frank is the only one who
owned up to knowing anything about it."

Mrs. Mulvy caught her breath. However, she answered, composedly enough,
"I should be sorry to know that my boy was really in such awful
mischief, but if he was, I am proud that he owned up to it. It is
boy-like to get into a scrape, but it is very noble to stand up and
admit it."

"I feel that way myself, Mrs. Mulvy. If George was in it, he will have
to own up to it, but I am sorry that he did not do so of his own
accord. George is a good boy, though, I never knew him to do anything
that I was ashamed of before," said Mrs. Duffy wistfully, as she took
her leave. Mrs. Mulvy almost collapsed as she sank into a chair.

For a few moments she was in a state of distraction. At length she
sighed, "Poor Frank!" After a while, she arose and went to a little
shrine of the Blessed Virgin which she called her oratory. Here it was
that the whole family knelt every night to say the rosary together. Here
it was that each one said morning prayers before leaving the house for
the day's occupations. She had consecrated all her children to the
Blessed Mother, and begged her powerful protection for them. The Mother
of God had been a good Mother to her devoted children, and so far Mrs.
Mulvy had realized that devotion to Christ's Mother was one of the
greatest safeguards of virtue. She knelt before the image of the Blessed
Mother and prayed, "Mother of God, to whose care I have entrusted the
little ones He has given me, be more than ever a Mother to my children
now. Especially take under thy protection my good boy Frank. Holy Mary,
Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death.
Amen."

When she arose she had decided to make no inquiries of Father Boone, nor
would she have any misgivings about her boy. She would trust him.


(II)

On his way to school the same morning, Frank was stopped a number of
times and asked, "What was that scrape you got into, Mulvy?" At first,
he laughed it off. But gradually it irritated him, as one after another
referred to it. It was his custom to make a visit to the church every
morning on his way to school. This morning he went straight to the altar
of the Blessed Virgin and prayed fervently that in this trying situation
he would do nothing displeasing to her or her Son. He also begged her
that she would be a Mother to his mother and help her in this hour of
trial. Arising from prayer he felt that he could submit to
misunderstanding or even injustice, and do it patiently.

On leaving the church he met Tommy and Dick also coming out.

"Gee!" exclaimed Dick, "you are in for it, Hank. Everybody says that you
are the cause of the Club damage. The fellows are saying nothing, but
one or two must have leaked, for it's all over the parish that you
admitted you were in it."

"Yes," added Tommy, "I nearly got into a fight denying that you had a
part in the matter."

"You two are true blue," answered Frank. "Things do look bad for me. But
in a day or two it'll be all cleared up." He was calculating on Bill
Daly's telling everything to Father Boone on his next visit to the
hospital. Frank knew that the priest would see Bill every day or so
until he got well, and that it was only a rush of work that had kept the
director from going down again before this.

When Frank got to school he noticed almost at once that Mr. Collins
seemed somewhat disturbed. He barely bade Frank good morning. When a
teacher prides himself on the fact that his class bears the highest
reputation in the school for deportment and application, of course he
feels it keenly if one of his best boys is the subject of criticism and
veiled accusations. On the way to school, Mr. Collins had got many
inquiries about Mulvy's character. 'He was glad to say that Frank was
the finest boy in his class.' But by the time he reached the class room,
he showed his disturbed feelings in his greeting to Frank. The boy
really cared greatly for his teacher, and was hurt to think that he
should lose his good opinion even for a short while.

However, class went on as usual until about ten o'clock, when the
principal of the school entered the class room. He listened to the
recitations for a short while and spoke approvingly of the good work
being done. Then he turned to Mr. Collins and said, "Have you any of
Father Boone's boys in your class?"

"I believe I have. Will the boys who belong to Father Boone's Club
please stand."

Four stood up.

"That will do," said the principal. "Be seated. I should like you four
boys to report at the office at noon."

At recess, the four got together and conjectured what was up. "O, it's
clear," said Frank. "He wants to find out if any of the High School boys
are implicated."

"What do you suppose he'll do?" remarked Redmond.

"Why, he'll quiz us, of course. He may have heard exaggerated reports of
the thing."

"I don't see that it is any of his business," observed Cavanaugh.

"Well, you know," responded Frank, "that the Regal is mighty touchy
about its reputation and he does not want any mud slung at it if he can
help it."

At noon the four went together to the office. The principal met them and
began at once.

"Boys, it's really not my affair, but I can't help being concerned. You
know our school puts a value not only on learning, but on character. I
should say, mainly on character. I hate to hear of any of our boys being
mixed up in an ungentlemanly affair. I have called you in order to get
the truth of the matter. There are bad rumors afloat. I don't trust
them. Mulvy, may I ask you to state just what occurred?"

"I'd rather you'd ask Redmond, Father, if you please."

"It's all the same. I asked you, Mulvy, because they tell me you are
secretary of the Club, and Mr. Collins informs me you are the leader of
his class."

"Thank you, Father, but I have personal reasons for declining to speak
of the affair."

"Very well, my boy, I don't wish to embarrass you. Tell me, Redmond,
just what happened."

Redmond narrated everything.

"That sounds very serious," declared the principal. "Father Boone is a
good friend of mine, and very devoted to you boys. He undoubtedly feels
this thing more than you can imagine."

"We know that, and really, that's what hurts us most," said Frank.

"Now, young men, I am going to ask you a question. You are not obliged
to answer it unless you wish. It is outside my domain. Did any of you
have a hand in that affair?"

The four answered together, "No."

"Good, I knew it. Now I can state that the High School boys were not in
the mischief at all. Now another question. Do you know who did it?"

Three answered, "No."

The principal noticed Frank's silence, and turning to the boys, he
dismissed them, at the same time asking Frank to stay a moment.

"My boy," he began, "you indicate that you have some knowledge of this
affair. You also show that you're concerned about Father Boone's
feelings in the matter. I wish you to know that he is terribly cut up
over this thing. You are, or were, an official of the Club. If, without
actual dishonor, you can give him any clue to the perpetrators, you
should do it, for it concerns justice and charity."

"I have considered that, Father, and I am persuaded that I must not say
what I know."

"Well," said the principal, "I'll take your word for that. I know you
better than you think. If you feel that way, I would not insist a
particle. But bear in mind, young man, the only thing that stands
between you and condemnation is yourself. With those who know you that
is sufficient. With others, you may have to suffer for the stand you are
taking."

"I'm suffering now, and expect to suffer more. But I know I'm right, and
that's the main thing."

"I am proud of you, Mulvy," said the principal, as he dismissed him.

Outside the school it was rumored that Frank had been ordered to the
principal's office and had been threatened with suspension. Color was
given this report by the fact that he came out from the school alone
and much later than the rest, looking decidedly uncomfortable. The
words of assurance given him by the principal had affected him deeply.

Of course the report w

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