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A Boy Knight

By MARTIN J. SCOTT, S. J.

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

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. Her's 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?"