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  Chapter II

  The New Quest

  The diplomats had hardly gone ten minutes when Father Boone came intothe Club to get something he had forgotten in his indignant exit. On hisway down from the office he passed through the library, and of coursenoticed the disordered papers on the table. The sheets were scribbled onand scratched and some were crumpled and torn. He paused to put things abit in order, and his eye caught his own name on one of the papers. Itbegan, "Dear Father Boone," and the same salutation headed several moreof the sheets. "Oho, what's this?" he exclaimed. As the note wasaddressed 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 sayto 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: "IfI could only let you know that what hurts us most is that" and there itstopped. Another page had this, "I am sure there is something besideswhat we know, because we have done nothing that should so...." and thereit 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 reasonfor your dis....". That was the abrupt ending. "We know from experiencethat you never pun....." No more. Evidently Dick had got stuck fast.

  The next pile of paper seemed to have little or nothing on thesheets. The first page the priest took up had "Ned" written allover it. For variety there was here and there "Ned Mullen."Evidently Ned was hard pressed for a start when he filled thatsheet. On the next page there was a little more variety, butnot much more literature. Here and there over the page werescrawled the names of Ned--Ned Mullen--Hank--Dick--FatherBoone--Bull--and a drawing of a dog. Poor Ned must have been huntinghard for a good introduction.

  Father Boone sat down near the table. His thoughts had taken a newturn. These lads, he recalled, were on the committee. Evidently theywanted to set something before him, and were very much in earnest aboutit. Such insistence indicated a serious state of affairs. He should haveheard them out instead of withdrawing in indignation. Still, he had donethat 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 athis first harsh words, they simply stood there. Yet this attempt atreaching him by note was a good sign. But why did they not give someevidence of regret? Their manner was not at all that of boys who feltthey had seriously offended. And Frank, why _had he_ not come like a manto talk it over? "I had thought," he reflected, "that Frank Mulvy hadmore consideration and more heart."

  His eye fell just then on a half-torn sheet of paper on the floor. Hepicked 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'tmind what's done nor what may happen to us, but we feel awfully sorryfor. . . . . . ."

  That was all. That scrawl of Ned's fairly upset the priest. It was socandid, so genuine, so earnest. And it was not intended for anyone'seyes. 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 theboys to leave the table littered with scraps to be swept up by thejanitor next morning. His own coming in was an accident.

  He got some relief in considering that these boys had stayed after theothers, and filled eight or ten pages in an effort to explain. It meantthat they were all right. He had known it all along! He had had to doviolence to himself to believe that they would be guilty of anythinginconsiderate. He knew how they felt towards him. These notes were aproof. Boys who were not grateful and considerate would not go to suchpains to rectify matters. And here he had been for three days, firmlyset against them. Perhaps it was their very regard for him that had keptback the explanations. He felt happy in thinking so, for his boys meanta great deal to him. Tomorrow he would waive all formalities andprecedents and settle things. He would hit the nail right on the head,state his feelings and his amazement at what had occurred and takewhatever explanation they gave. These notes showed him that at heart theboys 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 eyeswhen he entered the Club rooms with the janitor. Broken chairs, picturesdown, ink on the floor, overturned tables.

  "No . . ." thought he, "that is too much; for such vandalism there shouldhave 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 enoughto his duties to come and tell me. It's not the damage; it's theprinciple of the thing. What is the use of giving my time to the boysunless I can hold them up to certain standards? This is a social clubunder a priest's direction, and it should stand for what is best in theformation of character.

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

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

  (II)

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

  "Why," he thought, "should I do any writing at all? I've been 'on thesquare.' I have no apology to make. It seems that the harder a fellowtries to be square, the harder he gets hit. There's 'Bull,' the cause ofall this row. He's a regular thug. Yet he gets off easy. No worry, nohurt feelings, no penalty. And here I am, fretting and stewing, and Ihaven't done a thing I can put my hand on. Father Boone's treated melike a dog. I don't deserve that from him. He's done a lot for me, ofcourse, but that doesn't give him the right to jump on me." Springingup, 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 notsay 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 atempest raging in his soul, and her heart ached for him. She put her armabout 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 . . . theresult." Again his mother felt the convulsive trembling through hisbody. But under her tactful sympathy this paroxysm soon passed off andwith considerable calm he gave her the outlines of his trouble.

  Mrs. Mulvy not only knew her boy, but she knew Father Boone as well. Herheart 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 notdone 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 lottoo; maybe more than you. I know how much he thinks of you, and if hehas taken this stand you can be sure he has a strong reason for it andthat it has caused him pain. We don't know his reason but we do knowthat he is good and just and very kind, and that he never would be soindignant without cause. My boy, there is a third factor somewhere inthis matter, and both you and Father Boone are suffering for it."

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

  "It may be," she answered, "he takes the fight so seriously becauseyou'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 toldhim, and he never pumps the fellows. All he knows is that there was afight, and I don't know how he got that. Maybe someone heard the racketand told him."

  "Perhaps that is just it, and whoever told him may have exaggerated theaffair, and Father Boone feels hurt that such a serious matter did notreach him by the right way. You see, dear, Father Boone is veryhonorable himself, and he expects his boys to be very careful of honor.That might be the explanation, although I still believe there issomething more to it."

  After a pause, Mrs. Mulvy continued, "And then, Father Boone might feelhurt at what I have referred to, but he would never punish the wholeClub for a thing like that. It's all a mystery, I must admit, no matterwhich way I turn. I have been thinking considerably over it since thefirst 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 seeabout 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 nota priest, I would go to him for an explanation right away, but I knowthat he knows his business and is fair. So I guess it is better to leaveit in his hands."

  "O mother, I am so glad you said that. I was afraid you'd go down tosee him, and then I'd get 'kidded' by the fellows. They would say that Ihad to get my mother to fight my battles. I was going to make youpromise 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 matterwhat happens, and no matter what the other boys do, you won't ever doanything 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 Icouldn'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 standanything with her back of him. He withdrew to his bedroom and knelt downbefore his little altar to offer the sufferings of the day as asacrifice to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. "Sweet Jesus, I have sufferedmuch today. Take my sufferings as penance for my sins and asthanksgiving for bestowing on me such a good mother, and give mestrength to bear everything rather than offend Thee." He aroselight-hearted.

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

  "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 roomsmiling.

  (III)

  After his soliloquy, Father Boone went to the rectory in a firm frame ofmind. 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 camehome drunk nearly every night, and in such a condition, that Williecould not only defend himself, but could also injure his father.Tonight, she went on to relate, they had an awful time. She had tointerfere to prevent serious harm to one or both.

  "Only for Willie being so good to his mother I would not dare rush inbetween them. But I know that no matter what happens, he would neverhurt me. So tonight I threw myself right between them, and separatedthem. Father, I am getting tired of this life. It's not Christian. Iwas brought up well, and though you mightn't think it, I know thedifference. So I came to see you to ask your advice. Should I put himaway again? It did no good last time. He came out every bit as bad asbefore, and worse. Now what am I to do?"

  The priest listened sympathetically, and when she paused, he asked, "Ishe 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, andpromised he would be over inside an hour. Some thirty or forty minuteslater he was poking his way up the dingy and dirty stairs to the Dalyflat. 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, andsat fairly sobered on the edge of the bed. The priest entered, made asign to Mrs. Daly to withdraw, and crossing the room, sat down alongsideDaly.

  "Well, Michael," he began, "I have come over to see you because I knowyou 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 veryproud of the baby. Well, Michael, you have got clean off the track--andit does not pay, does it, Michael? You had your nice little home and atender 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 havepaid. It was not the ten cents nor the quarter you put over the bar, butit is this ruined home, Michael Daly. It is a slave and a sloven youhave made of your wife, and it is driving the boy to the police, you aredoing. Now, in God's Name, Michael, stop it. It is not too late. I willhelp you, and the wife will help you and Willie will help you. I knowyou had a fight with him just now, but that is past. It was the liquordid 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 hisupturned face.

  "I'm a beast and no man," he moaned, "I'm down and out. I'm a curse tomyself 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 gothim and he'll get him for good some day."

  "Mike Daly," said the priest firmly, "you are down, God knows, but youare 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 thegrip that this devil has on me. I've tried and tried and tried, only tofall 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 thepriest. "But I tell you, Mike Daly, you are on the brink of hell and theonly thing that keeps you from falling into it, is the slender barrierof life. Do you realize that you may be called out of life to judgmentany moment without warning? My God! man, where is your faith? If youbreak the law of the government, you know what would happen! And is notGod'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 ignoreHim?"

  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 manif he breaks the law of the country. And it surely was true that God'slaw is more serious. That hit him hard. The priest saw that the man waswavering, and he continued:

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

  "I do," fairly roared Daly.

  "Good," said the priest, "that's half the battle. Now, I want you toknow that I am the best friend you've got on earth outside your ownfamily. 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 p
riest. "You aregoing 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 toget you a good job. You won't go back on the priest if he gives his wordfor you?"

  "So help me! No," cried Mike.

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

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

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

  The boy hesitated.

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

  "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 newsto Mrs. Daly. She rushed in to find the father and son weeping over eachother.

  "O Michael, Michael," she shouted, "I knew the Blessed Mother wouldnever let you go to the end as you were!" And she fairly fell on themboth.

  The priest withdrew, and would have left altogether, but that he had notfinished his work. After a while, he came into the room and said, "Allthree 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'sface, love on Mrs. Daly's, and gladness on the boy's.

  "Now, Michael, I want you to go to confession next Saturday night andreceive 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 thesepast 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 Mondaymorning. I'll have a job for you by that time. Here's a few dollars toget 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. Theycould 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 thebureau, kept carefully in the midst of all the confusion, and taking outher rosary of the Blessed Virgin, she went over to her husband and sonand said, "And now let us thank her." They knelt down, said the beadsand finished with the prayer:

  "Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and ourhope; to thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve; to thee do wesend up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turnthen, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, and afterthis our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Oclement, 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 atonce; the father, mother and son were transformed. Michael Daly spoke ofit first. "I've not had a day's luck since I've been away from theChurch, 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 itoften before, and gone back to the dirty stuff. But something new hascome into my life. Father Boone's words burned right into my soul. Andevery word he said was true, so help me!"

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

  For a moment he could say no more.

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

  It is true that Willie had become more or less a "tough." Hisenvironment had hardened him. He had had to fight his way along. But onething always stood by him, his affection for his mother. Something elsealso was a big factor in keeping him from going altogether bad. He neverfailed to say his morning and evening prayers. His early training underthe good Sisters at the parochial school served as an anchor to hold himto his religion. The prayers he had learned there, the pious mottoes onthe walls, the example of the Sisters, all had made a strong impressionon his young mind although his conduct often failed to show it.

  He remembered also some of the incidents they had related. One inparticular never left his mind. In consequence of it, he had resolvednever to say an immodest word or do an unclean deed. No boy ever heardan impure word from Bill, no matter how rough he might be. He wouldfight, yes. He would swagger and bluster. But he could never forget thepromise he had made one day in church, before the altar of the BlessedVirgin, that he would never say anything to make her blush. And so farhe never had, although he had often been with companions whoseconversation 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 ofa triangle. In the center was an Eye. It seemed to be looking right athim, no matter where he was, and under it was written, "The All-SeeingEye of God." The Sister one day had said to the boys that they shouldalways live in such a way that they should be glad God was looking atthem. That made a great impression on him. Of course, he often forgotthe 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 remainedhonest. The day after, the two fellows were caught and sent to thereformatory for a year. The Eye of God meant even more to him afterthat.

  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 hewould not tell the lie. It is true, there was many a slip, for poor Billwas only human and a boy. And after all, religion does not suppose weare all saints. Its purpose is to make us such. It has hard work on somematerial. But no substance is too hard for it, if only it has half achance. Bill, although a 'bad nut' as many called him, was not so bad ashe might have been. If it were not for his religion, poorly as hepractised it, he would have gone to the bad utterly. So Bill now stoodfacing a new thing in his life. His father was turning in a newdirection. Would he keep on in it, or fall back, as so often before?

  There was something different about this event, Bill felt. He had neverseen that peculiar and stern look in his father's eyes before. And heremembered that the Sisters had often told them how God would help us dothings that we could not do ourselves if we truly turned to Him. It didseem as though his father had truly turned to God. Bill also rememberedhow every day the Sister had had the whole class say one "Hail Mary" forthose who were in temptation.

  He went to his bedroom, closed the door, took out an old prayer bookand, opening it to a picture of the Mother of God, he prayed earnestly,finishing with "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray fo
r us sinners _now_ andat 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 theywanted anything of God or of the Saints, they should add sacrifices totheir petitions. "Blessed Mother, in thy honor and for my father'sreform, I will leave off smoking until I am twenty-one." He aroserenewed and light-hearted.

  All next day he revolved in his mind the scurvy trick he had done at theClub. He knew the pride Father Boone took in having things nice there.In reality it was the priest who had suffered by his wreckage, hereflected, not the boys. Sure, they had suffered, too. The McCormacktreat had been called off. That was a mean trick. He had "queered" thecrowd 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. Bynight he had fully made up his mind to go over to the Club, make a cleanbreast of it all, and take the consequences. "And I'll offer that uptoo," 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 dozentimes, "I must keep a hold on that boy Daly. He is a diamond in therough. I'd like to know how many of these fellows downstairs would bemuch better if they went through what he has experienced. I must see toit that he gets a fair show. The fellows are down on him. Maybe theyhave 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 moredelay--a boy's soul and his welfare are at stake."

  The boys below were pretty glum. Things were not the same. A shadow wasover the place. When Frank came in, however, his face was so placid thatat 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 onesaid 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 wasone thing--he could fight down his mean deed, but how about Father Booneand 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 Boonetrust 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 thesteps leading to the Club door, passed timidly along the hallway andopened the door, where the boys were discussing the committee affair. Ashe 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 hiscountenance.

  "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 thedamaged room. "Fellows," he exclaimed, "I did a mean trick and I'mwilling to take my medicine." The boys saw in this only a reference tothe fight.

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

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

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

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

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

  (VI)

  Ordinarily, the passing of a fire engine engaged the crowd's attentionbut a few moments. The dashing engine and hose-cart always made a goodspectacle. But now as the Club boys looked along the street, they sawnot only smoke but flames. And they heard screams. All the fellowsrushed out and followed the engine to the place where the police wereroping off the fire line. The hook-and-ladder came along at a tearingpace. 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. Theladder hung suspended by only a light piece of the frame. In the windowright 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 uprightposition, the last extension would break and they would not be able toreach the window. On the other hand, the ladder, as it stood, could notsustain a man's weight. A minute seemed an hour.

  One of the firemen started to take the chance and run up. His foremanpulled him back. "It's sure death, Jim," he shouted. "That ladder won'thold you. You'd drop before you could reach them."

  The foreman was right. The men were willing enough but there was nochance of reaching the top, or halfway to it.

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

  The cries of the woman and child were piercing and heart-rending. Thelife nets were spread and the men shouted to them to jump. But they wereparalyzed with fear. One of the firemen was heard to exclaim, "I wish Iweighed 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, agreat fear clutching at his heart, his mind was filled with a medley ofthoughts, in which mingled the idea of sacrifice for his father'sreform, the Eye of God, his own worthlessness, his confession not yetmade, and the glory of heroic deeds. Again a terrible, piercing cry fromabove. Without a second's waiting, without warning, before the firemenknew it, he had rushed under the rope, over to the truck, and like acat, was on his way up the ladder.

  Bill had often seen the firemen couple the ladders in the station nearhis home. He knew if he got there in time he could put the detachedparts 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 evidentlyheard nothing and saw nothing but that dangling extension, which was allthat separated him from death. Without slowing up a bit, he reached theuncoupled extension, fastened it, and made the ladder secure. Hardly hadit fallen into place, when several, firemen were on their way up. Thething was done.

  The excitement of it over, Bill suddenly realized that he was high up inthe air. The climbing of the firemen made the ladder sway. Before anyonerealized
what was happening, Bill lost his balance, tottered, fell overcompletely, and went headlong down. The men below holding the life netunder the window, saw him totter and changed their position as fast aspossible in order to get under him. But he fell so suddenly that theyhardly had time to shift. They had scarcely got into position, when downhe came into the net, before it had tightened up. The fall wasconsiderably broken, but he landed hard enough to make the thuddistinctly 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 adoctor.

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

  So the priest sat beside Bill, holding his hand, and patting hisforehead. Instead of a doctor, an ambulance arrived. Bill was carried ona stretcher into the wagon, and with a warning clang, it was off for thehospital. 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 hispulse, and moved his eyelids to observe the extent of the danger. Ahasty examination at the hospital emergency room showed a badly injuredarm and side, and a bruised, but not fractured, skull.

  (VII)

  Having been assured that the case was not fatal, Father Boone boarded atrolley and soon found himself near the Daly tenement. He was used toerrands like this. And yet this had something different about it. Oftenhad he carried sad news to wives and mothers and fathers. But there wasan element of tragedy in this case. Only the day before, he had left theDalys starting out on a new way, father, mother and son. And now thelink 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 wouldhe see in it the hand of God?

  With these thoughts in his mind, he rapped gently at the door. Mrs. Dalymet him all radiant. A wonderful change had occurred. The room was neatand 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 seeboth 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 aswell as the occupants had undergone a change.

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

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

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

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

  The priest now felt that the worst part of his task was over. In areassuring tone he narrated all that had happened. He made up his mindto tell everything just as it was, because he felt it was better forthem 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 fellback in her chair. The priest was not unprepared for this. He dashedcold water into her face, and soon she came to, moaning and utteringpious ejaculations for her son. By the time the priest was ready toleave, both father and mother were composed and resigned.

  "You should thank God, both of you," said Father Boone to them, "that Hehas left you your boy. It is a lesson to all of us to live in such a wayas to be always ready to meet God whenever He calls us out of life. Nowyou, Michael, no matter what happens, don't you ever think that theliquor will drown your sorrow. I'd rather see Willie a corpse than tosee 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. Hegave them the hospital address, and advised them not to go before thenext day, unless they received a message. No news, he assured them, wasgood news.

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

  The priest had a good deal to think about. There was a possibility thatWillie's condition was serious on account of internal injuries. What ablow 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 inquireabout the boy. He was informed that the patient was resting quietly."That is good," he said to himself, "for I should not be at allsurprised if Mrs. Daly ran down to see the lad tonight." With that hewent over to the Club, wrote a few letters, and then returned to therectory 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--admirationfor 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 afellow."

  "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'lltell us exactly what's the matter."

  After it had got to be late, Frank observed, "I'll bet he's waiting forBill 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'dbetter go."

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

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

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

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

  In point of fact, Bill had never given the boys a thought when he madehis plunge for the ladder. But the look of exaltation, as Frank calledit, was there nevertheless. Its source was higher than Frank gave himcredit for.

  "Now I maintain," asserted Frank, "that the fellow was glad of thechance 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 FatherBoone, something pretty bad, too, for I never before knew Father Booneto 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 thingis settled that I'm right. A man like Father Boone does not change hischaracter over night. Something has happened to make him take thisattitude, 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 limitof his disposable property--to judge by the extreme earnestness withwhich he risked it. At all events the boys felt that Frank was keenlyconvinced of his position, and as he was always careful about hisconclusions, 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, tookhis way in the direction of the hospital. It was fully ten o'clock, andthe hospital was nearly a mile off. He had to walk, but by a combinationof brisk walking and occasional sprints, he got to the place in shorttime.

  Everything was quiet about the immense building. In the main vestibuleFrank found a matter-of-fact, middle-aged man standing behind a desk,over which was a sign--"Bureau of Information." Several people wereseated on a long bench nearby, waiting to be conducted to friends orrelatives 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 thebench, and in a moment a woman stood before Frank and put her arms abouthim, crying as she did so, "Do you know my Willie? Are you one of FatherBoone's boys?" Without waiting for an answer, she went on, with sobs andexclamations, to give a fond mother's estimate of the best boy in theworld.

  As Mrs. Daly told of her Willie's affection for her, she broke downcompletely. The clerk summoned a nurse. Mrs. Daly was taken into a sideroom, and under the firm but kind management of the nurse, she sooncalmed down. Frank, although so tender-hearted, was not an expert atgiving sympathy. Indeed, it was good that he was not, for in Mrs. Daly'shysterical condition, sympathy would have made her worse. The excitementwas hardly over when word came from the office that William had regainedconsciousness, and that he was out of danger. The messenger also addedthat he was sleeping quietly, and that it was not advisable to disturbhim 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 hadused toward him, but he also remembered their final talk, and so repliedwithout hesitation, "Yes, Mrs. Daly."

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

  Frank was affected by the emotion which was again overcoming the fondmother, but he said as calmly as he could, "Don't you think we hadbetter 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 menow. 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 cryagain.

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

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

  Frank now realized that things were getting serious. His own motherwould be anxious about him, and the hospital bench was not a place forMrs. Daly to spend the night. He tried all his persuasive powers, to noeffect.

  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 sameinstant, hearing a sob and looking in its direction, the priestperceived Mrs. Daly and Frank. He stepped over to where they were.

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

  "He is sleeping like a baby, Mrs. Daly," was the way he saluted themother, as he drew near. Then, waiting for neither _yes_ nor _no_, hetook it for granted that they were all going home. Under his dominantand kindly manner, Mrs. Daly was like a child. Father Boone called a caband gave the driver the order to take both Mrs. Daly and Frank to theirhomes. He put a bill in Frank's hand to pay the fares, and withoutwaiting for thanks or protestations, closed the taxi door, and walkedbriskly 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 wasright," he declared to himself, "Mulvy is all gold. The consideration ofthat boy! I've gone wrong somewhere! Frank's too tender-hearted to causeme pain, deliberately, and he is too brave to shirk responsibility--tofail in the discharge of his duty. Deductions do not avail against knowncharacteristics. A boy of Mulvy's character doesn't do a cowardly thing.I know that--evidence or no evidence. And yet--that plagued mysterykeeps staring me in the face! If they had told me they'd had afree-for-all! I can make allowances. I know boys. Here it's nearly aweek, and not one word in regard to the affair. And they know I am allcut up over it.

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

  "And yet," his thoughts swung around, "I don't know as it is prideexactly. There's the fitness of things--just indignation. Our Lordhimself had to show it to the Scribes and Pharisees. I want those boysto know they're not acting right. That's my real motive." He sigheddeeply. "Here I am again between post and pillar. I don't know what todo. 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 inhis room was out and he had finished a busy and painful day.

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

  Frank felt he should at least give some account of himself at once. Inthe most matter of fact way, he narrated the evening's events. But hismother discerned his generous heart beneath his words, and she was proudof him--so brave and so tender. And especially was she glad that FatherBoone had found Frank at the hospital with Mrs. Daly. She knew how thatwould affect the misunderstanding, and she was more than satisfied withthe turn of affairs when Frank finished his recital by saying, "I tellyou, mother, Father Boone is a brick." Then, as he feared that this didnot 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'llsleep until noon," he muttered, as he got under the covers. He closedhis eyes, but although he was dead tired, he could not sleep. Indeed, itseemed 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 runup the ladder--beheld him waver, totter and fall--saw his limp body inthe net--heard the afflicted mother speak of her Willie--her good boyWillie, 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 morelikely 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 thestart. 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 himmore confidence. But great guns! I did go up to make a clean breast ofit, and got 'cold feet'. But that's not his fault. That's how the wholeblame 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 wasmurmuring "a little . . . of . . . Bill . . . Daly's . . . 'sand' . . .Bill . . . Daly's . . . sand . . . sand . . . . sand . . . . . . .sand!" And off he fell into the land of nod.