"Reverend Sir:I trust you will pardon my addressing you without knowing your name. I am sending this letter to the head of the Boys' Club, as that is as definite as I can be for the moment. Later, I hope to call on you personally.I have just returned from Cuba and found my family in the Hotel Plaza instead of at their home, where I left them. They have informed me of what you already know better than myself. It was my house that was on fire, and my wife and daughter attribute the saving of their lives to a boy of your Club, who hitched up the detached ladder, and in doing so, met with such a dreadful accident.I've been home for only an hour, but my first duty, I consider, is to convey to you my gratitude and to inquire what Ican do for the boy. If you will let me know where he is, I shall have a trained nurse sent to care for him, and I shall consider it my privilege to do anything else that is possible.I await your reply.Gratefully,James D. Roberts."
"Reverend Sir:
I trust you will pardon my addressing you without knowing your name. I am sending this letter to the head of the Boys' Club, as that is as definite as I can be for the moment. Later, I hope to call on you personally.
I have just returned from Cuba and found my family in the Hotel Plaza instead of at their home, where I left them. They have informed me of what you already know better than myself. It was my house that was on fire, and my wife and daughter attribute the saving of their lives to a boy of your Club, who hitched up the detached ladder, and in doing so, met with such a dreadful accident.
I've been home for only an hour, but my first duty, I consider, is to convey to you my gratitude and to inquire what Ican do for the boy. If you will let me know where he is, I shall have a trained nurse sent to care for him, and I shall consider it my privilege to do anything else that is possible.
I await your reply.
Gratefully,James D. Roberts."
Father Boone never allowed his correspondence to accumulate. Every evening saw his desk cleared. No letter that called for a reply was left over for the next day, if he could possibly help it. He answered this letter even before he read the rest which were on the table before him.
"My dear Mr. Roberts:I want to thank you for your letter. The boy is out of danger, and is getting the best of care at the Lawrence Hospital. I shall let him know of your kind inquiry, and of your wish to be of assistance to him.With kindest regards,Sincerely,Jerome Boone, S.J."
"My dear Mr. Roberts:
I want to thank you for your letter. The boy is out of danger, and is getting the best of care at the Lawrence Hospital. I shall let him know of your kind inquiry, and of your wish to be of assistance to him.
With kindest regards,
Sincerely,Jerome Boone, S.J."
"A good man to interest in Willie's family," he reflected, as he addressed the letter.
Father Boone was always planning how he could help people. Every time he made the acquaintance of anyone in a position of authority or influence, he seized the opportunity to remark:
"If you ever need a good bright boy, let me know, and I shall send you one with whom you will be satisfied."
In this way, he got many a boy placed in a good position. Often, too, he got jobs for their fathers. He was always so careful to recommend only the right sort, that a word from Father Boone was the best recommendation a man or boy could have in getting work.
Just as he finished his letter to Mr. Roberts, he heard a knock at his door, and a moment later, a bright little chap of about thirteen presented himself.
"Good evening, Vincent," said the priest. "What can I do for you?"
"Please, Father," began the lad, "my father is home from work three weeks now with rheumatism, and mother says would you give me a line to some place downtown to get a job?"
"Well, my little man, have you got your working papers?"
"Yes, Father, my mother went with me to the City Hall this morning and got them."
"It's too bad, Vinc., that a bright boy like you must give up school so soon. But I suppose your mother wouldn't do this unless she had to. I'll get you a place, and then we must see about your keeping up your studies at night school." He wrote a line or two, and addressing the envelope, gave it to the boy.
"Now, Vincent, I am sorry to do this, but you just make the best of it. I'm sending you to a very nice place with a good chance for advancement. The pay is not much, but you're only thirteen, and it's a fine start. Now that you are starting out, mark well what I say: Make yourself so useful that when there is a vacancy higher up, you will be the first boy they'll think about. And what you do, do pleasantly. Good-bye and God bless you. And," he added, as Vincent was going out the door, "let me know from time to time how you are doing."
The boy had gone but a few steps when, with a jerk, he wheeled round and returned."O Father, excuse me," he faltered, "I forgot to thank you."
"That's all right," said the priest. "The best way to thank me will be to let me hear a good report of you."
The priest's next thought was, "I must run down to the hospital, and see Willie. But he does not worry me so much just now as Frank does. I can't make out his conduct in regard to this Club mix-up. He is certainly an honorable boy and most considerate, and yet he has left me in the dark all this time. He knows that 'committees' are not my way of doing business. After last night, I'd like to drop the whole matter. But it is not an affair of sentiment. I must see it through for his sake, and for the sake of the rest also. If nothing develops before tomorrow night, I'll take the initiative myself. I hate that, and I'd much rather they'd do the right thing of their own accord. But,—" he shut down his desk, put on his hat and coat, and started for the hospital.
Frank, at the same time, was on his way from Dunn's to the Club. Once more he was going straight to the director,—to tell him now, that there must be a misunderstanding,and that he was sorry to see him grieved. He saw the director's point of view—of course he couldn't explain—but perhaps Father Boone would understand that he wasn't really slipping so badly.
He was walking pretty fast, with his head down, his chin buried in his coat collar, and his hands deep in his pockets. Buried in his thoughts, he did not see Father Boone approaching on his way to the hospital. The priest was almost on top of him before he was aware of his presence. Looking up suddenly he tipped his hat and stammered—"Good evening, Father."
"Good evening, sir," answered the priest and hurried on.
Frank stopped. He was dumfounded. "Good evening,sir!Sir, is it? So it's 'sir' now? Good evening,sir." He kept on repeating the phrase, indignation following his astonishment. He knew where the priest was going, and realized that the interview with him could not be held that evening. Another day of torture stood before him. He was about to give free rein to his feeling of injustice when he recollected again that the priest with the data he possessed was perfectly right in hisattitude. So, instead of going to the Club, he turned aside and went into the church. It was always open from five in the morning until ten at night. Going up to the altar of the Sacred Heart, he knelt down and prayed.
Long and earnestly he poured out his soul to God, ending with the words, "Accept, O Sacred Heart of Jesus, my sad heart as a sacrifice and bless my father and mother and Bill Daly and Father Boone."
So saying, he arose light-hearted and made his way into the street. He actually began to whistle, and when a boy whistles, he is all right with the world. He did not mind now how misunderstood he might be. It was no longer a load of lead that weighed him down. Rather, his sorrow had turned to gold. It was something that God esteemed. He had been able to give God something acceptable to Him, because it had cost him a good deal. That made him happy.
Father Boone was on his way to the hospital when he had met Frank so abruptly. For an instant he too had held his breath. Then as he hurried on, he could not but wonder whether Frank's chin in collar, hands deep in pockets attitude, had meant that he was trying toslink past. Certainly his greeting had been sudden and disturbed. "Well," declared the priest to himself, "I'll settle this whole thing tomorrow. It's gone on long enough."
Father Boone entered the hospital and ascending the stairway leading to the office, found himself before the Bureau of Information.
"How is that little fire hero?" he asked of the clerk.
"I'll 'phone up and see," was the reply.
"O, don't mind, I am going right up. I just asked because I thought you had news of him here."
"It's only the serious patients whose condition we have here, Father," answered the clerk.
"In that case," remarked the priest, "at least he is not seriously ill; that is some news anyway."
There was a sign on the door of the ward saying: "Closed, doctors visiting." He knew that this did not apply to him, as he was allowed entrance any hour of the day or night. Still, as it was not an urgent case, he decided to wait until the doctors came out. The nurse at the desk offered him her chair, which he declined with thanks.
"But, if you don't mind," he said, "I'll sit on the edge of this table."
"Certainly, Father," she replied, "until I run and get you a chair."
"No, no," he protested, "I like this much better."
So the ice was broken.
"You have got one of my little fellows inside," he continued. "How is he getting along?"
"You mean that Daly boy?"
He nodded assent.
"Why, we are all in love with him. He is one grand boy. This morning the doctor had to remove some loose skin from his arm, and he found that he would have to do a little cutting of the flesh to get at some of the skin which had become imbedded. The boy heard him say to me, 'It will hurt him like the mischief.' The lad spoke up, 'Go ahead, Doc. If you can stand it, I guess I can.'
"The doctor didn't want to use cocaine on it, so he took the boy at his word. It was simply terrific, Father! We had to pull the skin out with pincers. He just tightened his jaws, and never let out a moan. That boy is a credit to you. He has always taken justwhat was given him and has been no trouble to anybody."
As Father Boone was getting ready to reply, the doctors passed into the next ward.
The priest went in at once to see his patient. Daly's eyes, as big as saucers, greeted him.
"Well, that was a nice scare you gave us all, you little rascal," was the priest's greeting. All Bill could do was grin. "They tell me there is nothing the matter with you, that you are just a bit frightened."
"O, I don't know about the frightened part," rejoined Daly, "I guess there was somebody else in that boat, as well as myself."
"My boy, I want to congratulate you. Not on your ladder stunt, anyone could do that, and not fall off, either; but on your fortitude here. True, there are no bones broken or anything like that, but you've had a lot of acute pain to endure, and they tell me you have not whimpered. You have given the Club a good name here. William, I am proud of you."
Poor Bill! All day long he had been fortifying his resolution to tell Father Boone everything. But after this praise from the priest, he could no more touch on the affair than fly.Two or three times he made an attempt to begin, but the words stuck in his throat. They talked on a lot of things, but after that first allusion to the Club, there did not seem to be another opening for Bill. At last, however, he made one great effort.
"Father," he cried out, "there is something on my mind, I must let it out! It's got me all on fire inside. I'll burn up unless I out with it."
Father Boone could see his excitement and knowing that the boy was in an overwrought condition, which must not be made worse, took him quietly by the hand, patted his head and said, "Now that's all right, Willie. Don't take things to heart so much; we'll have a good talk when you are yourself again." He saw Bill look steadily into his eyes and swallow once or twice, but he did not understand that the words of an accusation were sticking in the boy's throat and blocking his speech. So thinking that the lad had need of rest and quiet, he spoke a few kindly words and withdrew.
Daly felt like calling after him, but before he could make up his mind, Father Boone had gone. Usually, the priest did not leave a bedsidewithout suggesting confession, if the patient were at all seriously ill. Even if the illness were slight, he frequently took occasion of it to reconcile the sick person with God, and to bring into the soul that comfort which goes so far to restore health to the body, besides bringing solace and healing to the mind. But as director of the Club, he felt a special delicacy in suggesting confession to one of his boys, and since, just now, Bill had seemed bordering on hysteria, the priest believed that a little reassurance was the proper thing.
"The poor boy got a worse shaking up than he is aware of," he thought, "but it will pass off soon. I shall see him tomorrow, and arrange to bring him Holy Communion. The dear Lord will do the rest." So he hastened home.
Daly, meanwhile, had quieted down somewhat. But reflections came thick and fast. "Father Boone congratulated me, did he? If he only knew what he was congratulating! Yes, I'm a brave boy! Couldn't open my mouth. Mulvy would act that way,—not! I wish I had a little of his 'sand.' Gee, next time I've got to get it out—even if it chokes me!"
He turned over and tried to sleep. The lights were low in the ward now, and a great quiet reigned. But sleep would not come. He began by counting sheep going through a gate. One, two, three—he got up to a hundred, and there before his eyes was a big black sheep stuck in the gate. "That's me," he uttered, and stopped the count. Then he tried going up a very high stairs, counting the steps one by one. At last he got to the top and looking about he saw a room, in disorder. Broken chairs, upset tables, pictures on the floor, and a boy spilling ink. "That's me," he sighed. Then he rehearsed all that his mother and Frank had told him of Father Boone's kindness. He saw the ambulance rushing along and the priest watching tenderly over an unconscious form. "That's me," he thought to himself.
He began to feel very thirsty. "I wish I had a drink," he sighed. An hour passed, two, three. He heard the clock strike twelve. A nurse was passing. He called to her and asked her for a drink of water. She drew near to him, observed his dry hot face and glistening eyes. His tongue was parched and thick. She felt his pulse. Then she took out a thermometerand put it in his mouth. He submitted patiently to it all, but when the thermometer was withdrawn, he said beseechingly, "Please give me a drink."
The nurse assured him that she would attend to him and left his side. Going to her desk in the corridor, she called the house surgeon. "I think, doctor," she told him over the phone, "you'd better come up. That Daly boy has quite a temperature." The doctor was soon in consultation with her, and together they went to the patient. After a careful inspection, they withdrew.
"Typhoid," exclaimed the doctor.
"I was afraid so," she replied.
The next morning Father Boone, in his office, at the Club, sent for Thomas Dunn. When the janitor came, the priest said, "It is several days now since that room was upset. I expected the boys to report it at once. But not even the officials have said a word to me yet. I know I could find out about it if I wished to quiz them, but I don't want to do that. It may have been some sort of a mix-up in which the fellows all feel that to say a word about it would be mean. They may not take the serious view of it that I do. So now I am going to start in, in my own way, to get at the bottom of it. And I begin with you. Have you observed anything that would give me a clue?"
"Well no, I can't say that I have," replied Dunn. "The lads have been unusually well behaved since that night."
"Very well, but if you should come across anything that will throw light on the mystery, let me know."
Dunn turned to go, but suddenly recollected something. "I don't know whether it's much of a clue, Father, or if it's worth while mentioning, but one of the boys was over to my house last night seeming to want me to talk on the matter."
"Why, that's a straw that shows how the wind blows. Who was the boy?"
"Well, you know, Father, I don't know the boys much by name. But as he was going out I called my boy Harry and I says to him, 'Harry, who is that chap, do you know'?
"'Yes, Pa,' he says, and he gave me his name, but I forget it. I'll have to ask Harry, if you like, and let you know this evening."
"Very well, Thomas, do so."
Dunn left, and was half way downstairs when he turned back again. "Pardon me, Father, but I think I've got the name or near it. Harry said the boy was Murray, but I'm not quite sure, but it was Murray, or Murphy, or Mulvy or some such name."
At the name Mulvy, an electric spark seemed to pass through the director. Dunndid not notice it, as he went out at once. He caught the words "Thank you, Thomas," as he was leaving the room, and that was all.
But Father Boone! This was adding insult to injury! So Mulvy did know something about it! And instead of coming to the director, he had gone over to the janitor! A nice way for a trusted and honorable boy to act!
Father Boone had been trying all along to convince himself that somehow Mulvy would come out of it clear and clean. He had thought of a thousand excuses for the delay—questions of divided allegiance or some point or other of honor and so on. But Mulvy's going to the janitor to get information looked like an underhand mission, certainly. What for?—To find out what the director knew, or how he had taken it—or to arrange some explanation?
All these questions shot through his mind with the rapidity of lightning. None of them carried its own answer. All of them seemed out of harmony with what he knew of Mulvy. And yet, there were the facts.
(II)
The parochial school was around the corner from the church and club and it was at this very hour that the department of which young Harry Dunn was a member had been turned loose in the play yard for recess. A game of tag was soon on, and Dunn, dodging in and out, ran right into Ned Mullen. The collision sent Dunn sprawling to the ground. He was two years younger than Ned, but very stocky. It was nobody's fault that he got the bump; but nevertheless as soon as he rose to his feet, he rushed at Ned and gave him a kick in the shins. Ned's first impulse was to box his ears, but as the boy was so small, he merely took hold of him and gave him a good shaking.
Dunn began to blubber. In a thrice a crowd gathered, and Dunn, seeing that he was being teased, got ugly. Turning to Ned, who was about to back off with Tommy, he cried out: "Yes, you belong to the crowd that smashed up things! Father Boone will fix you!"
The threat didn't mean much to Tommy and Ned and they walked away.
Harry Dunn, however, had heard just enough from his father about the Club damage to think he could best get even by tellinghis teacher about it. So, when the boys got into their school rooms again, he tried to tell the Sister that two fellows had thrown him down in the yard. She paid no attention to him. After class, he went to her again, and said that the boys who broke things at the Club were trying to pick on him. "Mind your own business, Harry," she said, "and nobody will pick on you, you little tattletale." As the boys say, he got "his."
That afternoon Father Boone, passing through the school after class, stopped to talk to the Sister in the vestibule. Just then along came young Dunn.
"Here's a young gentleman who is talking about a row at the Club," she said to the priest, as she held the lad by her eye. She thought the boy had made a mountain out of a mole hill, and that the director's shrug or laugh would show the youngster where he stood. Instead, Father Boone grew instantly serious. The Sister saw she had made a mistake, but before she could change the subject, he said, disregarding the boy:
"It was bad business, Sister. I feel ashamed and hurt about it. I did not think my boys would act so."
Then he continued, "But how did you know about it, Sister?"
"O, a little bird told me."
"Indeed, and may I ask what the little bird told you?"
"Really, Father, it's not worth while referring to. I shouldn't have recalled it but for that young lad who passed us this moment. You know him, don't you?"
"I can't say that I do."
"He is Harry Dunn, Father, the son of your janitor."
"O, that's interesting, Sister; so it seems that I know less—"
At this moment he was interrupted by a messenger who told him that he was wanted for a sick call. He hurried to the rectory. A woman in the parlor was waiting to give him the name and address of a sick person. "Why, that," he exclaimed, "is the house where the Dalys live."
"Yes, Father."
"How old is this boy you say is so ill?"
"About twelve, Father."
"Do you know whether he is seriously ill; has the doctor been there?"
"O yes, Father, and he said the boy hadtyphoid. There is another case in the house also, and the Board of Health has been around."
He promised to go at once to administer the consolations of religion to the sick boy. "I am glad the Board of Health is on the ground," he said to himself, as he was on his way over. "From what I saw of conditions there, it's a wonder they're not all down with typhoid. I suppose Willie would have had it, except that he is such a robust and active lad."
When the priest had finished his ministrations, he went up to the Daly flat. After his knock at the door, he heard quick movements inside and then a rather long silence. He rapped again. This time the door was opened and Mrs. Daly met him. The reason for the delay was evident. She had been crying and did not care to exhibit herself to a neighbor. But on seeing Father Boone she broke out afresh, at the same time showing him a telegram she had just received from the hospital. It read: "William Daly dangerously ill. You will be admitted any hour." It was signed by the superintendent.
Father Boone put two and two together,"Typhoid." He made up his mind at once just what to do. "You stay here until I send a cab for you; then come along." He himself hurried downstairs, walked quickly over to the trolley and in ten minutes was at the hospital. Not until he got there did he go to the phone and call up a taxi for Mrs. Daly. He had a good start now, and could pave the way for her.
Going immediately to the ward, he found the nurse at Daly's bedside. "Rather sudden," he remarked.
"Very," she replied.
"There were no signs last night, nurse, as far as I could see. What seems to be the matter?"
"Typhoid."
All this was in a whisper.
He continued, "I'll just see how he is and say a few words to him before his mother comes."
"He is delirious, Father."
"Maybe he'll know me," he said, and bent over the patient. He took his hand gently, saying, "Willie boy, you have not said 'hello' to me yet." No answer. "You know Father Boone, don't you, Willie?"
"Hello, Frank," was the response. "I wish I had your 'sand.' I say, Frank," he continued, "I'm starting right when this thing is over." He paused for a moment and then resumed. "I don't blame the fellows. I'm down on myself now." Another pause. "Frank, you tell Father Boone I'm sorry. I want to see him. You are a brick. I am . . . O, I'll tell . . . the whole thing if it . . . chokes me." This last was said with an effort.
Father Boone attributed all he was saying to delirium. He realized that the patient's condition was serious, and prepared to give him the Last Sacraments. As he took out the Holy Oils, and was about to anoint him the boy's eyes looked calmly at him and he uttered the words: "Hello, Father."
The priest was very glad that the boy was conscious, and not knowing how long he would remain so, he started to hear his confession as quickly as possible. He began by receiving from him a general acknowledgment of his sins and contrition for them, intending, if time permitted, to hear his confession in detail. "You are sorry for all the sins of your life, my child?"
"Yes, Father."
"Say the Act of Contrition."
He began: "O my God, I am most heartily sorry for all my sins and I . . . and I . . . and . . ."
When Father Boone saw that William was lapsing into unconsciousness, he took a crucifix and holding it to the boy's lips, said, "Kiss the crucifix, my child, and say, 'Jesus have mercy on me.'" As he gave him absolution, he heard him murmur, "Jesus . . . have mer. . . ." and off he fell again into delirium.
The priest was sorry that the confession had been cut short, but was very glad that he was able to give him absolution. Then he anointed him, for Daly's condition did not permit of his receiving Holy Viaticum. The priest had barely finished the administration of the last rites, when Mrs. Daly appeared. He quickly approached her and cautioned her sternly not to show emotion in the presence of the patient, as any excitement would only make his condition worse.
"O my Willie, my Willie," was her answer, and her body shook with emotion. "Willie was the good boy, he was the good boy to his mother. O blessed Mother, help me now in my hour."
The first burst of grief over, she really showed wonderful control and approached the bed quite calmly. Bill was now sleeping. The mother sat by his side with her hand on his. Seeing that the priest was waiting, she said, "Are you waiting to give him the Sacraments, Father?"
"No, I have already done that," he replied, "but, if you don't mind, I'll wait for you."
"No, no, Father dear," she said, "don't wait for me, for I am afraid it would be a long wait."
He considered for a moment, and decided to leave.
(III)
On his way home, Father Boone had time to review the occurrence at the school earlier in the day. It was the Dunn boy whom the Sister had pointed out, as she told him the little incident. He said the Club boys were "picking on him." It could be that they were retaliating for something connected with the Club affair. He did not like the set of things. But if he could have seen what was occurring in some other quarters, he might have liked the looks of things still less.
After school, Ned and Tommy sought Frank. The Regal High was but a short distance from the parochial school.
"Say, Frank," began Ned, "that Dunn kid is a fresh guy. Today, after bumping into Tommy and me, he got ugly and gave me a kick. I shook him up a bit, and he starts in and blabs about the fight with you and 'Bull.' Afterwards, he told the Sister about it, only he made it ten times worse than it was. To hear him talk you would think we had a free fight over there. He spoke of breaking things and a lot of stuff like that."
Of course Frank saw at once what had happened. Harry had heard his father mention the damaged room. He kept his surmises to himself, however, replying, "O, don't mind that fellow, he's only a kid."
"But, Frank," continued Ned, "if you heard how the thing has spread and how your name is mixed up in it, you'd mind."
Frank laughed off this observation, and tried to turn the talk to something else. But as they walked along, they were stopped by at least three different boys who asked what the row at the Club had been.
By that time Frank began to get anxious.The mix-up was bad enough to face when only the Club and Father Boone and his mother knew. How could the explanation ever catch up with the story—especially if young Dunn got to talking! Of course, in the end everything would come out all right. In due time, Father Boone would learn the truth from Daly himself, but meanwhile—
He knew his mother was as much upset about the misunderstanding as himself. And to have affairs still further complicated would be pretty bad. Father Boone must know a good deal, for the place could not have been set right without his knowledge. But he did not know who had done it, nor any of the details. That was evident from Daly's story, and so up to now, he was angry with Frank because he had not reported. It had all the evidences of a free row surely—and his indignation was justified—and especially against an official. But now suppose this talk should reach Father Boone and that it should associate him with the affair as one of its leaders!
The very thought made Frank shudder, until he recalled that Bill was not only willing, but anxious to make a clean breast of his spiteful deed. So in the end, all would turnout right. For the time being, he was under a cloud. There was nothing to do but wait for the wind to blow it away or the sun to dissipate it.
But even as he meditated, the cloud was getting thicker and blacker. He had hardly returned to school for the afternoon session, when his teacher asked him if the report were true, that he was deposed from his office as secretary. The inquiry gave him a distinct shock. He had the greatest respect and affection for his professor, and that Mr. Collins should entertain for a moment the thought that he had done anything to deserve the censure of Father Boone, was very painful to him.
"This is the first I have heard of it," Frank answered.
"I am so glad I was misinformed," was the reply.
That afternoon, Frank's thoughts could not be held in check. There was just the possibility that Father Boone had taken some further action. When his name was called for recitation in Caesar his mind was elsewhere. It was not like Frank to hesitate when called upon, but now he was at sea. Theteacher saw his predicament, and having genuine regard for him said, "Don't you agree with the preceding translation? Smith, try that passage again." Smith repeated and Frank, now master of the situation, took up the portion assigned him. But his mind soon wandered away again. He began to reflect on the consideration his teacher had shown him, and to wonder if his absent-mindedness suggested the disquiet of a guilty conscience. It seemed as though every fellow in the class was watching him.
When school was out, he went to Mr. Collins to thank him. "I was all upset, sir, by what you said before class."
"I'm sorry, Frank, that I referred to the matter at all. I really was sure, knowing you as I do, that it was a false rumor."
"Thank you, Mr. Collins."
After school, Frank went straight to the Club to see if Father Boone were there, and to find out from him if there were anything back of the report. The priest was not in his office. Frank turned into the reading room and from force of habit went to look at the notice board where the items of interest to the Club were usually posted. To his amazement he read:
"The Office of Secretary is hereby discontinued. Members will hereafter deal personally with the Director.Jerome Boone."
"The Office of Secretary is hereby discontinued. Members will hereafter deal personally with the Director.
Jerome Boone."
Frank's head was in a whirl. He began to get dizzy. Falling back into a chair, he repeated again and again: "The office of Secretary is hereby discontinued." "A direct slap!" he gasped. "Condemned unheard. It is not fair. That's no way to deal with a fellow. It's an outrage. I did not believe that Father Boone could do such a thing. Condemned, disgraced and the whole parish talking about it! It will cut my mother to the very heart. I've got to keep it from her—to put a stop to it right now. I'll go to the rectory and have it out with him. This is what I get for not taking a firm stand in the beginning."
He sat with his head on his arms on the table. His inclination was to give way to his feelings, but after a moment, he jumped up, stood erect and exclaimed, "I'll win out."
He started for the rectory, but on his way, he began to hesitate. "What grievance have I got anyway? When it comes down to'kicking,' what 'kick' have I got coming? From Daly's own story, there was an awful job done. No one on earth could believe it the work of one or two. Father Boone naturally expected some word from me. And if old Dunn told him I was over there pumping him—? That was a bad move—puts me in deeper. Young Dunn was only repeating what he got from his father. It certainly looks bad. And if I start something, what can I say? I'd be cornered, no matter which way I'd turn. The only thing to do is to lie low for a while, and let things shape themselves. Daly'll tell the whole thing himself and then it will be my turn. And then Father Boone—gee—I'll feel sorry for him then!" So Frank put off his visit to the priest and went home.
(IV)
If Frank had experienced a sense of relief in deciding not to see the priest, it was short-lived. He walked into his home, and faced Father Boone and his mother engaged in serious conversation. His heart leaped into his mouth. The worst had happened! The priest evidently considered this affair so serious that he had come to see his mother.And it would break her heart to have a priest complain of him! And especially Father Boone—that would be a dagger thrust! These and like thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant.
As a matter of fact, Frank's deductions were all wrong. Mrs. Mulvy was the President of the Parish Relief Association of which Father Boone had charge. Hence it was not unusual for him to call on Mrs. Mulvy to give her a list of poor to be visited and helped. He was on such an errand now.
Father Boone's method of directing a club found no place for carrying information to parents. He preferred to settle matters with the boys themselves, and in a manner that would be helpful to them, and that would leave no sting. In his mind, it would be an acknowledgment of defeat if he had to carry a case into the home. He had never done it yet.
After his instant of hesitation, and convinced that he knew the subject of conversation, Frank assumed an indifferent air and stepped forward to greet the priest. Father Boone continued to talk. Frank waited a moment, bewildered, and then said, "Good afternoon, Father."
"Good afternoon,sir," was the response.
Frank stiffened, every muscle of his body became like steel. He could not look at his mother. If he did, he might break down and he did not want to give the director that satisfaction. So he stood facing the priest.
All three were embarrassed. Mrs. Mulvy knew the significance of thatsir. Frank, sure now of his suspicions, made a desperate plunge.
"I am sorry, Father, that you felt obliged to carry this matter to my mother, but I suppose you know best."
Father Boone literally gasped. For a moment he looked at Mrs. Mulvy, then he turned back to Frank. Realizing that the matter had come to an issue, and without his doing, he said, in a deliberate, penetrating tone,
"Frank Mulvy, do you, or do you not, know anything about that shameful destruction at the Club?" Already Frank saw his folly. He was in just the corner he had foreseen. Acknowledgment would mean the betrayal of a sacred confidence. Every moment of silence was agony to his mother. Denial he could not make, for he had never in his whole life made a conscious mis-statement. Silence was fatal. Denial was impossible.Acknowledgment was betrayal of Bill's confidence. What could he do?
Again the priest said slowly and solemnly: "Do . . . you . . . or . . . do you . . . not . . . know . . . about that act of destruction?"
"Speak up, Frank," his mother said, imploringly.
At the sound of that voice and the look of that face, he collapsed. His pent up emotions of the past days burst out in sobs, his body shook convulsively. Both priest and mother tried to soothe him. That only made it worse. Father Boone turned away and stood at the window, looking out. Then with only a quiet and casual good-bye, he took up his hat and left.
Hardly had the door closed behind him when Frank threw his arms about his mother, and burst into renewed sobs. Mrs. Mulvy was puzzled and distressed but she had full faith in her boy. She let him have his cry out, and then said gently: "Don't mind, dear, you are mother's best boy; she knows this will come out all right."
"O mother, if you feel that way, and will trust me, without asking me a single question, I promise you it will come out more than all right."
"Very well, darling," she replied, "I'll say nothing again on the matter except you yourself bring it up."
"O, I'm so glad, mother, because now I can see it through. I don't mind what others say or think as long as it is all right with you."
"But I feel so sorry for Father Boone," she sighed. "He is apparently all at sea. He thinks the world of you, Frank, and that is what hurts him."
"I know, mother, and that is what hurts me, too, but there is no help for it at present. He's got to get all the facts first—and I can't—" He broke off and then added, shyly, "You know, mother, I think we are a good deal the same. Only, of course, his will is so strong, he won't show what he feels. The other day there were tears in his eyes, but he didn't know I was seeing him."
"Mother is proud of her boy to hear him talk that way. I'm so glad that you're not angry with poor Father Boone—it is hard on him."
"Maybe I would be, mother, if I did not know him so well."
A great load was off Frank's mind and the tension was gone. Nothing could matter now.He could face anything and everything. He realized that, at most, only a few days would intervene before Bill Daly would clear up the mystery.
(V)
When Father Boone left Mrs. Mulvy and Frank, he had indeed troublesome thoughts for companion. The conviction that Frank knew a good deal about the matter was now absolutely sure. Evidently, also, the boy was in some way implicated in a conspiracy of silence. His whole appearance showed that he was holding back something and that he was doing so reluctantly. His complete collapse indicated a great interior struggle. It also showed that the boy was naturally high-minded and noble. For otherwise, he never would have broken down, as he did.
But what was holding him back? Why should he fear to trust the director? He found no answer to free him from his quandary. He would gladly settle the whole matter, and regard the affair closed, if he considered only his own feelings. But his duty to the boys must not be shirked because it caused present pain to himself or others. "Betterto have a tooth pulled," he said, "than to have it the source of future trouble."
When Father Boone entered his room, he found several letters on his desk. They were mostly Church matters. But one was different. It was on better quality of stationery than the ordinary. The envelope and the paper bore a monogram. Opening it, he found these lines:
Dear Father Boone:I want to thank you for all your kindness to John. Enclosed is a little contribution for the Club. Hereafter, it will be impossible for John to attend the Club meetings, and so I request you to drop his name from membership.Sincerely yours,Julia Harkins.(Mrs. John Harkins.)To Rev. Jerome Boone, S. J.
Dear Father Boone:
I want to thank you for all your kindness to John. Enclosed is a little contribution for the Club. Hereafter, it will be impossible for John to attend the Club meetings, and so I request you to drop his name from membership.
Sincerely yours,Julia Harkins.(Mrs. John Harkins.)
To Rev. Jerome Boone, S. J.
John Harkins resigned from the Club!... Anyone who knew Father Boone's ideas about the Club would have understood at once what this resignation meant to him. Mrs. Harkins' letter didn't explain why it was "impossible for John to attend the Club" but it wasclearly written between the lines. John Harkins was a boy enjoying exceptional home advantages and his refinement, manliness and social standards made him just the type to give "tone" to the Club.
Mrs. Harkins was rightly very careful of the associations her son formed, and Father Boone had been her guarantee that in the Club John would mingle with perhaps poor, but good and manly boys. Evidently rumors of the affair had reached her.
"The Club is discredited! The director has been asleep. Cockle in the field. And here I am sitting and allowing the weeds to grow and the wheat to be choked. I will get to the bottom of this at once. With the Club's name in question, I am certainly justified in drastic action—in probing the matter directly. I will send for Mulvy right away. I should have done it long ago."
In answer to his summons, Frank was on hand a half hour ahead of time that evening, but not ahead of Father Boone. He went straight to the director's office and found him engaged at his desk.
"Sit down, Frank," the priest began, as he stopped work. "I am going to get right downto business. I am speaking to you as an official of the Club. The Club is being discredited. The parish is filled with reports and rumors. I am being discredited. Look at that letter. Things have gone too far. Heretofore, I have not asked you any questions on this matter because your duty was plain. I wanted you to perform it like a man, unsolicited. You have not done it, I regret to say, and now I must question you like the others. The welfare of the Club is at stake, and its fitness for carrying on its work, imperiled. Decent parents won't want their boys to belong. It is abroad in the parish that rowdyism is rampant here. I want to nail the nasty rumor, and place it where it belongs. There is an explanation, and I want you to help me get it. Frank Mulvy, did you have a hand in the wreckage wrought in the Club the other night? Answer meyesorno."
"No, Father."
"Do you know anything about it?"
"That I cannot answer, Father."
"You cannot answer! You cannot answer! Do you mean to say that you refuse to do your duty? Cannot! What do you mean, sir?"
In an agitated voice, Frank replied, "Father,I cannot say any more, except to add that I am doing what you yourself have always inculcated."
"Neglect of duty! Explain yourself, sir."
"Not neglect of duty, Father, but regard for honor. You have always held that up to us, along with our religion, and it is honor now that makes me decline to say more. I will answer any questions about myself or anything that I can answer by official knowledge, and take the consequences. More I cannot say."
"And more I do not want you to do, Frank. But tell me, why did you not at least inform me of the wreckage; that was official?"
"Father, I did not know of that until recently."
"What, do you mean to say that all that terrible row occurred, and that it's out all over the parish, and you, the chief official of the Club at the time, did not know of it?"
"Father," declared Frank, in trembling tones, "I know it all looks bad, all the appearances are against me, I have only my word and character to stand by me."
"It is your character that has stood by you till now, sir. Were you not Mulvy, I had acted differently. But it is because you are Mulvythat I have trusted, until the Club and its director are discredited. But what's the matter, boy?"
For of a sudden, Frank had turned white. He swayed a moment, but Father Boone caught him in his arms, laid him gently on the floor. It took but a dash of cold water to fully restore him, and for a moment he just stared into the face of the priest. Then Father Boone noticed how his color rushed back and his jaws set and he realized that the boy was suffering keen mental anguish. It came to him that there was something most unusual and extraordinary about the whole thing.
After a bit Frank said in a voice choked with emotion, "I know you have suffered, Father, and that has hurt me." He could say no more but after a little, he began again. "At first, I did not know anything about the matter, and when I did know, I could not speak. I wish I could clear the matter up, but I cannot do so honorably, and I know you don't want me to do it dishonorably."
The priest patted him on the back and told him to do what was right and not to think of consequences. "And as you consider silencethe right thing now, I do not wish you to do otherwise than as you are doing."
"Thank you, Father," replied Frank. "But please—I am true to you."
"Yes, I know," answered the priest, "but it's all a mystery, nevertheless, and it must be solved, and," he added vigorously, "it shall be solved."
Frank went below. The priest closed the door, and fell into a brown study. "What am I to do?" he reflected. "This thing must be nailed. But how?"
He was not looking for boys to punish, but for the solution of the problem, and the clearing of the good name of the Club. Taking out a large sheet of paper, he wrote in big letters for the notice board in the library reading room: