(IV)
The effects of Father Boone's visit at the Daly home began to show at once; the father, mother and son were transformed. Michael Daly spoke of it first. "I've not had a day's luck since I've been away from the Church, and I'm going to get back."
"O Blessed Mother, do you hear him?" exclaimed Mrs. Daly. "Holy Mary, pray for us sinners now."
"I've had my last drink, so help me!" continued Daly. "I've said it often before, and gone back to the dirty stuff. But something new has come into my life. Father Boone's words burned right into my soul. And every word he said was true, so help me!"
All the while, Bill was wondering. Could it be real? It all seemed so new to him. For eight years he had heard nothing but blasphemyand abuse from his father, and here he was now, talking and acting like a man. Was it a reality? He could hardly believe his senses. But there was his father arm and arm with his mother. That certainly was real. It was years since he had seen anything like that before. The sight, so unusual, began to overpower him. He ran to his father and cried out, "O Dad, Dad, Dad!"
For a moment he could say no more.
"It's all right, Willie boy," said his father. "Dad's all right, and he's going to stay so."
It is true that Willie had become more or less a "tough." His environment had hardened him. He had had to fight his way along. But one thing always stood by him, his affection for his mother. Something else also was a big factor in keeping him from going altogether bad. He never failed to say his morning and evening prayers. His early training under the good Sisters at the parochial school served as an anchor to hold him to his religion. The prayers he had learned there, the pious mottoes on the walls, the example of the Sisters, all had made a strong impression on his young mind although his conduct often failed to show it.
He remembered also some of the incidents they had related. One in particular never left his mind. In consequence of it, he had resolved never to say an immodest word or do an unclean deed. No boy ever heard an impure word from Bill, no matter how rough he might be. He would fight, yes. He would swagger and bluster. But he could never forget the promise he had made one day in church, before the altar of the Blessed Virgin, that he would never say anything to make her blush. And so far he never had, although he had often been with companions whose conversation and conduct would bring the crimson to any decent face.
He had from his faith a realization of the presence of God in the world. He remembered a large frame in the class room wherein was the picture of a triangle. In the center was an Eye. It seemed to be looking right at him, no matter where he was, and under it was written, "The All-Seeing Eye of God." The Sister one day had said to the boys that they should always live in such a way that they should be glad God was looking at them. That made a great impression on him. Of course, he often forgot the Eye. But on oneoccasion, when he was strongly tempted to steal, and the two boys with him did steal, he saw that Eye, and remained honest. The day after, the two fellows were caught and sent to the reformatory for a year. The Eye of God meant even more to him after that.
On another occasion, he could have received an afternoon off by lying, as did several of his companions. But the Eye was looking at him, and he would not tell the lie. It is true, there was many a slip, for poor Bill was only human and a boy. And after all, religion does not suppose we are all saints. Its purpose is to make us such. It has hard work on some material. But no substance is too hard for it, if only it has half a chance. Bill, although a 'bad nut' as many called him, was not so bad as he might have been. If it were not for his religion, poorly as he practised it, he would have gone to the bad utterly. So Bill now stood facing a new thing in his life. His father was turning in a new direction. Would he keep on in it, or fall back, as so often before?
There was something different about this event, Bill felt. He had never seen that peculiar and stern look in his father's eyesbefore. And he remembered that the Sisters had often told them how God would help us do things that we could not do ourselves if we truly turned to Him. It did seem as though his father had truly turned to God. Bill also remembered how every day the Sister had had the whole class say one "Hail Mary" for those who were in temptation.
He went to his bedroom, closed the door, took out an old prayer book and, opening it to a picture of the Mother of God, he prayed earnestly, finishing with "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinnersnowand at the hour of our death, Amen." Then he added, "Blessed Mother of God, strengthen my poor father and make him good and sober."
Bill reflected that Father Boone had once told the boys that if they wanted anything of God or of the Saints, they should add sacrifices to their petitions. "Blessed Mother, in thy honor and for my father's reform, I will leave off smoking until I am twenty-one." He arose renewed and light-hearted.
All next day he revolved in his mind the scurvy trick he had done at the Club. He knew the pride Father Boone took in havingthings nice there. In reality it was the priest who had suffered by his wreckage, he reflected, not the boys. Sure, they had suffered, too. The McCormack treat had been called off. That was a mean trick. He had "queered" the crowd to get square on one or two. And after all, what had he to square? Mulvy had fought him straight.
The more he thought on it, the more Bill felt ashamed of himself. By night he had fully made up his mind to go over to the Club, make a clean breast of it all, and take the consequences. "And I'll offer that up too," said he, "for Dad."
(V)
At the Club the next evening, all the fellows were talking matters over. Father Boone was upstairs in his office. He had said to himself a dozen times, "I must keep a hold on that boy Daly. He is a diamond in the rough. I'd like to know how many of these fellows downstairs would be much better if they went through what he has experienced. I must see to it that he gets a fair show. The fellows are down on him. Maybe they have had cause, but they've gotto help me give the fellow his chance. Another reason for getting at the heart of this affair without any more delay—a boy's soul and his welfare are at stake."
The boys below were pretty glum. Things were not the same. A shadow was over the place. When Frank came in, however, his face was so placid that at first they thought he had adjusted matters.
"Well, old man, what's the good news?"
"Nothing yet, fellows, but I guess it'll come out all right."
Just then the door opened, and in walked Daly. For a few seconds no one said a word. They just looked at him in astonishment.
Daly's walk to the Club had been hard going. The nearer he got to it, the more he hesitated. What would Father Boone say? Facing the boys was one thing—he could fight down his mean deed, but how about Father Boone and his interest in his father—and the job he was going to get him? Would this revelation knock that all to pieces? How could Father Boone trust a man whose boy broke into a house and smashed things up?
All this stood out boldly before Bill. So didthe Eye of God. "He sees, and I'll go ahead and trust in Him," he concluded. And so he went up the steps leading to the Club door, passed timidly along the hallway and opened the door, where the boys were discussing the committee affair. As he stood in the doorway, silence held the crowd. After a moment, indignation broke loose. It showed itself first in looks of contempt, then in moving away from him.
"That's all right fellows, I'm the goat, and I deserve to be."
They thought he was sarcastic. But the words came from his very soul.
Mistaking him, they flung back cutting remarks: "You're a Billy Goat, all right," came from one quarter.
"So you've changed from a Bull to a Goat" greeted him from another side.
For a few seconds Bill felt like rushing in and striking right and left. But he checked himself. It was a violent effort and showed on his countenance.
"It's a nice fix you've got us in," shouted Tommy Hefnan.
Of course that meant to Bill that they knew the whole story of the damaged room."Fellows," he exclaimed, "I did a mean trick and I'm willing to take my medicine." The boys saw in this only a reference to the fight.
"That's all right, Bill," exclaimed Frank. "It was my fault as much as yours. We shook hands on it when it was over, and as far as I'm concerned, it's ended." Then turning to the crowd he said, "I say, fellows, let's call it square," to which they more or less willingly agreed.
Bill now felt that he was small compared with his late opponent. He saw Frank do by a word what he himself could not do by words or blows. He waited until he got the opportunity, and then gave Frank a signal that he had something to say. Frank stepped aside.
"I want to make myself right with the 'bunch'," Bill told him. "I came over for that. But if I start to speak, they'll 'ride' me. You can help me. I got to say, Mulvy, that you're a far better fellow than I am, in every way. I was a skunk to bring on that fight. And I was worse than a skunk in doing what I did afterwards. But I'll be hanged if I'm going to stay one. I'll take all that's coming to me and square myself. You know what I mean?"
He paused for a reply, but Frank's ideas were in too much confusion to permit a ready answer. This was strong language to apply to a mere fight. It suggested that there was truth in the surmise of Ned Mullen, that there was more than the fight to account for the unusual stand taken by Father Boone in the affair.
Bill cleared his throat nervously, to continue, when the clang of fire bells sounded, and the rushing of the fire engines and trucks along the street brought the boys in a stampede to the door and the street windows. Frank and Bill were carried along with the others.
(VI)
Ordinarily, the passing of a fire engine engaged the crowd's attention but a few moments. The dashing engine and hose-cart always made a good spectacle. But now as the Club boys looked along the street, they saw not only smoke but flames. And they heard screams. All the fellows rushed out and followed the engine to the place where the police were roping off the fire line. The hook-and-ladder came along at a tearingpace. The firemen jumped from the truck, hoisted up the long, frail-looking ladder, and threw it against the cornice of the roof.
The shock somehow unhitched a connection at the last extension. The ladder hung suspended by only a light piece of the frame. In the window right under the ladder was a woman, and a child of four or five years. The firemen felt that if they brought the ladder back to an upright position, the last extension would break and they would not be able to reach the window. On the other hand, the ladder, as it stood, could not sustain a man's weight. A minute seemed an hour.
One of the firemen started to take the chance and run up. His foreman pulled him back. "It's sure death, Jim," he shouted. "That ladder won't hold you. You'd drop before you could reach them."
The foreman was right. The men were willing enough but there was no chance of reaching the top, or halfway to it.
Now Father Boone came running up. On learning that lives were in danger he had hastened to the Church, gotten the holy oils, and hurried over to be of service, if occasion required.
The cries of the woman and child were piercing and heart-rending. The life nets were spread and the men shouted to them to jump. But they were paralyzed with fear. One of the firemen was heard to exclaim, "I wish I weighed a hundred pounds less, I'd risk that ladder."
Bill Daly, in the forefront of the crowd, heard him. Two lives at stake! He weighed a hundred pounds less than that man. And, as he hesitated, a great fear clutching at his heart, his mind was filled with a medley of thoughts, in which mingled the idea of sacrifice for his father's reform, the Eye of God, his own worthlessness, his confession not yet made, and the glory of heroic deeds. Again a terrible, piercing cry from above. Without a second's waiting, without warning, before the firemen knew it, he had rushed under the rope, over to the truck, and like a cat, was on his way up the ladder.
Bill had often seen the firemen couple the ladders in the station near his home. He knew if he got there in time he could put the detached parts together. Up he went, hands and feet, as fast as he could move. The ladder swayed. The men yelled to him to come back.He evidently heard nothing and saw nothing but that dangling extension, which was all that separated him from death. Without slowing up a bit, he reached the uncoupled extension, fastened it, and made the ladder secure. Hardly had it fallen into place, when several, firemen were on their way up. The thing was done.
The excitement of it over, Bill suddenly realized that he was high up in the air. The climbing of the firemen made the ladder sway. Before anyone realized what was happening, Bill lost his balance, tottered, fell over completely, and went headlong down. The men below holding the life net under the window, saw him totter and changed their position as fast as possible in order to get under him. But he fell so suddenly that they hardly had time to shift. They had scarcely got into position, when down he came into the net, before it had tightened up. The fall was considerably broken, but he landed hard enough to make the thud distinctly heard. And there he lay in a heap, limp. He was unconscious. They lifted him out, carried him over to the Club room, and sent for a doctor.
Meanwhile, Father Boone, who had been the first to reach him, hastily anointed him and gave him conditional absolution. He was about to return to the fire to be on hand in case others were injured, but one of the firemen came in just then and said that the woman and child were rescued, and that the fire was under control.
So the priest sat beside Bill, holding his hand, and patting his forehead. Instead of a doctor, an ambulance arrived. Bill was carried on a stretcher into the wagon, and with a warning clang, it was off for the hospital. The doctor was on one side of him, the priest on the other. Neither spoke. Both kept their eyes on the patient. The doctor held his pulse, and moved his eyelids to observe the extent of the danger. A hasty examination at the hospital emergency room showed a badly injured arm and side, and a bruised, but not fractured, skull.
(VII)
Having been assured that the case was not fatal, Father Boone boarded a trolley and soon found himself near the Daly tenement. He was used to errands like this. And yetthis had something different about it. Often had he carried sad news to wives and mothers and fathers. But there was an element of tragedy in this case. Only the day before, he had left the Dalys starting out on a new way, father, mother and son. And now the link that bound father and mother, if not broken, was very close to it. Would the news start Mike Daly drinking? Would it harden him, or would he see in it the hand of God?
With these thoughts in his mind, he rapped gently at the door. Mrs. Daly met him all radiant. A wonderful change had occurred. The room was neat and clean, she herself was as tidy as a pin and in walked Daly himself, greatly improved by a clean shave and a clean collar. "I want to see both of you together," he said. "I have a bit of good news for you."
They walked into the front room. It was really decent now. The home as well as the occupants had undergone a change.
"Mr. and Mrs. Daly," began the priest, "I want to congratulate you. You have a boy to be proud of. You have someone to live for. Willie is a hero. He has just saved two lives at a fire."
At the word fire, and at not seeing their boy along with the priest, a certain apprehension seized them both. Neither spoke for a moment, and then Daly said, "And where is the boy?"
"He is all right," answered the priest. "He got a few scratches and bruises, but it is nothing much. He is a real hero, and all the boys are talking about him. I just thought I'd be the first to bring you the news."
"Tell us about it, Father dear," exclaimed Mrs. Daly.
The priest now felt that the worst part of his task was over. In a reassuring tone he narrated all that had happened. He made up his mind to tell everything just as it was, because he felt it was better for them to get it from him and with him near, than in any other way.
When he got to the fall from the ladder, the mother screamed and fell back in her chair. The priest was not unprepared for this. He dashed cold water into her face, and soon she came to, moaning and uttering pious ejaculations for her son. By the time the priest was ready to leave, both father and mother were composed and resigned.
"You should thank God, both of you," said Father Boone to them, "that He has left you your boy. It is a lesson to all of us to live in such a way as to be always ready to meet God whenever He calls us out of life. Now you, Michael, no matter what happens, don't you ever think that the liquor will drown your sorrow. I'd rather see Willie a corpse than to see you drunk again."
"And so would I myself, so help me!" exclaimed Michael.
The priest nodded, satisfied that now Michael was out of the pit. He gave them the hospital address, and advised them not to go before the next day, unless they received a message. No news, he assured them, was good news.
No news might be good news, but not for a mother. Hardly had the door closed when Mrs. Daly put on her things and made ready to start for the hospital.
The priest had a good deal to think about. There was a possibility that Willie's condition was serious on account of internal injuries. What a blow it would be to the parents if he should die! When he reached home, the first thing he did was to telephoneto the hospital and inquire about the boy. He was informed that the patient was resting quietly. "That is good," he said to himself, "for I should not be at all surprised if Mrs. Daly ran down to see the lad tonight." With that he went over to the Club, wrote a few letters, and then returned to the rectory for the night.
(VIII)
The boys were late leaving the Club after the excitement of the fire. They spoke in suppressed tones. Admiration and regret prevailed—admiration for Bill's daring deed—regret for their conduct to him just before.
"Gee!" said Tommy, "I'm sorry I sailed into him the way I did."
"And who would have thought he was such a daring chap!" exclaimed Dick.
"It only shows," added Ned, "that you never can tell what's in a fellow."
"We called him the 'Bull'," said Frank, "and in one way we were right, for that was the bulliest thing I ever saw. My hat is off to Bill Daly."
After a while, they turned to speculating on his condition.
"I hope it's nothing serious," remarked Dick.
"Suppose we wait until Father Boone comes back," added Tommy. "He'll tell us exactly what's the matter."
After it had got to be late, Frank observed, "I'll bet he's waiting for Bill to regain consciousness, and there's no telling when he'll be back. Let's wait a quarter of an hour more, and then if he's not here, we'd better go."
They all assented to this and when the time was up, they started to leave. Frank, however, signalled to Dick and Ned and Tommy, and they loitered about until the rest had gone.
"Fellows," began Frank, "I had a letter all written to Father Boone about the scrape we're in, but I tore it up, I'm surer than ever that something worse has happened than that fight. I don't even believe that Father Boone knows who was in it. But that scrap was the basis of something else, something really serious. Bill Daly knows what it was, believe me. He came here tonight to straighten things out. Did you see how he came in, and how he stood the 'gaff'? Would he have taken allthat from kids like you unless he had something big troubling him? And that's not all. He got me aside and began to talk confidentially, hinting at something dark, you know. He was just getting ready to accuse himself when the fire engine came along, and you know the rest."
The three others nodded in agreement with Frank and awaited further light on the matter.
"That's all," he continued, "except that I never saw such an exalted look on any boy's face as when he leaped for that ladder. It just seemed to say 'I know you've got me down bad, boys, but here goes to show you that there is some good left in Bill Daly.'"
In point of fact, Bill had never given the boys a thought when he made his plunge for the ladder. But the look of exaltation, as Frank called it, was there nevertheless. Its source was higher than Frank gave him credit for.
"Now I maintain," asserted Frank, "that the fellow was glad of the chance to set himself right with the Club. And from what he hinted at, I'm certain, too, that he did something to 'queer' us with Father Boone,something pretty bad, too, for I never before knew Father Boone to take such measures as he has in this affair."
"You're a regular Sherlock Holmes, old man," observed Dick.
"Sherlock Holmes or not," said Frank, "you'll find out before this thing is settled that I'm right. A man like Father Boone does not change his character over night. Something has happened to make him take this attitude, and I'd give my hat to know what it is."
Frank's hat may not have been worth much, but it seemed to be the limit of his disposable property—to judge by the extreme earnestness with which he risked it. At all events the boys felt that Frank was keenly convinced of his position, and as he was always careful about his conclusions, they were inclined to agree with him.
(IX)
In this frame of mind the chums parted. The others went directly home. Frank made some excuse for loitering and as soon as they were gone, took his way in the direction of the hospital. It was fully ten o'clock, andthe hospital was nearly a mile off. He had to walk, but by a combination of brisk walking and occasional sprints, he got to the place in short time.
Everything was quiet about the immense building. In the main vestibule Frank found a matter-of-fact, middle-aged man standing behind a desk, over which was a sign—"Bureau of Information." Several people were seated on a long bench nearby, waiting to be conducted to friends or relatives who were patients, or to get word of their condition.
Frank approached the desk timidly, and said to the clerk, "May I ask, sir, how William Daly is?"
At the words 'William Daly,' there was a scream and a flutter from the bench, and in a moment a woman stood before Frank and put her arms about him, crying as she did so, "Do you know my Willie? Are you one of Father Boone's boys?" Without waiting for an answer, she went on, with sobs and exclamations, to give a fond mother's estimate of the best boy in the world.
As Mrs. Daly told of her Willie's affection for her, she broke down completely. The clerk summoned a nurse. Mrs. Daly wastaken into a side room, and under the firm but kind management of the nurse, she soon calmed down. Frank, although so tender-hearted, was not an expert at giving sympathy. Indeed, it was good that he was not, for in Mrs. Daly's hysterical condition, sympathy would have made her worse. The excitement was hardly over when word came from the office that William had regained consciousness, and that he was out of danger. The messenger also added that he was sleeping quietly, and that it was not advisable to disturb him now, but that his mother would be welcome to see him in the morning.
Mrs. Daly turned to Frank. "You are one of Willie's friends?"
Frank reflected on the fight and the contemptuous terms that Bill had used toward him, but he also remembered their final talk, and so replied without hesitation, "Yes, Mrs. Daly."
"Oh, he was the good boy to his mother! And it's a hard time of it he's had, with no one knowing how much the poor boy went through to help his mother. O Blessed Mother of God, help him from your place in heaven!"
Frank was affected by the emotion which was again overcoming the fond mother, but he said as calmly as he could, "Don't you think we had better go home now, Mrs. Daly?"
"No, I can't go home and him up there," she replied.
"But you can't stay here all night," objected Frank. "Come home with me now. That's what Bill would want if he had the say."
"Is that what you call him—Bill?"
"O, for short you know, Mrs. Daly. Boys always take short cuts."
"I never called him anything but Willie," she sighed and started to cry again.
"Won't you come home now?" Frank asked tenderly.
"I've got no heart to go anywhere while he is up there," she again declared.
Frank now realized that things were getting serious. His own mother would be anxious about him, and the hospital bench was not a place for Mrs. Daly to spend the night. He tried all his persuasive powers, to no effect.
While he was in this state of anxiety, he heard a voice at the desk ask, "Is William Daly doing nicely? Has he regained consciousnessyet?" Looking up, Frank, to his great joy, saw Father Boone. At the same instant, hearing a sob and looking in its direction, the priest perceived Mrs. Daly and Frank. He stepped over to where they were.
"Good gracious, my dear woman," he exclaimed, "this is no place for you at this hour. And you, Frank? I must say I am glad to see you here, but we must all go home now. Wait for me a minute. I'll just run upstairs and see William." As a priest, he had access to the wards at any hour of the day or night. It occurred to him that the patient might be conscious by that time, and he decided to see him and hear his confession if possible. He was conducted to Daly's bed, and saw that he was sleeping soundly. He knew that sleep was the best medicine; so he left the patient, after giving him his blessing.
"He is sleeping like a baby, Mrs. Daly," was the way he saluted the mother, as he drew near. Then, waiting for neitheryesnorno, he took it for granted that they were all going home. Under his dominant and kindly manner, Mrs. Daly was like a child. Father Boone called a cab and gave the driver theorder to take both Mrs. Daly and Frank to their homes. He put a bill in Frank's hand to pay the fares, and without waiting for thanks or protestations, closed the taxi door, and walked briskly homeward.
Father Boone felt, after the crowded events and impressions of the day, that he needed the walk back to the rectory to clear his head. "I was right," he declared to himself, "Mulvy is all gold. The consideration of that boy! I've gone wrong somewhere! Frank's too tender-hearted to cause me pain, deliberately, and he is too brave to shirkresponsibility—to fail in the discharge of his duty. Deductions do not avail against known characteristics. A boy of Mulvy's character doesn't do a cowardly thing. I know that—evidence or no evidence. And yet—that plagued mystery keeps staring me in the face! If they had told me they'd had a free-for-all! I can make allowances. I know boys. Here it's nearly a week, and not one word in regard to the affair. And they know I am all cut up over it.
"What's up anyway? Why didn't I send for Mulvy after the first day and demand a report or explanation? Pride, I suppose;hurt, at their lack of confidence in me. Well, the only thing is to get down from my high horse now. I've got to begin with myself.
"And yet," his thoughts swung around, "I don't know as it is pride exactly. There's the fitness of things—just indignation. Our Lord himself had to show it to the Scribes and Pharisees. I want those boys to know they're not acting right. That's my real motive." He sighed deeply. "Here I am again between post and pillar. I don't know what to do. I want to take the stand that will be of true benefit to the boys, not merely now but later."
So reflecting, he reached the rectory. A few minutes later, the light in his room was out and he had finished a busy and painful day.
Meanwhile, Frank saw Mrs. Daly home, and in a little while he was dismissing the chauffeur at his own door. Quickly he ran up the steps of his apartment house and in a moment had climbed the three flights of stairs. Everybody was in bed but his mother. Her first words were, "O my boy, what has happened to you? I was alarmed at your staying out so late."
Frank felt he should at least give some account of himself at once. In the most matter of fact way, he narrated the evening's events. But his mother discerned his generous heart beneath his words, and she was proud of him—so brave and so tender. And especially was she glad that Father Boone had found Frank at the hospital with Mrs. Daly. She knew how that would affect the misunderstanding, and she was more than satisfied with the turn of affairs when Frank finished his recital by saying, "I tell you, mother, Father Boone is a brick." Then, as he feared that this did not convey a great deal of meaning to her, he added, "He is 'some' man."
"And somebody is 'some' boy," echoed his mother, kissing him good-night.
Frank went to his room, said his prayers and jumped into bed. "I'll sleep until noon," he muttered, as he got under the covers. He closed his eyes, but although he was dead tired, he could not sleep. Indeed, it seemed he was more wide awake than at midday. The clock struck twelve, and still his mind was all activity.
He saw himself chatting with Daly—heardthe fire-clang—saw Bill run up the ladder—beheld him waver, totter and fall—saw his limp body in the net—heard the afflicted mother speak of her Willie—her good boy Willie, whom the boys called "Bull." And then there was Father Boone, always in the right place, and doing the proper thing, cool, firm, kind, commanding. And this was the man he was on the outs with. Was it more likely that a boy like himself would be wrong or Father Boone?
"I'm a boob," he accused himself. "I should have gone to him at the start. Even if he were cross—most likely he'd heard there was a row, and I was in it. Then, of course, he'd feel hurt that I hadn't shown him more confidence. But great guns! I did go up to make a clean breast of it, and got 'cold feet'. But that's not his fault. That's how the whole blame thing began. Gosh, I wish I had some of Bill Daly's sand!"
He had begun to feel a little drowsy. The clock struck one and he was murmuring "a little . . . of . . . Bill . . . Daly's . . . 'sand' . . . Bill . . . Daly's . . . sand . . . sand . . . . sand . . . . . . . sand!" And off he fell into the land of nod.
It was full daylight when Bill Daly opened his eyes the next morning. On all sides of him were beds. Nurses and doctors were walking noiselessly up and down the ward. He did not know what to make of it. He had never been in a hospital before, even as a visitor. He had to make an effort to collect his thoughts.
O yes! the fire. That shaky ladder. The woman and the child at the window crying for help. His quick ascent up the ladder. The adjustment—a sudden sensation of dizziness—and then! Yes, he must have fallen.
Just then he moved his arm a bit, and a moan issued from his distorted mouth. He knew now—who he was and what had happened. He changed the position of his head and a groan escaped him. He moved his body ever so little, and pain shot all through it."Oh, Oh, Oh," he groaned. After that, for a moment, he lay as quiet as possible. "O, I'm a girl, all right," he told himself. "What am I groaning about? I'll bet Mulvy would take his medicine. That's 'some' boy, Mulvy. Never grunted once, and I hit him all over. O for a little of his 'sand.'"
Just then he moved his arm again, and another moan escaped him. A nurse, passing by, heard him.
"That's all right, little man," she said, "it's painful, but no broken bones; you'll be on your feet soon." Bill shut his jaw tight. His suffering recalled to his mind a story one of the Sisters had told the class a few years previously, of a little boy led into the Roman Amphitheatre to be tortured for the Faith. They made him hold burning coals in his hands and told him that if he dropped them he was giving incense to the idols. He held the coals until they burned right through his hand. A martyr. His picture was hanging on the wall of the class room. An angel was placing a crown on his head and he looked—happy!
"I've been a pretty tough nut," Bill soliloquized, "guess this is my punishment.That martyr kid didn't do any harm. I've done a lot. The fellows aren't a bad set. They gave me a pretty good show. They didn't butt in on the fight. What grit that Mulvy has! I'd have given up, if he was on top—but not him! Gee—the way he just squirmed from under, and started in, as if only beginning. No wonder he plays football! A fellow's eyes tell you when you can't lick him. And cool as a cucumber! And then—'Let's shake!' 'Some boy' that Mulvy kid! And what a cur I was to go and smash things the way I did! And spoil the fellows having the McCormack treat. I'm pretty 'yellow'. And then Father Boone comes over and straightens things out and puts Dad on his feet!
"Well, I'm through with the roughneck stuff. Pretty painful—but you don't catch me groaning again. I'll 'offer it up', like Sister said, for the love of God, to atone for my sins. I've got the sins all right. So here goes for the 'offer up' part. No more grunts, Bill Daly."
He had hardly finished his resolve to bear his pain patiently and without murmur, as an offering to God, when the doctor and nurse approached his bed.
"Well, sonny," began the doctor, "you did quite a circus stunt, I'm told."
Bill grinned for reply, as the doctor proceeded to examine him. It was necessary to press and probe and lift and handle him generally. Every pressure and every slightest movement caused him exquisite pain. But not a murmur escaped him. Once or twice there was an "Oh!" in spite of his best efforts, but not a complaint nor a whimper. Doctor and nurse were surprised. Finally, the doctor said, "Son, either you are not much hurt or you are the pluckiest lad I've ever examined."
"I don't know about the pluck, doctor," he replied, "but I do know that if I were hurt much more, it would be all over with me."
He had hardly finished the words when he fainted. When he came to, the doctor said, "Boy, nothing but dynamite can kill you, and I want to tell you that your name is pluck." They left him for a few minutes and when the nurse returned, she remarked: "You are not seriously injured, but you will be pretty sore for some days, and I want to tell you, you are a little hero."
When she was gone, Bill mused: "I wonder what she'd say to the 'little hero,' if she saw that damaged room and knew it was spite? I'm getting mine. I'll cut out the 'hero' stuff, for a while anyway."
About an hour later, as he was lying quietly on his back, he was delighted to see his mother coming towards him. The sudden movement he made, hurt him dreadfully but he quickly mastered himself, and gave no indication whatever of the pain he experienced. The nurse had given the mother strict orders not to touch him but, when she saw her Willie there before her, the great love she bore him made her forget everything. She threw her arms about him and before he could say a word, had given him a hug and a hearty kiss. It was almost as bad as the doctor's examination. Willie writhed in pain, but he uttered no complaint.
"O my dear, dear boy," exclaimed Mrs. Daly, seeing his efforts at suppressing the pain. "The nurse told me not to touch you, and here I've almost squeezed the life out of you, and made you suffer in every part of your body."
His suffering was so intense that it wassome minutes before Bill could reply to her. At length he said, "O mother, I'm so glad to see you. It seems so long since I left the house yesterday and, mother, life seems so different."
This exhausted him. He just lay still, his mother's hand on his forehead, and her eyes looking into his. In his weakened state, tears soon gathered, not of pain, but of gratefulness, of emotion from a high resolve to bury the old Bill Daly and to live anew.
By degrees they began to talk. She told him of the night before, and the meeting with the boy at the office below, and his kindness to her. Bill was all interest. She could not recall the boy's name and she was a poor hand at description. Bill mentioned a number of his corner chums. The Club boys did not even enter his head. "Think hard, mother, and see if you can't get it. I want to know. I didn't think anyone cared so much for me."
"O yes, now I remember," she replied, "When Father Boone came in he called him Frank."
That was too much for Bill. He thought of a thousand things all at once. His mother, only half understanding, continued: "He wasone of the nicest boys I ever saw. When we got to our house, he took me by the hand and says, 'Don't worry, Mrs. Daly. You've got one of the finest boys in the world, and he'll be home with you soon,' and his voice as kind and as tender as a woman's, God bless him!"
Bill was still thinking. This was the boy he had provoked to fight, the one who had had to take the brunt of the director's anger! Mrs. Daly was rambling on when Bill looked up and asked her if Father Boone had been around.
She was not a little surprised. "Didn't you know about him, dear?" she inquired. Then she proceeded to tell everything in detail, from the time that Father Boone brought her the news until he closed the taxi door and sent her home with Frank. The narration seemed to Bill like a story from a book. He had the illusion, again, of not being a party to the events at all, but just a spectator. Then the thought of his ingratitude came back full force. The kindly and tactful deeds of Father Boone bored into his soul like a red hot iron. What an ingrate he was. Hero! indeed. Such a hero!
While he was thus reflecting, the nursecame over and informed his mother that it was time to go now, as the doctors would be in soon. Reluctantly she bade good-bye to her boy. Wiser by experience, she did not embrace him, but just bent low and kissed him gently on the forehead.
(II)
The doctors made their usual round of the ward, and when they came to Daly, the physician who had dressed his bruises the night before remarked, "Here's the hero kid." The head doctor looked at him kindly. "Well, little man," he said, "the next time you go to a fire, send us word so we can see you perform." They all laughed at this, and Bill smiled. After the examination, the doctor assured him, "Nothing the matter, my boy. You're sound as a dollar, just a little shaken up and bruised; and you'll be out in a few days."
When Mrs. Daly came in again about four o'clock in the afternoon, she was over-joyed to hear the good report of her son's condition. She saw now, however, that he was very serious. Indeed, it had been the most serious day of his life.
All day long Bill had been reflecting on what his mother had told him of Father Boone and of Frank. He had begun to realize that he had something to do besides being grateful to them both. There was a duty to perform. It had been hard to go to the Club when he intended to tell them about the breakage. And now it seemed ten times harder. How could he do it? After all the goodness shown him, to be obliged to admit that he was a thug. The thought had tortured him all the day. It was still racking his mind when his mother came in.
If only Father Boone would come around, he reflected. It would be easier to make a clean breast of it to him. He would understand. Father Boone seemed to understand everything. He'd see, too, that the Bill who had done the rough stuff was changed. He'd know without a lot of explaining, how some things hurt more than pain. The thing to do was to tell Father Boone and let it all rest with him.
That was Bill's conclusion and his resolve. He did not dare tell his mother. He wondered how much the boys knew. His mother, sitting admiringly at his side, told him onepiece of news which pleased him greatly. Father Boone had got his father a good job and he had started in right away. That was why he was not down with her to see him. But he would be around in the evening. While she was telling this, Bill interrupted her.
"O mother, see," he whispered, indicating two nuns who were coming toward them, "and one of them is Sister Mary Thomas."
They were Sisters from the school which Daly had attended before he went to work, and they greeted the mother and her boy sympathetically. After a bit, Mrs. Daly recalled that her husband returning from work would be waiting for his dinner, and she hurried away. The Sisters stayed for some time, giving Bill that comfort which they alone can impart. Before going Sister Mary Thomas placed a crucifix and a pair of beads in his hands. "He suffered for you, William," she said, "and you must also suffer for Him—now especially."
He watched them going out, as he might gaze on departing angels. Then his eyes were turned toward the crucifix. "He suffered in mind as well as body for me," he mused. For Bill was remembering many things now, whichhe had not recalled since the Sisters had taught them to him in his school days. Calvary had a meaning for him now—an atonement for sin and a restoration to goodness. "Some job—to tell on myself," he sighed, "but I'll show the Lord that I mean business."
About seven o'clock in came Frank. Bill was both glad, and not glad, to see him. Everything Frank did for him only made matters harder for Bill. And yet he wanted that boy near him. Bill recognized the combination of strength and goodness in Frank. Indeed, one reason for the fight, had been his envy of Mulvy. But Bill's disposition had undergone a change. After what his mother had told him Frank appeared as a boy of nobler mould than the rest.
Frank began with an offhand, "Well, how goes it, old man?"
"Fine," answered Bill.
"You're all right, Bill. Your stock is pretty high now at the Club."
But Bill was thinking of other things than compliments, and after a moment's silence, Frank decided that the patient was suffering a good deal, and that he'd better go.
"No, don't go yet, Mulvy," Bill begged, "stay with a fellow a little while."
"Why, you are crying, old man," said Frank, as he looked into his face, "you must be suffering terribly. It takes a lot of pain to make you cry."
"It's not pain," he whispered. "It's something worse."
"O, I know, old fellow. You're thinking about your father and mother. But you're not seriously hurt, the nurse told me. Father Boone has been around to see your folks, and he has made them feel all right."
"It's something worse than that," answered Daly. "If I told you, you'd cut me dead, and so would the other fellows."
"Come now, old chap, you are not yourself. You've nothing to worry over. You're a guy that's got sand."
This had a reassuring effect on Bill. A doctor or a nurse might compliment him, but what do they know? But when a boy tells you you have "sand," that's different!
Frank was soon relating to him the fall into the net—the first account Daly had heard of it. Frank went on to tell about the ambulance and Father Boone, and the priest's visit to hisparents, and again how the priest came late at night and went up to see him, his kind words to his mother, and finally his sending her home in the taxi. It all seemed like a movie to Daly.
For some time he lay perfectly quiet. Then, although it cost him a deal of pain, he reached for Frank's hand and grasped it firmly. Their eyes met. Bill felt a great yearning to tell Frank everything. He had fully determined to tell only Father Boone. Even that would be hard. But now he really wanted to tell Frank. It would be such a relief!
While they were still grasping hands, he began, pausing after each sentence and speaking with an effort:
"Mulvy, I'm a cur . . . don't stop me . . . I'm worse . . . Let me go on . . . please . . . I've got to get this off my mind or bust . . . I'm bad, clean through, but from now on, never again . . . You've got a good home. . . . You don't know what mine was . . . drunkenness, fights and the like . . . I've lived in the streets . . . nothing but roughnecks . . . became the worst of the lot . . . My Dad was sent to jail . . . Ma and me were in a bad way . . . no money for rent or food . . .Somehow Father Boone turned up . . . helped us out . . . Then he got me a job . . . After that he put me in the Club . . . I didn't fit there . . . You know that . . . Something you don't know . . . I hated the bunch because they were decent . . . picked a fight with you . . . You licked me . . . yes you did . . . I had to clear out . . . But I was yellow and a thug . . . I fought underhand against you all . . . I did the meanest thing out."
At this point Frank tried to remonstrate with him, but at the same time he was keenly interested in what was coming.
"I hated the whole bunch and Father Boone and everybody. So when the crowd left, I sneaked back and broke a lot of chairs, overturned tables, tore down pictures, threw over the victrola, spilled ink on the floor. I knew it'd queer the crowd with Father Boone and spoil the McCormack treat. I got square . . . but . . . well, someone else has got square too. There are different kinds of pain, and my worst now is not my injuries."
There was a moment's silence. Frank was too much amazed to say a word. Bill continued: "I'm taking my medicine. If I'm notthe right sort the rest of my life, I hope to be cut and quartered. Look at Father Boone right afterwards helping my Dad . . . He'n' I had a terrible scrap. We'd have killed each other only for mother. Then she got Father Boone to come over. I don't know what he did—but—well, it was all different when I got back. Dad put out his hand to me. We knelt down. Said the 'Hail Holy Queen.' Father took the pledge. I felt like a whipped cur, all next day. I saw I'd have to square myself at any cost. That's why I came to the Club. You know the rest."
Here he paused, heaved a sigh, and exclaimed, "O God, what a relief."
Frank's feelings can be imagined. Here was the key to the mystery, and Father Boone justified. Apparently he had known all about the wreck—and it was natural to suppose that it was the work of a crowd. What a surprise to the director to see that damaged room! And worse—no explanation. It was all clear to Frank now. The fog was lifted. The missing parts of the picture fitted into place. But what of Father Boone?
After a brief silence, which seemed to both a very long while, Frank gave an extra squeezeto Daly's hand and said, "It's all right, Bill, we'll stand together. You can count on me to the limit."
The look of gratitude in Daly's face told Frank that there was now a special bond between them.
"You have told me so much, old man," he said, "that I suppose you won't mind if I ask you a few questions?"
"All you want," replied Daly.
"Well, first of all, does Father Boone know anything about the affair?"
"Not as far as I know. I was intending to tell him that night of the fire, but you saw how it turned out. First I was going to tell the fellows, and then see Father Boone and squeal on myself to him."
"Daly—that was a dirty job . . . but it's past and done. You're no longer yellow. Only one in a million would come back as you're doing. We're chums, Bill Daly, through thick and thin."
"I like you for that, Mulvy, and I hope you'll never regret it. Here's something," he continued, timidly showing the crucifix in his other hand. "I've promised Him, never a crooked thing again,—and a promise to Himmeans no going back." They joined hands—and hearts. They were comrades now. With a look which showed that the past was buried, Frank tenderly said,
"How's the pain, old man?"
"Well, since I've told you so much, I'll tell you a little more. It's something awful. I'm not doing any baby stunts,—but—just the same I've got an awful dose. While on the broad of my back, thinking, and in pain, I remembered that martyr boy the Sister told us about, who held the burning coals in his hands, and I said to myself, 'Bill Daly, that kid didn't have your score, but see what he endured for God.' And that's when I promised. I just told Him I deserved it all, I'd take it for penance, and I promised to cut out the cry-baby stuff."
"Daly, you're a brick."
To which Bill rejoined, "And Mulvy, you're all gold—twenty-two carat."
"You'll get over that, Daly," replied Frank. "I must be going now. Mum is the word. What you've told me, is the same as not said. I'll not breathe it to a living soul."
A tempest raged in Frank's soul. His was a magnanimous character, and it pained him tothink that circumstances should have framed for Father Boone, such a strong case against him. The director had placed absolute confidence in him. No wonder he showed such indignation. "And wasn't it just like Father Boone—to turn in a half dozen men and fix things up at once, and then wait for developments as if nothing had happened!"
Frank made his way toward the Club. "If I can get hold of the janitor," he thought, "I can find out all I want to know." He turned off to the street where the janitor lived, and soon found his man.
"Good evening, Mr. Dunn," he began.
"Good evening, sir."
In an apparently indifferent manner, Frank led up to his objective. But old Dunn suspected something right from the start. It is true that Father Boone had not imposed silence in regard to the mischief at the Club, but the janitor was a sensible and loyal man, and he judged that if Father Boone wanted anything to be said about the affair, he would say it himself. The indifference that Dunn displayed whenever Frank tried to lead up to the point, was amazing. The boy finally gave up the flank attack and tried the front.
"Mr. Dunn, that was quite a bit of damage we had over there the other day, wasn't it?"
"Quite a bit," said Dunn, "but I guess Daly was not hurt as badly as we thought at first."
"Oh, I don't refer to the fire, but to the Club," observed Frank.
"There was no fire at the Club, as far as I know," remarked Dunn.
"No, but there was a whole lot of breakage over there, and you know all about it. Now, how in the name of Sam Hill did they fix things up by the time we got there in the evening?"
"Young man, if you want to know anything about the Club, I think you'll find Father Boone in his office at his usual hours. And now good night!"
"By gum," muttered Frank, "the old snoozer's no fool. I'll bet if he had an education, he'd be on top somewhere."
Meanwhile, Father Boone was in the Club office attending to the little matters that came up daily. He was poring over a letter which had come in the afternoon mail. It was written on exceptionally fine paper, and was signed "James Roberts." The director indulgedin a moment's speculation. "Roberts, Roberts," he reflected. "New name to me. I wonder what he wants. I hope it's not a complaint," he sighed, as he turned back to the first page.