"Boys of St. Leonard's Club:This is an appeal to the boys who have the good name of the Club, and their own at heart. I want no boy to tell on another. But I do request that the perpetrators of that act of wanton destruction declare themselves to me at once. You know my ways, and that I am the first tomake every allowance and to see fair play. I await in the office a response to this notice this very night.Jerome Boone."
"Boys of St. Leonard's Club:
This is an appeal to the boys who have the good name of the Club, and their own at heart. I want no boy to tell on another. But I do request that the perpetrators of that act of wanton destruction declare themselves to me at once. You know my ways, and that I am the first tomake every allowance and to see fair play. I await in the office a response to this notice this very night.
Jerome Boone."
The first boy to read the notice was Ned Mullen. "Whew!" he exclaimed, with a long whistle. He ran into the games-room, "Hey, fellows, see what's up—some notice—riot act!"
At first they paid no attention to him, saying merely, "Quit your guying, kid."
But as he shouted out, "Frank, Tom, Dick, come see the board, a real live circus is in town," they all dropped their games, and trooped into the reading room.
"Gee!" was the exclamation from every throat.
"That's news."
"What row is that?"
"Wanton destruction!"
"That sounds good."
"O, but say, it's the real thing."
"That's Father Boone's handwriting. What does it mean?"
Then they fell to asking questions all together.
Finally, it settled down to what had happened,and when it happened, and how it happened. Everybody asked everybody else what it was all about, and everybody told everybody he did not know. Some boys got around Frank and began to quiz him.
"Did you see any damage done, Mulvy?"
"No."
"Let's form a committee and send our regrets to Father Boone, and also say there must be a mistake."
They all agreed.
"Name Mulvy spokesman of the committee," shouted McHugh.
Frank protested, but they paid no attention to him. Soon the committee was formed, and was ready to go upstairs. They waited for Frank. As he did not move they said, "Step along, Mulvy, we are all ready."
"I said no. Count me out."
"Count you out, nothing," yelled several. "You're elected, now go."
Frank did not move. Sunney Galvin, one of the biggest boys in the Club, and a good fellow, walked up to him and said, "No nonsense, Frank, face the music; you owe it to Father Boone and the Club to help set matters right."
"Sunney, I said no, and that settles it."
"It settles nothing," said Sunney. "Unless you are in the scrape yourself, you'll go like a man and do your part. You have been chosen."
"Chosen or not, I don't go. That's final," he said with vigor.
"O ho, Mulvy, so there's somebody involved after all! You wouldn't play safe if you were not concerned."
"See here, Galvin," said Frank, "you know me well enough to know that I am square. Give a fellow credit for knowing his own business."
"O that's very well, and all that, Mulvy. But your business here and now is to do the duty you've been elected to. And if you don't, you're yellow."
"Yes, and something worse," cried another.
"Do you know too much for your own reputation?" shouted another. For although Frank was the best liked and most admired boy in the Club, boys are boys, and they talk right out. Frank knew they had a certain amount of right on their side and that was what helped him to swallow the insults, which otherwise he would have resented vigorously.
The crowd was rather amazed itself that he did not resent their insinuations more than he did. Gradually the word passed that he was in the thing himself, and did not dare face Father Boone. Dick resented that intensely.
"He is not, and you all know it."
"Hank, old man," he said, "clear yourself, come along with us."
"I can't, Dick."
"O nonsense," replied Dick, "you've got some honor bug in your bonnet and you're making a fool of yourself. Come along now, and give the crowd a solar plexus."
"Dick, please don't urge. I tell you I can't go."
The crowd stood around, listening to the dialogue, giving Dick every encouragement and signalling to Frank to give in. When the fellows saw his stubborn stand, they resented it. It was not fair. It looked compromising.
While they stood, thus-minded, Dick said rather timidly, "May I ask you a question, Hank?" There were only a few boys in the Club who could call Frank by that name. Dick was one of them.
"Certainly, kid, fire away."
"Did you have anything to do with this racket?"
"No."
"I knew it," said Dick. "That's why I asked you. Now another question. Do you know anything about it?"
"That's another matter," said Frank.
"We know it's another matter," shouted several, "and we've got a right to know. It concerns the bunch."
"The bunch doesn't make wrong right," fairly yelled Frank. "The bunch doesn't make a mean thing honorable. Yes, I know about it, and that's why I can't go. I can't say more because I have said all I can say, in honor."
"Honor!" hissed one of the boys, "it's queer honor that will distress Father Boone and queer a whole crowd."
By this time the racket had grown into a half riot. The voices were loud and raucous. Their echoes reached Father Boone above. He closed his door as he did not want to hear what was not intended for his ears. But he had caught enough to let him know that there was a deepening mystery about the affair, and that most of the boys were not a party to it.
Things were gradually shaping for a fight.It was clear that Frank had taken a firm stand. It was equally clear that the crowd was not satisfied or in sympathy with it.
Some of the larger boys did not relish his excusing himself on the ground of honor. Fred Gibney bawled out, "You're prating a lot about honor, Mulvy. What about the Club's honor?"
"Look here, Gibney," snapped Frank, "I have the Club's honor as much at heart as any of you, and you know it. But just now—" his voice quivered, "I know how you regard the matter. I suppose I'd feel the same if I were in your place. All I can say is that I know what I know in confidence, and I'm in honor bound. Will that satisfy you? I have said more than I intended to, but it's because I want to go the limit to satisfy the crowd on my stand."
"That sounds like a book speech," retorted Gibney, "and it's all very well for you to hide behind honor. Any of us could get out of a bad hole that way."
"That means that you think I am lying?" questioned Frank, his eyes fairly aglow.
"It means what you want to make of it," snapped Gibney.
Frank jumped from his place to get at Gibney. Dick got in between the two, but found it more than he could do to restrain Frank. As blows were on the point of being exchanged, steps were heard on the stairs, and the boys signalled that Father Boone was on the way down. At his approach, the boys assumed a more or less quiet posture. Not so Frank. He stood just where he was and as he was. His fists were clenched, his whole frame was trembling with excitement, and his face was determined and pale.
Father Boone took in the situation at a glance. He appeared, however, not to see the impending fight. Beckoning to Ned, he said, "I want you and four or five boys to help me unpack something upstairs." He knew that this interruption would give all a breathing spell, and stop further animosity. Then like a flash, it occurred to him to settle the whole thing then and there.
"Boys," said he, "your shouts and some of your talk have reached me upstairs. I am very much hurt over this affair, and I know, from what has happened, that most of you feel as I do. I caught some of the words between Gibney and Mulvy. They reveal a lotto me. First of all, apparently, what has happened was not the work of the crowd, but of a few only and you are as much mystified as I am. I am glad to know that the Club as a whole is not implicated. But a bad report has gone through the parish in regard to that occurrence, and I am bound, in duty to the parish and in devotion to you, to clear up the matter.
"And so I say now to you all, what I have already said by that notice, I ask the boys who perpetrated that rowdyism or who know anything about it, to stand out and declare themselves!"
Not a boy moved. After a moment's silence, Frank came forward and stood before the priest. "Well, Frank, have you anything to say?"
"Only what I said to you upstairs, Father."
"Do you still feel in conscience that you can say no more?"
"Yes, Father."
"Very well," replied the priest. After a pause he continued, "I do not want any boy to act dishonorably. But there are certain cases where justice is concerned, where the rights of many are in conflict with those of afew, where scandal is involved, where the instrument for doing substantial good is in danger of being destroyed; under such circumstances it is not only not dishonorable to speak out, but it is highly honorable to do so. I know a boy's code of honor, and how he regards a 'squealer.' But it is not squealing to denounce a criminal. And in this case nothing short of a crime has been committed. Wilful damage has been done to property, and consequent damage has been done to reputation. If you saw a boy break into your home, and destroy valuable things, you would not consider it squealing to denounce him to the authorities. That very thing has occurred here. And you are in duty bound to stop sin or crime if it is in your power to do so.
"If you know those who are guilty in this matter, it is your duty to see to it that they declare themselves, in order that the good name of the Club may not suffer further, and that the damage done to property may be made good.
"With this explanation, I again ask those concerned to declare themselves." Not a boy moved.
"Frank Mulvy, after what I have said, doyou still find you are not justified in speaking out?"
"I do, Father."
"I respect your conscience, Frank, but I am hard put to find a justification for it. If you were a lawyer or a doctor or a priest, and had got your information in your capacity of adviser, I could see your point of view. But you are a boy of fourteen, and hardly of the age that invites confidence. If I did not know you as well as I do, I should consider you a party to the affair. As it is, you seem to be the only boy who knows anything about the matter, or—the only one who has the courage to say so."
Here Dick spoke up. "Father, the whole thing has us puzzled. We do not know yet just what you refer to. You speak of damage and rowdyism. We have not seen any. It was only by report that we heard about it and we've got into lots of trouble denying and resenting it. Until your notice was put up today, we treated the entire matter as a calumny. The only row we know of was that scrap between Frank and Bill Daly. That was nothing. Frank himself went up to tell you about that. We were all at sea when we saw you so indignant.We formed a committee to wait on you. As things are it looks bad for Frank. But we all know him and I—I—want to go on record now as standing by him, if he says he can't tell, in honor."
Frank seized his hand. "Dick, you're true blue."
"That's all right, Richard," said Father Boone slowly, and then, taking Frank by the hand, he added, "Frank, I trust you absolutely."
"Then I am ready for anything, Father."
Gibney now came up rather sheepishly, saying "Mulvy, I hope you'll pardon me."
"Nothing to pardon, old man, you did what any fellow would do," answered Frank. Then he swung around to the crowd quickly. "Fellows, I feel I'm 'in bad.' Everything is against me as things go ordinarily. You have nothing but my word for my defence. I hardly deserve such trust. But I hope you won't regret it."
"Frank, take that notice off the bulletin board and put it on my desk upstairs." As Frank left the room, Father Boone turned to the crowd.
"Boys, a good character is the best thing in life. Frank Mulvy's character alone stands between him and your condemnation. Ifthis matter has no other issue than the present, it is worth while. I could talk on uprightness a month, and it would not impress you as much as what has happened before us."
At this point Frank returned and Tommy spoke up: "Will you tell us, Father, what it is that you are so much worked up over? We don't know what has happened, you know, about breakage and wanton destruction."
"I hope," said the priest, "that every boy here is as you are, Tommy, wholly ignorant of the matter. That only adds to the mystery, for you may as well expect a man to walk without legs as to have a lot of things broken and smashed without arms. Whose were the arms, if not yours of the Club, I'd like to know? I shall describe to you what occurred, and leave the mystery to you."
Then in a few words he told them how he had come to the Club a few mornings ago, and found it all upset, chairs broken, tables overturned, pictures torn down, ink spilled on the floor, and the rest of it. As the narration went on, the eyes of the boys got as big as saucers. If looks and gestures were significant, they told of surprise, disgust, condemnation. As he finished, Dick spoke:
"Father, that solves one mystery. We could not understand why you withdrew the McCormack treat, and took on so dreadfully. We know, now, and I for one want to beg your pardon for any feeling I had against you."
"Me, too!", "Me, too!", came from different parts of the room.
"That is one cloud rolled away, boys," said the priest. "May it be an augury that the others and bigger ones will vanish also. We are like travelers in the desert who often see things where they do not exist. Weary and exhausted caravans frequently have visions of trees and springs which lure them on, only to see them vanish in thin air. Scientists call it amirage. Life, too, has its mirages."
"How strange," said Frank to himself, as they were leaving the room, "Bill and I used the same expression when we were talking together at the hospital."
The boys went home a pensive lot. But everyone of them was determined to solve the mystery.
By this time the whole parish knew about the affair at the Club. Like all reports, it increased in the telling until there was the general impression that the Club was a pack of rowdies. Many a father and mother wondered why Father Boone tolerated such an organization.
"I thought these boys were in good keeping," said one mother to another.
"Yes, and it's worse than we know of," replied the other, "for I tried to get at the facts from my Johnnie, but he was as close as a clam. Unless it was something dreadful, he wouldn't mind telling his mother."
The fact was that the boys had reached an understanding not to talk about the affair at all. They were determined to clear the Club's name and until they had something definite to offer, explanations, they decided, had best be omitted. So 'mum' was the word.
Mrs. Mulvy was returning from early Mass, that morning, when Mrs. Doyle, a woman she highly regarded, stopped her to say that it was too bad that Frank was mixed up in the row at the Club. Mrs. Mulvy only smiled and remarked that she thought there must be some mistake. But a little later in the day, Mrs. Duffy called on her and after a few conventional remarks, said "I really think it is too bad, Mrs. Mulvy, that those boys should be up to such mischief."
"Why, what do you refer to, Mrs. Duffy?"
"I thought you knew all about it—that wholesale smash-up at the Club. Surely it was disgraceful. Furniture broken, the pictures and walls disfigured and the whole house ransacked. It's a wonder some of them were not arrested."
This was news to Mrs. Mulvy. She had heard Father Boone call the doings at the Club serious, but she supposed that they were only serious in his eyes, because of the high standard he had set for the boys. Now she heard for the first time of wholesale damage, of wrecked rooms and furniture! "Are you sure of all this?" she inquired.
Mrs. Duffy replied, "It must be so, foreverybody is talking about it." Then she added, "But my boy, George, won't open his mouth about it. It must be bad if he is afraid to let me know. I am going to take him to the priest tonight and find out all about it, and if he had a hand in it—well, he'll wish he hadn't."
Mrs. Mulvy was too confused to speak. She had wondered why Father Boone was so stern when he addressed Frank as "sir." Also she had wondered at Frank's intense emotion on that occasion. "So it was really serious," she reflected. "And gossip is getting Frank all mixed up with it!"
Mrs. Duffy continued hesitatingly, "I thought I'd come over to see you first, Mrs. Mulvy, because they all say that Frank is the only one who owned up to knowing anything about it."
Mrs. Mulvy caught her breath. However, she answered, composedly enough, "I should be sorry to know that my boy was really in such awful mischief, but if he was, I am proud that he owned up to it. It is boy-like to get into a scrape, but it is very noble to stand up and admit it."
"I feel that way myself, Mrs. Mulvy. If George was in it, he will have to own up to it,but I am sorry that he did not do so of his own accord. George is a good boy, though, I never knew him to do anything that I was ashamed of before," said Mrs. Duffy wistfully, as she took her leave. Mrs. Mulvy almost collapsed as she sank into a chair.
For a few moments she was in a state of distraction. At length she sighed, "Poor Frank!" After a while, she arose and went to a little shrine of the Blessed Virgin which she called her oratory. Here it was that the whole family knelt every night to say the rosary together. Here it was that each one said morning prayers before leaving the house for the day's occupations. She had consecrated all her children to the Blessed Mother, and begged her powerful protection for them. The Mother of God had been a good Mother to her devoted children, and so far Mrs. Mulvy had realized that devotion to Christ's Mother was one of the greatest safeguards of virtue. She knelt before the image of the Blessed Mother and prayed, "Mother of God, to whose care I have entrusted the little ones He has given me, be more than ever a Mother to my children now. Especially take underthy protection my good boy Frank. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen."
When she arose she had decided to make no inquiries of Father Boone, nor would she have any misgivings about her boy. She would trust him.
(II)
On his way to school the same morning, Frank was stopped a number of times and asked, "What was that scrape you got into, Mulvy?" At first, he laughed it off. But gradually it irritated him, as one after another referred to it. It was his custom to make a visit to the church every morning on his way to school. This morning he went straight to the altar of the Blessed Virgin and prayed fervently that in this trying situation he would do nothing displeasing to her or her Son. He also begged her that she would be a Mother to his mother and help her in this hour of trial. Arising from prayer he felt that he could submit to misunderstanding or even injustice, and do it patiently.
On leaving the church he met Tommy and Dick also coming out.
"Gee!" exclaimed Dick, "you are in for it, Hank. Everybody says that you are the cause of the Club damage. The fellows are saying nothing, but one or two must have leaked, for it's all over the parish that you admitted you were in it."
"Yes," added Tommy, "I nearly got into a fight denying that you had a part in the matter."
"You two are true blue," answered Frank. "Things do look bad for me. But in a day or two it'll be all cleared up." He was calculating on Bill Daly's telling everything to Father Boone on his next visit to the hospital. Frank knew that the priest would see Bill every day or so until he got well, and that it was only a rush of work that had kept the director from going down again before this.
When Frank got to school he noticed almost at once that Mr. Collins seemed somewhat disturbed. He barely bade Frank good morning. When a teacher prides himself on the fact that his class bears the highest reputation in the school for deportment and application, of course he feels it keenly if one of his best boys is the subject of criticism and veiled accusations. On the way to school,Mr. Collins had got many inquiries about Mulvy's character. 'He was glad to say that Frank was the finest boy in his class.' But by the time he reached the class room, he showed his disturbed feelings in his greeting to Frank. The boy really cared greatly for his teacher, and was hurt to think that he should lose his good opinion even for a short while.
However, class went on as usual until about ten o'clock, when the principal of the school entered the class room. He listened to the recitations for a short while and spoke approvingly of the good work being done. Then he turned to Mr. Collins and said, "Have you any of Father Boone's boys in your class?"
"I believe I have. Will the boys who belong to Father Boone's Club please stand."
Four stood up.
"That will do," said the principal. "Be seated. I should like you four boys to report at the office at noon."
At recess, the four got together and conjectured what was up. "O, it's clear," said Frank. "He wants to find out if any of the High School boys are implicated."
"What do you suppose he'll do?" remarked Redmond.
"Why, he'll quiz us, of course. He may have heard exaggerated reports of the thing."
"I don't see that it is any of his business," observed Cavanaugh.
"Well, you know," responded Frank, "that the Regal is mighty touchy about its reputation and he does not want any mud slung at it if he can help it."
At noon the four went together to the office. The principal met them and began at once.
"Boys, it's really not my affair, but I can't help being concerned. You know our school puts a value not only on learning, but on character. I should say, mainly on character. I hate to hear of any of our boys being mixed up in an ungentlemanly affair. I have called you in order to get the truth of the matter. There are bad rumors afloat. I don't trust them. Mulvy, may I ask you to state just what occurred?"
"I'd rather you'd ask Redmond, Father, if you please."
"It's all the same. I asked you, Mulvy, because they tell me you are secretary of the Club, and Mr. Collins informs me you are the leader of his class."
"Thank you, Father, but I have personalreasons for declining to speak of the affair."
"Very well, my boy, I don't wish to embarrass you. Tell me, Redmond, just what happened."
Redmond narrated everything.
"That sounds very serious," declared the principal. "Father Boone is a good friend of mine, and very devoted to you boys. He undoubtedly feels this thing more than you can imagine."
"We know that, and really, that's what hurts us most," said Frank.
"Now, young men, I am going to ask you a question. You are not obliged to answer it unless you wish. It is outside my domain. Did any of you have a hand in that affair?"
The four answered together, "No."
"Good, I knew it. Now I can state that the High School boys were not in the mischief at all. Now another question. Do you know who did it?"
Three answered, "No."
The principal noticed Frank's silence, and turning to the boys, he dismissed them, at the same time asking Frank to stay a moment.
"My boy," he began, "you indicate that you have some knowledge of this affair. Youalso show that you're concerned about Father Boone's feelings in the matter. I wish you to know that he is terribly cut up over this thing. You are, or were, an official of the Club. If, without actual dishonor, you can give him any clue to the perpetrators, you should do it, for it concerns justice and charity."
"I have considered that, Father, and I am persuaded that I must not say what I know."
"Well," said the principal, "I'll take your word for that. I know you better than you think. If you feel that way, I would not insist a particle. But bear in mind, young man, the only thing that stands between you and condemnation is yourself. With those who know you that is sufficient. With others, you may have to suffer for the stand you are taking."
"I'm suffering now, and expect to suffer more. But I know I'm right, and that's the main thing."
"I am proud of you, Mulvy," said the principal, as he dismissed him.
Outside the school it was rumored that Frank had been ordered to the principal's office and had been threatened with suspension. Color was given this report by the fact that he came out from the school alone andmuch later than the rest, looking decidedly uncomfortable. The words of assurance given him by the principal had affected him deeply.
Of course the report was that he had got a dreadful laying out from the principal. There were not a few boys of the school who were glad to hear of Frank's downfall. He had been so much respected by teachers, and so well liked by his companions, that there were bound to be some fellows rather envious of him.
As he passed the first corner of the street, he encountered a group of some eight or ten boys standing around. One of the largest boys, John Morris, remarked, for Frank's benefit, "I say, fellows, lots of statues are toppling these days." For a moment Frank's blood boiled, and he was on the point of resenting the slur, when he recollected that after all, appearances were against him and he must take the consequences of his attitude. So he came up smiling. Most of the boys were of the class a year ahead of him, but Frank had always been welcomed in the older groups.
When Morris perceived, or fancied, that his shot had missed the mark, he said calmly, "I see you got a 'call-down,' Mulvy."
"Yes," said Frank, "and a hard one, too."
At this, most of the fellows sympathized with him. Boys have, for the most part, a sense of justice. They desire to see fair play—they know when to let up. When he reached home, he went straight to his mother.
"Mother," he said, "you won't listen to any of the stories and things they are saying, will you? I could speak of it—of that whole Club matter, you know, to the priest, in confession, mother, but to no one else and in no other way. If some one had told you, mother, in the most sacred confidence, something about his most secret doings, and if it was something which you never could know otherwise, would you feel justified in revealing it?"
"Certainly not, Frank."
"Well, that is my position, mother. For the present my mouth is locked, but in due time everything will be set right."
"Yes, yes, my boy. Mother knows you will do what is right. Duty costs dear, but one must pay the price. After all, if it were easy to do right, there wouldn't be much credit in it. It is the hard things that count."
"I am glad, mother, that we both look at it in the same way."
Her answer was a kiss.
(III)
On his way to the Club that evening, Frank met Dick.
"Did you hear the news, Hank?" he said. "Bill Daly is dying. He has typhoid."
"Who told you, Dick?"
"Tom Gaffney. He was down to the rectory before supper and Father Boone had just come back from the hospital. He told him that Bill was delirious three days. He also said that he had given him the last rites, and that there was slim chance for his recovery."
Frank and Dick accelerated their pace. They were both anxious to hear more about the matter. At the Club, they met Father Boone going out.
"Boys, say a little prayer for William Daly. I think he is near the end."
"Was he prepared?" asked Frank, a lump in his throat.
"Everything except confession," replied the priest. "You see, he is delirious. I have been down to see him twice a day the last two days, but he has not regained consciousness. I am going down now in hopes I may find him able to go to confession. If not, we must leave him to God and the Blessed Mother."
Saying that, he started off to the hospital.
Frank turned white as a sheet.
"What's the matter, Hank?" said Dick. He could not answer. "Why, what's up, Frank?"
"O, nothing, Dick, I'm all right now."
Like a flash it had occurred to Frank. "What if Daly should die without saying anything about the Club affair!" No wonder his heart beat like a hammer! No wonder Dick showed alarm.
"I've been intending to go down and see Daly," said Frank, "but it has been one thing after another these past two days. Besides, I left him all right. Yes, I hope he comes out of it."
When the two friends entered the Club they found the crowd pretty serious. The exploit which had landed Daly in the hospital had endeared him to the fellows, and they now felt genuinely sorry for him. They began to recall their mean treatment of him on the very night of the fire. They asked one another what it was he had wanted to say, when they gave him no chance to open his mouth. Everything occurred to them except the one thing, the damage at the Club. Somehowthat never seemed to connect itself with Daly.
As they sat around more or less in silence, Frank said, "Tomorrow is the First Friday; what do you say, fellows, if we go to Communion for Bill?" Every boy assented.
When, about an hour later, Father Boone returned, he was very serious.
"Boys," he said, "Daly is in a critical condition. The doctors hold out little hope. Tomorrow I shall say Mass for him. I hope you boys will also remember him in your prayers."
"We are all going to Communion for him tomorrow, Father," said Ned.
"O, that's good," answered the priest. "That's very good of you. God knows what is best. His holy Will be done, but we shall pray that if it is God's Will, he may be spared."
"Was he conscious?" anxiously asked Frank.
"No," answered the priest, "I have been watching him carefully the past two days, but so far he has not got out of his delirium." Frank had a return, suddenly, of that faint feeling. True, the Club damage was in the background now, in the presence of death, but it was only deferred, not settled. Andwhat would happen if the secret died with Daly?
Frank was extremely conscientious. He was not counting on what he could lawfully do in case Daly should die. He was determined that if worse came to worst he would bear the brunt of the disgrace himself rather than say a word that would blacken the name of one who had passed away. He must not flinch. He must be a real Knight of the Cross.
Frank left the Club much earlier than usual and alone. Something seemed to draw him to the hospital. At any rate, after five minutes, he found himself on the avenue going down to where Bill Daly lay in delirium. He got permission at the office to visit him. When he reached the patient, he found Mr. and Mrs. Daly there. Mrs. Daly welcomed him and introduced him to Mr. Daly as "that nice boy I told you about."
"And you are Willie's friend?" said Mr. Daly.
"Yes, I am glad to say."
"O, he was the good boy," continued Bill's father. "He should have had a better chance!"
Frank said nothing.
Then the mother began, "Willie was all I had to live for these many years, and now thathis father's himself again, maybe God will take away my boy. Oh, but it's a cruel world and hard to understand! But God knows best."
"We are all going to Communion for him tomorrow," said Frank, sympathetically. "When Father Boone told us that William was dangerously ill, all the boys of the Club agreed to go to Holy Communion for him. You know tomorrow's the First Friday."
"O, thank you, you are such good boys," she sighed.
Frank did not know whether to stay or go. Bill lay there unconscious, muttering from time to time. His father and mother sat by the bed on either side. Frank was standing. They were in a private room. Bill had been moved from the ward after a visit from Mr. Roberts. Every comfort that good nursing and attention could give was supplied. An automobile, moreover, took Bill's parents to and from the hospital. Mr. Roberts had told Mrs. Daly that as soon as her boy got well he would put him to school and see him through to any profession he chose, and that he would place Mr. Daly in a good position.
Mrs. Daly told all this to Frank as he stoodlooking down into the patient's fevered face. "But now I suppose it's all over with Willie," she groaned, "God's ways are not our ways. His holy will be done! I told Mr. Roberts about you, and how good you were to Willie and me. He said he wants to see you. He will be down soon, so you must wait till he comes."
"I shall be glad to," replied Frank.
Bill was tossing about a good deal and now he began a string of incoherent words. His father and mother bent over him to see if they could help him in any way. But he was only rambling. After a little while, he began to speak again. "Dad, you'll never drink again, will you? Dad, you'll be good to Ma, won't you?" Frank was about to retire when Mrs. Daly beckoned to him to remain.
"Don't mind what he says, dear," she whispered. "He talks that way all day." Then she added, the tears filling her eyes, "and what he says is so often the truth. But sometimes he talks awful nonsense. Just before you came, he was telling us about smashing tables and furniture at the Club, poor boy!"
"And what he says is so often the truth," repeated Frank mentally.
Again Bill began to talk. "O, he has 'sand.'"
"I wonder what that means?" asked Mrs. Daly.
Frank shrugged his shoulders.
"But, he's good, too," continued Bill. "That's why he has 'sand.' What a cur I was to put him in bad." Then, after a pause, "Mulvy, never again for me! Straight goods for mine. No more yellow for Bill Daly."
His parents looked at one another. It was all Greek to them. But it had much meaning for Frank. Mr. Daly sat there in deep thought. He was thinking of his early days, his happy home, his fond child. And then came the years after. The broken home, the broken hearts and here now, his dying boy.
"God is punishing me," he thought to himself. "But I wish He would not punish the mother for my sins. O God, spare my boy!"
This last he said out loud. Frank and Mrs. Daly turned suddenly toward him. His voice was choked as he said, "O God, punish me but spare those I love!" Frank's eyes filled as he gazed on the broken man before him.
Again Bill's voice was heard. "Mother, I want Frank. Send for Frank. I want Frank and Father Boone. Dad, we'll never quarrel again. Home will be nice for us all. Mother,mother, mother!" And he lapsed into unconsciousness again.
Frank felt terribly out of place. Twice while Bill was talking, he had started to go, but Mrs. Daly held him. He seemed to be necessary to her now. He was her boy's friend and she wanted him by her. Frank perceived this and he made up his mind to wait as long as he could. After about an hour Father Boone came in.
"I was down near here on a sick call, and I thought I'd just drop in for a moment," he said. "O, you here, Frank? Well now, that's nice, I declare." And he sat down.
The doctor was making his final rounds for the evening, and entered just as the priest was seated. He saluted all, gave a special nod to Father Boone, and then, after excusing his interruption, went over to the patient. All were quiet as he made his examination. When he finished, the mother stood up and looking him direct in the eyes, said, "Doctor, is my boy going to die?"
"We never know, Madam. We can't tell. We do all we can, and hope for the best. That is what you must do too. But he is very ill."
From the tone it was said in, the mother gathered that there was little hope. That was Father Boone's impression also. Mr. Daly seemed to be in a trance. His mind was elsewhere. But his taut face showed that he was thinking regrettable things.
When the doctor left, Father Boone took Mrs. Daly by the hand and said, "My dear child, you must be brave. These are the moments when our blessed Faith means everything to us. God's will is the greatest thing in the world. That is why our Lord, in teaching us to pray, said: 'Thy will be done.' He taught us that because it was necessary. He taught it by example as well as by precept. In Gethsemani He prayed, 'Not my will but Thine be done.' He, the Son of God, had His sorrows too. Resignation to God's will does not mean that we must not feel or suffer, but that in spite of our feelings, we rise up in Faith and see God as our Father. We must realize that He loves us, and we must say to Him, 'Thy will be done.' His will may cause pain now, but it is the pain that profits to life everlasting, and the pain that makes us like unto Him and dear to Him. Let us all kneel down, all of us, and say the 'Our Father.'"
Slowly, solemnly, he prayed. "Our Father . . . who art in heaven, . . . hallowed be Thy name; . . . Thy kingdom come; . . .Thy . . . will . . . be . . . done . . .on earth as it is in heaven. . . . Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, . . . as we forgive those who trespass against us. . . . And lead us not into temptation; . . . but deliver us from evil. . . . Amen."
There was a pause—a long pause. Frank thought it was a new prayer. He had never realized all that it meant. It seemed the best sermon he had ever heard. He felt now that he could bow his head to anything that God asked of him and say "Thy will be done." The priest arose, and the others with him.
The mother's face was changed. There was the peace of God on her countenance. In the presence of her dying son, she had the exaltation of Mary at the foot of the Cross. Mr. Daly stood stunned. In a few minutes he too showed a calm face. Father Boone was the first to break the silence.
"If God wants your boy, Mrs. Daly, let Him have him. If you asked Willie for something you would want him to give it to you.If it was hard for him to give, you would know he loved you when he gave it. If God asks you for Willie, show Him you love Him. And now good-bye.
"It is late, Frank. You had better come along with me," he added, looking toward him. They made their parting as consoling as possible and left.
Later, as they struck the Avenue, and were going along in silence, Father Boone began to speak—half to himself, half to Frank. "I suppose you wondered that I talked to them as though Bill's death were a certainty? Well, from my experience, I think it is. If I were sure of being present when he dies, I would not have anticipated. But suppose he goes off tonight, and no one is there but themselves! They have something now to sustain them.
"Our Faith is a wonderful thing. People outside know nothing of the comfort and strength it brings in affliction. There may be some excuses for a fellow when he is young, and healthy, and well-off, to say he has no use for religion. But the whole world isn't young, nor in health, nor rich. Most people have ills of one kind or another. Some are poor, some in ill-health, some old, or misunderstood.So our Lord chose poverty and suffering. He did not want better treatment than His followers were to have.
"When anything hard happens to me, I try to bear it cheerfully, and tell myself I should be ashamed to have better treatment than My Lord. And I've had some pretty tough things. I don't show it, but your hair would stand straight up if I were to tell you some of the things I've gone through. And do you know, when I have something terribly hard to endure, I take a positive pleasure in kneeling before the altar and saying to God: 'This costs me a lot, Lord, but I am glad it does, for I have something worth while to offer Thee'." He heaved a deep sigh.
"Frank, excuse me for talking about myself. Just thinking aloud. You see, that afflicted mother and father bring out serious reflections."
By now they had reached the rectory. "Good bye, Frank," said the priest.
"Good bye, Father," answered Frank, grasping the priest's hand very firmly.
As Frank went on his way, he said to himself, "Gee, now I know where he gets his power. When he prays, he prays. No wonderhe does so much good, and so quietly. No one knows anything about it unless by accident."