(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 doingit 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 thedirector 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 andsaw 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'swas 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. Wewent 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 himarrested, 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 nearlyeight 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 thateven 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 continuein 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 madeclear 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 beenchosen 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 thecrowd. 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 fewlines 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.
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 pagehe 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, whyhad henot 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'sdone 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 agreat 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 myattitude 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 havesuffered 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. Iwas 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 theeI wander in a fragile barkO'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 manthen, 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'sdone for. The devil of whisky has got him and he'll get him for good some day."
"Mike Daly," said the priest firmly, "you are down, God knows, but you are not out. And you are not going to be."
"That's all very well. It's that easy to say, but you don't know the grip that this devil has on me. I've tried and tried and tried, only to fall back again into the gutter. I tell you it's all up with me."
"If it is up with you, it is because you want it to be so," said the priest. "But I tell you, Mike Daly, you are on the brink of hell and the only thing that keeps you from falling into it, is the slender barrier of life. Do you realize that you may be called out of life to judgment any moment without warning? My God! man, where is your faith? If you break the law of the government, you know what would happen! And is not God's law more sacred? Do you suppose you can trifle with the Almighty? Because God does not punish you on the spot, do you think you can ignore Him?"
By this time Daly was quite himself. He had never had such a talking to. The words went right into his soul. He knew aboutpunishment for a man if he breaks the law of the country. And it surely was true that God's law is more serious. That hit him hard. The priest saw that the man was wavering, and he continued:
"Now, Michael, I'll tell you what we will do. But first I shall ask you an honest question, man to man. Do you want to get away from the vile stuff?"
"I do," fairly roared Daly.
"Good," said the priest, "that's half the battle. Now, I want you to know that I am the best friend you've got on earth outside your own family. I shall ask you to do nothing but what is for your own good. Will you trust me?"
"I will, so help me God!" he shouted.
"And it is God who is going to help you," said the priest. "You are going to be a man again, Mike Daly. I guarantee that.Do . . . you . . . understand . . . that?" said the priest slowly and firmly.
"I do," answered the now aroused and interested man.
"Then listen: You are just a 'bum' now—a low down, bar-room 'bum.' Nobody wants you around. You can't get a job anywhere. Iam going to get you a good job. You won't go back on the priest if he gives his word for you?"
"So help me! No," cried Mike.
"Now, another thing," said the priest. "When you went to church every Sunday, and received Holy Communion once a month, you were a good God-fearing man. That's where we begin. You make a friend of God first of all. It's hard enough to go through life right with God and with His help, but it is impossible without it. It's years since you have been to church, and the Sacraments, and you know these have been the most unhappy years of your life."
Just then Bill entered. He was surprised to see the priest talking to his father. Immediately he supposed that he had come to complain about the breakage and mischief at the Club. But he was set right almost immediately.
"William," said the priest, kindly and proudly, "come over here and shake hands with your father."
The boy hesitated.
Again the priest spoke: "William, come and take the hand of a man that is nevergoing to touch liquor in his life again. Your father is a new man."
"O father, father!" cried Bill, as he rushed across the room.
No words. Tears of the father and son as the two embraced.
The priest, meanwhile, had gone into the kitchen to tell the good news to Mrs. Daly. She rushed in to find the father and son weeping over each other.
"O Michael, Michael," she shouted, "I knew the Blessed Mother would never let you go to the end as you were!" And she fairly fell on them both.
The priest withdrew, and would have left altogether, but that he had not finished his work. After a while, he came into the room and said, "All three of you kneel down." They got on their knees. "May God Almighty, the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, bless you."
"Amen" responded the three.
"And may the Blessed Mother help and protect you."
"Amen" again came the response.
They arose. It was a transfiguration. Determination and pride on Daly's face, love on Mrs. Daly's, and gladness on the boy's.
"Now, Michael, I want you to go to confession next Saturday night and receive Holy Communion on Sunday," said the priest. "You do your part, and God will do His. You have given Him no opportunity to help you these past years. You have kept away from Him, your best Friend and Helper."
"Never again," said Daly, firmly.
"Straighten up now," said the priest, "and come to see me Monday morning. I'll have a job for you by that time. Here's a few dollars to get some clothes. You can pay me back when you have it to spare. Good-bye."
For sometime after the priest went away, they spoke not a word. They could not, for something seemed to lodge in their throats. When Mrs. Daly found that she could use her voice, she went to a little box on the bureau, kept carefully in the midst of all the confusion, and taking out her rosary of the Blessed Virgin, she went over to her husband and son and said, "And now let us thank her." They knelt down, said the beads and finished with the prayer:
"Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope; to thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve; to theedo we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, and after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus. O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary."
There is joy even in heaven over a sinner that doth penance.