A BOY KNIGHT
by
MARTIN J. SCOTT, S. J.
New YorkP. J. Kenedy & Sons
Copyright, 1921P. J. Kenedy & SonsPrinted in U.S.A.
TO MR. AND MRS. NICHOLAS F. BRADY WHOSE SOCIOLOGICAL ACTIVITIES HAVE BROUGHT THE SPIRIT OF KNIGHTHOOD INTO MANY HOMES THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
CONTENTS
Chapter Page I. CROSS ROADS 3 II. THE NEW QUEST 56 III. COMRADES 104 IV. THE FIELD OF HONOR 137 V. THE HOLY GRAIL 178 VI. THE COST OF HONOR 210 VII. KNIGHTED 225
A BOY KNIGHT
Chapter I
Cross-Roads
IT was late November and a little snow had fallen. Three boys were ontheir way down Park Avenue to school--the Regal High. One of the boys,Frank Mulvy, carried his lunch in his pocket. He did not live far away,but his mother was to be out for the day and had put up a lunch for him.As the boys came down the avenue, an old man whom they had never seenbefore, met them. He asked them for a few cents to get something to eat.It happened that none of the boys had any money. They told him so, andpassed on. The man gave them a searching look and groaned.
When the boys had gone a block and turned the corner at Gody's drugstore, Frank Mulvy made an excuse to loiter a moment, and then turningquickly, ran up the avenue. He overtook the poor man and handing himthe lunch which he had in his pocket, said:
"I'm sorry I have no money, sir, but here is something to eat."
"God bless you, boy," the old man sighed, as he almost snatched thelittle package.
The boy had no lunch that day.
Frank Mulvy was fourteen years old. He was a freshman at Regal, a memberof the football team and the secretary of the "Boy's Club" attached toSt. Leonard's Church. The office was elective and Frank had been chosenwith hardly a dissenting vote.
The Club met three times a week in a large room of the parish housewhere the boys, about ninety in number, had a good library, billiardtables, games of various kinds and other attractions. Once a week thepriest in charge, Father Boone, gave them a little talk on something ofinterest and profit to boys. Usually these talks were very welcome tothe lads as Father Boone did not so much talk virtue as illustrate it,and that not merely by stories, but rather by his own way of saying anddoing things. The boys liked him.
Frank was Father Boone's right hand man, and the director was glad thatthe boys had elected him secretary, although he had given no indicationof his preference. He allowed the boys the greatest latitude and foundgenerally that they did the right thing. While Father Boone would be thelast to give it as the cause, the fact was that they did the right thingbecause he himself did. He always endeavored to create an atmosphere oftrust and manliness. The morale of the Club was proof that he hadsucceeded, for altogether the boys were a fine set, and the directorconsidered that Frank was the best of the lot.
Father Boone was very liberal, but if he once drew a line he neverallowed it to be crossed. The boys knew that. They used to say, "FatherBoone is all right but if he tells you what to do, you'd better do it."
One day, just five weeks before Christmas, Father Boone called Frankaside and said to him:
"I have a bit of good news for you. A friend who is interested in thework of the Club has given me one hundred dollars to spend as I like onyou boys. You are all very fond of music, and I am thinking of buyingsome fine records for our victrola. What do you say?"
Frank replied, "I guess it's all right, Father. You know best what theboys want."
The priest added, "I have another plan also, but I am not certain whichto adopt. I was thinking of taking the boys down to hear John McCormack.We could get ninety seats together--it's far ahead--and treat the crowdto a ride both ways. How does that strike you?"
"Pretty good, Father," said Frank. "But," he continued, "suppose we putit up to the fellows. Then you are sure to satisfy them."
"Capital!" exclaimed the priest, "and now you go ahead and put it to avote."
It was surprising how short a time it took to pass the word around. Soonevery one knew that something out of the ordinary was up.
When the boys had assembled, Frank put the matter before the Club, andall without hesitation declared for John McCormack. They had heard hisrecords on the victrola, and were desirous of seeing and hearinghimself. When Frank informed the director, Father Boone said:
"That's all hunky dory," an expression he used when he was wellsatisfied, and when the committee which the boys had sent to thank himfor his kind thought appeared, he said:
"That's all right, boys; that's the best fun I get, doing something foryou fellows."
After that, McCormack's were the only records to be heard in that clubroom. Every boy played his favorite, time and again.
"I wonder if he sings much better than his records," said Tommy Hefnan.
"Of course," retorted Dick Brian. "That is foolish question four millionand two."
"O! I don't know," said Tommy. "I heard some records that were betterthan the performer. You remember that war song we had last year? Well, Iheard his Nibbs himself sing it at a vaudeville show, and I liked therecord better."
"Well, his Nibbs isn't McCormack," snapped Dick, "and you'll see thedifference when you hear him."
So the boys were pretty well worked up over the concert, and awaited iteagerly. Most of them were in moderate circumstances and the limit oftheir entertainment was the movies. For them to see the great McCormackwas what in the old days it meant to the country lads to see Barnum'sCircus.
There were, as we have said, ninety boys in the Club, from eleven tofifteen years of age. When they got to sixteen, they were obliged todrop membership, and were encouraged to join the older boys' club, whichadmitted those from sixteen to nineteen. Most of the lads did that. InFather Boone's time, however, the boys hated to leave the younger club.It was amusing to see the growing youngsters torn between two emotions.On the one hand, every boy wanted to be big, to get closer to manhood.On the other, he dreaded the loss of the Club. For Father Boonecertainly made it a very desirable place. It was because membership wasso highly regarded that he was able to set a high standard for his boysand keep them up to it.
For every vacancy there was a score on the waiting list. Every mother inthe parish wanted her boy to get into the Club. Frequently the directorwould be stopped in the street by a good mother who would say to him,"Father, my boy Jimmie is one of the best boys in the parish. Won't youplease have him in mind for the next vacancy?"
Now and then, however, a boy of the wrong sort would get into the Club;one whom nothing good seemed to affect. The boys themselves usuallytook such a one in hand, and made it pretty hot for him. They knew thattheir own welfare depended on the general conduct, and they took goodcare of it.
Bill Daly was what the boys called a "tough nut." They nicknamed him"Bull." "Bull" had got into the Club by the kind-heartedness of FatherBoone. His father was a drunkard and his mother was a hard-workingwoman. Bill was the only child. Father Boone had got him a good jobdowntown and placed him in the Club to help him along and to put alittle refinement in him. The boys knew that he was Father Boone's ward,as it were, and tolerated a lot from him, but Bill took theconsideration which he received as a sign of his "pull," of hissuperiority over the others. He was the oldest boy in the Club anddifferent from all the others. On several occasions a fist fight wasbarely averted when he tried to bully some smaller boy.
The boys never told Father Boone about Bill,--first, because thedirector had let them know that he did not want any tattling, andsecondly, because most of them felt sorry for the fellow, and saw thathis on
e chance for making something of himself was by remaining in theClub. If they fancied that Father Boone knew nothing about Bill,however, they were much mistaken. In fact, there was little going onthat he did not know. But as he said, "A man has to see a lot and yetnot see it." For reasons of his own, he saw and yet did not see thedoings of Bill.
When Frank Mulvy was elected secretary, Bill had tried hard to get theplace, but as soon as he saw that the sentiment was all for Frank, hejoined in. Nevertheless, he had it in for Frank. He was tired hearingthe fellows say "Frank this," and "Frank that." He could not understandhow, without trying for it at all, Frank got the esteem and affection ofeverybody.
One day Father Boone came into the Club and announced that he wanted avery important errand done and that he was going to select a boy for it.Everybody thought Frank was "it," and to the surprise of all, Bill waschosen. He threw out his chest, gave a superior look at the crowd,especially at Frank, and received his commission. As soon as he wasgone, Father Boone called the boys together and said, "I know you aresurprised that I am fooled in William Daly. I can see it in your faces.Boys, I know all about him. I have been on the point of discharging himseveral times. But if he is sent out of this Club, he will go to thedevil. Of course I know there is a limit. But in his case that limit isgoing to be 'the limit.'"
Saying that, he left.
Frank immediately said to the crowd, "I say, fellows, let's give Bill ashow. He means well. His home is a pretty bad place, and I guess he isnot half to blame." The boys agreed with Frank.
When Bill returned, he came in swaggering and going over to Frank, hesaid, "You think you're the whole bunch, don't you? Well, you see you'renot. I'd punch you, you stuck-up kid, if you were not the pet of theBoss." Bill's language was as low as his ideals.
The blood rushed to Frank's face, his hands tightened, his jaws set, andhe was about to resent the charge, when, recalling what Father Boone hadjust said, he suddenly relaxed and smiled. "That's all right, Bill;we'll be friends yet."
Bill swaggered over to a set of boys at the other end of the room, andsaid, loud enough for all to hear, "A great kid, that Mulvy. He don'tknow when he gets a slap in the face. I just gave him a good one, but hetakes it like a sissie."
"Now, look here, 'Bull,' I want none of your 'sissie,' do youunderstand?" Frank exclaimed, his voice trembling.
"Who are you calling 'Bull,' little girl?" roared Bill. "Another wordand I'll smash you."
The "sissie" and the "little girl" got under Frank's skin. For a momenthe neither saw nor heard anything. He was ready to fight. His bloodtingled. But he gripped himself and swallowed his retort just as Daly,mistaking the silence for cowardice, rushed forward and struck him ablow in the face. Like a flash, the color came to Frank's face. He hadgone _the limit_ and the lion in him was let loose. Any fellow who hadplayed football against Frank would have known what that meant. Withset, determined face, speaking not a word, he squared off.
"So you want to fight, do you, you doll?" roared Daly.
Not a word from Frank. Instead, he held his attitude of fight andapproached his tormentor.
"Oh, you are pie for me, candy kid. I could lick you with one hand.You'll never want another fight when this is over."
Never a word from Frank. The crowd made a circle. The whole thinghappened so suddenly that it was in full swing before they knew it.
As Frank came up to Daly, the bully hauled off and gave him a straightblow on the forehead. It rang like a ball from a bat. It staggeredFrank. But he came right on. He did not strike a blow, but simply stoodup before his opponent with arms at guard. Again Daly launched a blow.This time it took Frank on the top of the head. Bill was nearly twoyears older than his opponent and much taller and heavier. But Frank hadgrit. The fellows said that they never knew anyone who had so much"sand" as Mulvy. He needed it now. Daly was infuriated. He rushed atFrank hitting him on the head and neck and chest. All of a sudden,without a word, straight from the shoulder, Frank sent a terrific joltto Daly's jaw. He roared and tore and threatened. Frank did not openhis mouth. He kept his eyes on Bill, and was cool and firm. He waitedfor the next on-rush. It came like a whirlwind. Bill crashed into him,swinging blindly in his rage, hitting here and there. Frank took hispunishment and coolly studied his opponent.
Bill rose on his toes to come down with a swing on Frank's face. In aninstant, while Bill's face was completely unguarded, Frank drove home ablow right on his nose. The blood spurted and at the sight of it, bothfighters clinched and pounded as hard as they could. Finally, in thestruggle, Frank slipped and fell. Immediately, Bill was on top of him.
By this time, Bill realized that he was in a fight. Frank's blows,though fewer, told effectively and Bill began to fear that if the fightwent on, he might lose it. So, as he had Frank under him, he yelled, "Doyou give up?" No reply. "Do you hear, do you give up? I have given youenough. If you say you are licked, I'll let up." Not a word from Frank.Instead, he wriggled from under, worked himself free, smashed Daly afierce blow on the ear, and another on the jaw. Bill had all he couldtake and as they stood up again, face to face, the "Bull" and the"Girl" paused, glaring at each other.
"I'll stop now if you will," muttered Bill.
"Do you take back what you said?" shouted Frank.
"Yes," whispered Bill.
"Am I a sissie?" demanded Frank.
"No," replied Bill.
"Shake," said Frank, holding out his hand.
They gripped hands. It was over. The crowd got around Frank, patted himon the back, and in various ways showed him their approval. Daly,abandoned by everybody, slunk away towards the door to make a hastyexit. He knew he was done for. The Club was no longer a place for him.He was disgraced, "licked by a kid." But he would get square. Leave thatto him.
As he was about to open the door to go out, Frank broke from the crowdand going toward Bill, said: "Daly, you are not such a bad fellow. Youmight have licked me if you had wanted to keep it up. I say, let's befriends."
"I'm no dude, I don't belong to your '_bunch_,'" he retorted angrily, ashe slammed the door behind him.
(II)
Daly was angry with himself, with Mulvy, with the Club, even with FatherBoone. He was desperate. Instead of going home, he waited around thecorner. He was boiling with resentment. He must do something to squarethings. After thinking awhile he decided to try to "queer" the crowdwith Father Boone and break off the McCormack treat. But how was he todo it? If he could only bring some discredit on the Club, it would hurtthe fellows as well as Father Boone. That was it. He acted quickly onthe thought. Going back, he waited on the opposite side of the street,in the shadows, until the last light in the Club was out. He knew a wayof getting into the building by a basement window, but when he tried it,he found that it was locked. Fearing that someone might still be within,he withdrew to the opposite side of the street again and waited a halfhour. When he was certain that there was nobody in the Club, he crossedover and tried one window after another. All were locked. He turned tothe door under the front steps. It was bolted, as usual. Looking up tothe story above, he saw a window slightly opened. But it was too highfor him to reach. Just then, a policeman came along. Bill heard hissteps and concealed himself in the areaway. He began to reflect that hewas taking a risk. "Suppose the cop caught me," he said to himself. Buthis resentment was greater than his caution, and so he kept at hisdesign.
He figured that by a long reach from the railing of the steps to thewindow sill, he might get a hold and enter. Up he leaped to the railing,and by a supreme effort, clinched the window sill and swung over. Ittook him but a minute to open the window and enter. Once in, he wentstraight to the room where the fight had occurred. He threw everythingabout in disorder, broke several chairs, threw down two large picturesfrom the wall, overturned the victrola and records and made the placelook like the scene of a mob fight. He then went upstairs to thelibrary, threw the books around, damaged some, overturned a desk, upseta table and spilled ink on the floor. "I guess that's enough for oneroun
d," he said, and cautiously went to the window and got outunobserved.
Next morning when the janitor came to set things in order, he scarcelybelieved his eyes as he looked upon the wreckage before him. Hestraightway went to Father Boone.
"Impossible, my good man!" the director exclaimed. "You must bemistaken."
"Perhaps I am," he replied, "and you may be mistaken too when you seeit."
The janitor was so agitated and vehement that the priest went over tothe Club rooms to see for himself. There it was. Worse, in fact, thanthe janitor had described. What did it mean? His boys! St. Leonard'sBoys' Club! With the instinct which was part of his nature, he divinedat once that this was an enemy act. Who the enemy was, what his motive,he could not say. But his instinct told him it was not his boys. He toldthe janitor to put everything in order. He sent for the carpenter tomend the chairs and tables and hang the pictures. He himself got someacid and removed the inkstains from the floor. The Club was neveroccupied except evenings, and by the time it was open, everything was inship-shape.
(III)
That night as the boys came in, in twos and threes, they talked over thefight, and what they were to do in regard to Daly. Of course not one ofthem suspected that anything had occurred after they left. When Frankcame in, they gave him a cheer. He was now the official and popular headof the crowd. He had won his leadership last night by the means mostadmired by boys, courage and generosity, and he took his honorsmodestly.
After talking on various phases of the fight, the crowd turned to Frank,who as yet had said nothing.
"What's the matter, old man? Why are you so glum?"
"O, nothing," answered Frank.
They went about their evening's amusements, some to play billiards, someto read, and some to hear the victrola, but they generally returned totalk over the events of the previous evening. Frank sat silent andmoody. Soon Dick Brian came up to him. Dick was what you would call alittle _man_. He was quiet, thoughtful, affectionate and very wise.Frank and Dick were close friends. Dick thought that Frank was thefinest boy in the world, and Frank had intense admiration for Dick'sfearlessness and candor.
"Well Frank, what's up?" asked Dick.
"O, is that you, Dickie boy?" replied Frank.
"Yes, it's me, but you are not you," answered Dick. "What's the matter?I guess I know."
"Well, what?"
"You are worried over the 'Bull' and the racket," whispered Dick.
"Put it there, kid," replied Frank, extending his hand. "You are a wiselad, you struck it right."
Dick was two years younger than Frank, but he had an old head. That madethem confidants.
"Come upstairs, Dick, I want to talk to you."
Alone with Dick in the secretary's room, Frank began:
"Father Boone will be here soon. I don't know just how to act. If Iconsidered myself only, it would be easy. I'd go and make a clean breastof the whole affair. But there is Daly, and the crowd. I know thatFather Boone is tolerating a lot from Bill because he has hopes ofsetting him right. It'll be an awful blow to him if he knows that thecrowd is down on Bill and that the secretary was the cause of it. I knowyou'll say that I'm not the cause of it, that I did only what any fellowwould do. But we fellows of the Club aren't just any fellows. A wholelot's been done for us, extra. And especially for me. I got all thatlast night, before I struck back. But gee, I lost my head when he calledme a girl, and simply had to fight. I kept thinking of it all last nightand what Father Boone'd say. Not that he minds a fight. You remember onthe outing last month, two fellows had a scrap. He just said, 'It'sbetter to let the bad blood out than to keep it in.' He didn't even askwho they were. And he never wants any tattling either. That is why Ifeel this affair so much, and also because Daly is concerned. FatherBoone is so terribly decent with us that I just hate to think he will bedisappointed in any of us, and that I couldn't take Daly's slurs andlaugh them off."
"You big boob," put in Dick after listening gravely to all. "You'd bejust what he called you if you did that."
"I know, I know," repeated Frank, "but I feel terribly sore about thewhole thing."
"Take my advice, Frank, go direct to Father Boone when he comes in, andtell him the whole thing from A to Z. He'll understand. Besides, I'llbet a hat he knows it already."
"I hope he does," added Frank.
They went down to the crowd which was now all together. The fellows didnot expect to see Daly, but some of them thought that he might show upto brave it out. When Father Boone came in, smiling as usual, a word forthis lad, and that, a tap for Jack and a handshake for Tommy and Willieand John, no one would ever have suspected that he knew anything out ofthe ordinary.
Generally on entering, after greeting the boys, he went to his officeand straightened out the details of the preceding day. After that hewould circulate among the boys, asking one if his father got the job herecommended him to, another how his mother was, a third what his markswere for the last school month, and so on. He knew them all, and allabout them. He was their big brother. In his presence there was norestraint. He knew them so well, and they understood him so well, thathe was like one of them. If a dispute were on, and he came in, it wenton just the same. He knew boys and loved them, and they realized it.
He was wise enough to know that boys are boys. That was the secret ofhis success. The result was that he could do anything with them. A wordfrom him and they would leave off what most pleased them. A suggestionfrom him and they would do what was hardest and ordinarily mostdisagreeable. Very kind he was, also firm as a rock. And they knew it.He never went back on his word, as they knew by experience. Theconsequence was that with very few words, he accomplished what he wanteddone.
This evening he looked around at the crowd. There was something thematter. That was evident. He knew he could find out by asking but henever did that. He began now to observe. There was a restraint evidentamong the boys. That was unusual. Not so much hilarity. He ran his eyeover the crowd. He could see at a glance, just who was and who was notpresent. Daly was always conspicuous, because he was so noisy, but Dalywas not among those present tonight. Usually the boys were scattered,some in one room, some in another. Not so tonight. They were all in thesame room. Generally they were interested in the games. Tonight theyseemed to be interested in him. Putting things together, he concludedthat the crowd as a crowd was in the mix-up, and that the boys were onthe lookout for something to happen. Frank sat off in a corner lookingpensive. That was not his way.
Poor Frank was in torture. He was hoping that Father Boone would goupstairs so that he could follow him and explain matters.
And Father Boone was hurt because no one volunteered an explanation.Surely Frank would say a word. But no, no one at all made any referenceto the wreckage of the night before.
"Why don't they speak up? They're all concerned in it. It isn't a caseof being an informer. They know I don't want tattlers around. But thisis different. This is a serious matter. Damage was done. It is aquestion of justice. And they know my mind on that. And that secretaryowes me a report. He is an official. I've told them often enough thatwhen an official reports matters pertaining to his office, it is not'squealing,' but duty. They all understand that; Frank especially. Well,I'll wait here fifteen minutes longer, and if they don't explain, I'lltake action."
Father Boone went upstairs and after fifteen minutes left, in a verysober mood.
It was some minutes later that Frank, thinking the director wasupstairs, went up to open his heart to him. But Father Boone was not inhis office. Frank descended to the "gym," stayed awhile and then wenthome. He had a bad headache. The night before he had not slept. He couldnot eat. When he got home, however, he decided to get the thing off hismind before going to bed, and tired as he was, he started back to theClub, hoping to find Father Boone. But the priest had not returned.Hesitating a moment, he finally decided to go to the rectory and have itall over with. But at the rectory they told him that Father Boone wasout on a sick call and might not be back for a couple of
hours.
"Well, I've done my part," said Frank, and back home he went, somewhatrelieved.
(IV)
Next night, Father Boone came into the Club not looking as pleasant asusual. He came late, too; not his wont. He greeted few, and his faceshowed firm. The boys whispered one to another, "He's on."
Frank now felt that he was a culprit. Something told him that FatherBoone knew the whole matter and that he was cut up because Daly wasconcerned. It was too late now to go to him and make a clean breast ofit. What must Father Boone think of him for driving Daly out of theClub. Forgetting all his efforts to do the right thing, Frank saw onlythat Father Boone was offended. He blamed himself as the cause of it andgloomily admitted that he had not been man enough to inform thedirector. That hurt him. Once more, when the priest went up to hisoffice after a few minutes stay with the boys, Frank was determined togo to him and take the consequence.
Meanwhile, Father Boone had come to a decision. There had been somerowdyism in the Club. Furniture was broken, serious damage was done. Itcertainly was the work of more than one or two. By their very attitude,the boys showed their guilt. Yet no one, not even the secretary, hadexplained. Taking down a large sheet of paper, the director wrote on itin big letters,
"The McCormack treat is off, JEROME BOONE."
Pressing a button, he summoned Frank. As Frank heard the bell, a lumpformed in his throat. He felt sure that every fellow in the room couldsee how his knees shook. But he was glad, in a way, that matters werecoming to a head. He expected that Father Boone would give him a goodscolding and that that would settle it. He was all prepared for theinterview, but was not admitting, even to himself, how near the tearswere to flowing.
As Frank approached the desk, Father Boone was writing. Frank hoped hewould not look up, and as he stood there for a second, it seemed anhour. Then, without pausing or turning toward Frank, Father Boone saidin a low, measured voice: "Take that notice, Mulvy, and put it up on theboard below." That was all. Frank stood perfectly still for a moment,clutching the jamb of the door while Father Boone went on writing. Ifthe director had turned but a little, he would have seen agony andanguish in Frank's face, and he would have understood. But he kept onwriting and Frank remained standing, unable to move a step.
Then a hard feeling crept into the boy's heart. He felt that he wasbeing dealt with unjustly, that he was condemned unheard. Every bit ofhis pride came to the top and the boy who, a few seconds before, wasready to blame himself for Father Boone's disappointment, now would nothave yielded an inch. Father Boone was Frank's ideal. He thought more ofhim than of anyone outside his own family. But suddenly he saw thepriest as a hard-hearted and unjust man. For the moment he was glad tofind that he was in an out-and-out struggle. "No explanations now," hereflected, "time for all that is past." The director had not given him achance to do the right thing and now he, too, would show his mettle.
There was an air of defiance about Frank as he walked down the stairsand posted the notice on the board.
The crowd gathered quickly. As they read the brief lines on thenotice-board, the wave of disappointment that passed over them couldalmost be felt in the air.
Of course the boys had told their parents of the McCormack treat and nowit was off. That meant explanations. They usually kept the Club'saffairs entirely to themselves, but the McCormack affair was altogetherdifferent--good news to those at home. How could they explain why itwas off? Everybody knew that Father Boone never made promises withoutfulfilling them. Now every mother and sister and--yes--every fatherwould want to know why this treat was cancelled. These and other thingsran through the boys' minds. But, above all, the sentiment most keenlyfelt was regret that Father Boone had had to take such action. They knewhe was even more delighted to do them a kindness than they were toreceive one. Dick Brian expressed the feeling of the crowd when he said:"Gee, it's tough on us, but it's worse on Father Boone."
Frank heard the comments with a cynical smile. He said not a word, butwas rather pale. One of the lads inquired of him, "How did Father Boonefind it out?"
"Search me!" Frank replied.
"I say," whispered another, "I'll bet 'Bull' squealed to get square withthe crowd."
Tommy Hefnan edged up to Dick. "What's up, anyway? Father Boone neverdid anything before if the fellows scrapped. He usually let them have itout and appeared not to know about it. What's up now that he is soakingthe whole crowd for this scrap?"
"Search me!" answered Dick. "The only line I can get on it is there'ssomething else that we don't know. We've got to take our medicine, ofcourse, and you can be sure Father Boone knows what he's doing. If thereis anything wrong, it's somewhere else."
"That's what I say," echoed Tommy as he sauntered off.
Frank and Dick lived near each other and generally went home together.That night, Frank tried hard to assume indifference, but wise Dick sawthrough the disguise and finally asked him point blank, if he did notfeel cut up over the affair.
"No, I don't," Frank almost yelled, in reply. "It's not a square deal.If Father Boone has anything against us, why doesn't he come out withit, and not hit blindly and in the dark?"
"Well, I get what you're aiming at," answered Dick, "but you know,Frank, that Father Boone is the squarest man going. He knows what he'sdoing, and there's a reason. I'll stand by him, no matter what happens."
This cut Frank like a knife. He knew Dick was manly and wise. He alsorealized that every word he said was true. Nevertheless, he felt likepunching him for saying it.
The rest of the way, they walked on in silence, until they came toparting, when Frank abruptly put out his hand and said, "You're allright, Dick." Then, as the younger boy turned the corner, Frankreflected:
"Yes, he's all right. The kid has more balance than I have."
At the door of the Mulvy apartment, Frank met his mother. She saw atonce that whatever was troubling her boy, was even worse tonight than ithad been before. Then she had said nothing but tonight she was trulyalarmed at Frank's pallor.
"Why, what on earth is the matter, dear?" she exclaimed, as he enteredthe room. "You are as white as a sheet and trembling all over." As shespoke she put her arms around him and gave him that silent sympathywhich only a mother can impart. That was the one thing Frank could notresist. He could fight anything but kindness. At his mother's gentlepressure, his eyes filled and for a moment he could not answer. Hiswords were all choked back by strange sounds in his throat, but hismother waited and presently, when he was sufficiently composed, thewhole story came tumbling out. He told his mother all that hadhappened. He omitted nothing. For a while she made no comment. Then withthe tenderness of a mother who knows her boy, she said,
"Frank, you've done nothing to be ashamed of. There's more to thataffair, I'm sure. And above all, Father Boone does not act rashly.Remember now, mother says so."
Frank felt a weight lifted from his heart. He went to his room, kneltdown at his bedside, under the crucifix hanging from the wall, andmaking an act of contrition for his faults of the day, asked God to givehim the grace to do right always. Then turning to a little shrine at thehead of the bed, where a large picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus washung, he said, "O Heart wounded for me, give me strength to bear thishurt for love of Thee."
He arose, feeling that he had offered something to our Lord. Thatbrought peace to his soul and a few minutes later he was fast asleep.
(V)
By the time Frank was ready for breakfast next morning, Mrs. Mulvy hadmade up her mind to see Father Boone and find out what the trouble was.She was certain that there was something back of it all. She knewFather Boone, and she knew Frank, and further, she knew how theyesteemed each other. Father Boone had often stopped her in the street totell her what a fine boy Frank was. And Frank was never tired talkingabout Father Boone, admiring him for this and for that, but mainly forhimself.
Nothing was said by mother or son on the important topic until Frank wasleaving the house to go to school
. Then, as he kissed her, he said,"Mother, I want you to promise me something."
"Very well, dear."
"Remember now, it's a promise."
"Certainly, Frank."
"Well, mother, I want you to promise that you won't say anything aboutwhat I've told you and that you will not let Father Boone know I toldyou. Even if you should meet him _accidentally_," he said slyly, "youare not to let on."
She hesitated a moment.
"You promised, Mother. It's too late now to consider," he urged.
"Well, just as you say, dear," she answered. And she felt that perhapsit was better to let the matter adjust itself, after all. "True lovenever runs smoothly," she mused, "and I am sure Father Boone and Frankare very fond of each other."
When Frank got back to school and mingled with the boys, the peace ofthe night before and his mother's assurances all seemed to vanish. Hecould not see any justice in the way Father Boone had acted.
"It was entirely unfair," he kept thinking. "The whole thing was out ofmeasure with the fault. After all, a scrap is a scrap. Lots of fellowsfight and make up and it's all over. I made up with Daly, or at least Itried to. Why should the crowd be punished for one or two? I know whatI'll do. I'll go straight to Father Boone this evening and tell him thewhole thing. Then if he wants to, he can punish me, not the wholecrowd."
Meanwhile, in his room at the rectory, Father Boone too was consideringthe same subject. "Boys are not ingrates, as a rule," he reflected."True, they may be thoughtless and impulsive, but I have generally foundthem appreciative. But there is Mulvy,--straight and open as he usuallyis,--and he hasn't offered a word of explanation. He had his chance,when I sent for him to post that notice but--not a word. And he surelysaw I was indignant. It's not like him. What can it be? Is he afraid ofthe crowd? Hardly. But I can't get away from that wholesale disorder andbreakage--the work of a mob. Those boys seem to care for me--but--theyknow how this kind of thing affects me. They've had two days to reflect.Not one boy to say a word! It is not the thing in itself that I careabout. There's a big bill for damages, but I don't give a fig for that.It's the principle back of it all. Here--all these years, I've beenholding up high standards to them and they fall down just when theyshould stand erect. I hated to call off that McCormack treat, but--whatcould I do? Well, I'll have to see it through now." And at that he sethis jaws, and it was easy to realize that he would see it through.
He had hardly finished his musings when the rectory door-man came to hisroom and said that a young man was below to see him. He went down andfound Dick Brian awaiting him. It was not Father Boone's nature to be atodds with any one, and so when he came upon Dick thus unexpectedly,forgetting for the instant that war was on between him and the clubboys, he saluted the lad wholeheartedly. The next instant, recollectingthat there was a hostile camp to deal with, he quickly tightened up andsaid, "Well, my boy, what is it?"
Dick, though ordinarily very self-possessed, was not quite composedunder the circumstances. He summoned as much calm as he could and said,"I have come, Father, to say that there must be some mistake. The boyswould not do anything to displease you. It's not the McCormack treatthat they are thinking about. It's you. Of course, they feel sore thatit is off, but they can stand that, but we don't want you to feel thatwe are not grateful."
It was quite a speech even for Dick, but he got it out and every wordrang true. The director realized it, which only increased the mystery."If the boys were so considerate of him," he reflected, "why did theynot explain? They should know that he would do what was right in thematter. If there were any allowances to be made, they ought to know thathe would make them. It was not as if it were an individual affair. Thewhole Club was in question. A riot had occurred. And just because theboys knew he never went about prying into things he had a right toexpect a full explanation. But Dick's speech didn't explain."
Father Boone's next remark was true to his principle of not asking forinformation in such cases. "And is there anything else you wish to say?"Poor Dick! That took his breath away. He stood silent for a moment andwhen the priest turned to leave, he picked up his hat and started forthe door. But just at that moment something--was it the suggestion of atrembling lip in the last glimpse he had of Dick's face, or just his ownkind instincts that made Father Boone turn back?
"I thank you, little man," he said, "for coming to say to me what youdid. I _am_ put out by this affair and I don't know yet what to think ofit. At any rate, Dick, you did the right thing in coming here." Sosaying, he opened the door for the lad, who went out not knowing justwhat to make of it all.
(VI)
On the same evening Dick met Frank on the way down to the Club. He beganat once:
"I say, Frank, Father Boone is terribly cut up over this thing. Do youknow what I think? Something or somebody has set him wrong. It is nothis way to take on so about a scrap that he didn't even see. I tell you,old man, I believe that 'Bull' has got in some dirty work. He has notbeen around for two days, and how do we know what he may have toldFather Boone?"
"Wise guy you are, kid. I have been wondering myself, but I was toostupid to reason out any kind of explanation. I'd not be surprised ifyou have it right. At any rate, I guess I'll try to see Father Boonetonight and have it out. I should have done it before, but I got my backup when he ignored me, and became as stiff as he was stout."
When they reached the Club, the fellows were all sitting arounddiscussing the matter in groups. The Club was not itself, that wasclear. As Frank and Dick entered, Tommy Hefnan exclaimed, "Say, fellows,let's send a committee to Father Boone. Let's elect a committee to goand straighten out the fuss."
To this some of the boys objected, maintaining that it looked likeweakness. Others said that it might seem as if they were doing it toget the McCormack treat back. To this one of the older lads rejoined,"Let us tell him before we begin, that we know the treat is off and thatalthough we regret it, we regret something else much more."
"That's not half bad," echoed several.
"And it's the truth, too," muttered Tommy.
There it was again--in plain words. What really worried every boy in theClub was the fact that somehow, they had disappointed Father Boone.Every fellow there owed him something for special favors in addition toall he had done for the crowd as a whole. And every fellow knew that thevery best way to pay Father Boone back, was to be the kind of boy thatthe director wanted him to be.
What was to be done? Everybody was too devoted to Father Boone todeliberately ignore one of his very strongest principles--"_thetell-tale is not a man of honour_"--and of all the crowd only two had aright to speak, because only two had actually taken part in the fight.Frank had tried to see Father Boone, without success thus far--and Billevidently was steering clear of the affair.
Even then, why should a scrap cause the director such great worry--theythought--unless he was angry because it had happened right after what hehad said about Bill, and had resulted in his leaving the Club. As forFrank--well, every boy knew that he would do the same himself under thecircumstances.
As for Father Boone, the more he thought of the whole affair, the morehe was sure of his first decision. It was a free fight in which most ofthe boys had had some part; only Frank deserved special censure becausehe had failed in his official capacity. By now the director wasbeginning to be concerned about Daly who had not appeared at the Clubsince the disorder. He did not want the boy to get away from hisinfluence and so decided to call at his home.
While the boys were discussing the advisability of sending a committeeto the director, he was on his way to Daly's house. When he got there,he was met at the door by Mrs. Daly. She was a large slovenly woman. Thehome was like herself. It was on the top floor of a side streettenement. A dark and crooked stairs led up to it. Father Boone reflectedthat some people were like that stairway, and when he reached the topfloor and saw before him Bill Daly's mother, he thought that poor Billwas to be pitied more than anything else. "I must hold on to that boy ifpossible," he mused. "Aft
er all, it's not they who are well who need thephysician, but they who are ill."
Mrs. Daly conducted him into a dirty room. He was asked to please passthrough to the parlor. Groping his way through two dark bed-rooms, withno light or ventilation except from a small window opening upon a shaft,he came to the parlor. Apparently, it was more of a clothes room thananything else. On the couch, which was a bed at night, on the table, andon the chairs were articles of wearing apparel. Father Boone had toremove an armful of assorted garments from a chair to get a seat. Hishostess was not at all concerned. It was her normal surroundings.
Mrs. Daly was glad to see the priest. Her heart was good and herreligion meant something to her in spite of everything. But she wasdragged down by conditions, like many another. Some natures are superiorto environment. Hers was not.
"And how is Mr. Daly?" began the priest.
"Drinking as usual," she replied.
"Well, that's a great cross," he continued, "but I hope a turn for thebetter will come, some time."
"I hope it comes before it's too late," she sighed. "He has all of usnearly as bad as himself with his ways. He drinks his money and leavesnothing for the home, but what Willie brings in. God bless you, Father,for the job you got Willie. It is the only steady money that comes in."
"How is William?" asked the priest. "I've missed him from the Club thelast few days, so I have just dropped in to see how he is; I hope he isa good boy."
"Oh, Willie is a good enough boy, he might be worse," answered Bill'smother. "His father sets him no good example, and the poor boy has toput up with a lot of abuse. The wonder is that he is any good at all."
She wiped her face with her apron, and sat down on the edge of a chair.She was evidently in a mood to talk. The kindliness of the priest seemedto invite her confidence, for she began:
"Mike was a good man before the drink got him. We had our nice littlehome and his wages came in as regular as Saturday night. We went tochurch together every Sunday morning and God was good to us. But whenWillie was about six years old, his father got a job over at King'sautomobile place. He was ambitious and started in and learned how todrive a taxi. He was out day and night. His money came in fast, and hewas good to me and Willie.
"At first, everything went all right, and I thanked God. But soon, hebegan to leave off Church on Sunday from time to time. After a while, hedropped it entirely. Then he got in with a bad set. It was not longbefore he came home under the influence. I cried before him and beggedhim to let the liquor alone. He did for a while, but he began again andkept it up. Then he lost his job. He got another easy enough but he keptat the drink. And then he began to hold back his money. And it wasn'teveryday that we had something in the house to eat. I had to sell thingsfrom the house to buy food. If I didn't, he would come home drunk andstart a fight. And when there was nothing more to sell he began to beatme. If Willie cried, he beat him. The poor boy was often black and blue.Things went on from bad to worse. I had to have him arrested, althoughit broke my heart. It was a disgrace to us all. Willie was ashamed to goout and play with the other boys. One day as he was going along thestreet, two boys yelled at him and called his father bad names. Willieliked his dad, even if he was in jail, because he knew what a goodfather he was once.
"When the boys yelled at Willie, he got afraid and ran. But they ranafter him. I suppose if he stood, they wouldn't have chased him. Theycaught him and beat him. He tried to get away and then he struck out.You see, Father, Willie was a big boy for his age, and very strong. Hetakes after me. But he never knew his strength. Well, this time he juststruck out. He knocked one of the boys down, gave another a fine blackeye, and both of them took to their heels. It soon got around that myWillie was a terror. All the boys got afraid of him. He had his own wayafter that in every gang, and he got into a lot of scrapes, but he wasalways good to his mother.
"When his father got out of jail, he was surprised to see the differencein Willie. Well, to make a long story short, the father has beendrinking ever since, and that's nearly eight years ago, and my heart isbroken. If it were not for little Willie, I don't know what I'd do."
The priest was a good listener. Although this was but another of themany similar stories which he had heard, there was something pathetic inthe mother's pride, and in her love of Willie.
The home explained itself now. Poor woman. Discouraged and withoutsufficient means, she had drifted and the home had drifted with her, andWillie too.
Just then footsteps were heard, and as the door opened Bill stood there.He was amazed on seeing the priest. It flashed on him that he was foundout but he didn't want his mother to know. He made a sign to the priestto say nothing for the present. Father Boone understood it at once andwas glad to see this consideration of the boy for his mother, althoughit didn't tell him how much Bill knew of the Club mystery.
Daly was a shrewd lad, and after his mother withdrew, he kept hiscomposure. He had to find out first how much the priest knew. Was itjust the fight he came to see about or the wreckage? And how could hehandle it so that even if everything came out, Father Boone would notcause him the loss of the job he had got him? Bill decided to fence ascleverly as possible and not tell a bit more than he had to. The priestbegan.
"Well, William, I hope you are not ill. I've missed you from the Clubthe past few nights?"
"O, I'm all right," answered Bill.
"Have you any reason for staying away?" asked the priest. There wassilence for a moment.
"He is fishing," thought Bill.
Father Boone looked him steadily in the eye and repeated, "I asked you,Willie, if there was any reason for your staying away?"
"Better ask Mulvy," Bill replied, with a grin.
Father Boone's heart sank. He wanted to clear Frank--and everybodyelse--but here was the secretary's name again. Bill's answer and hismanner both implied that Frank was in the affair deeper than thedirector had even suspected.
"I hope," he said aloud, "I shall not be disappointed in you, William.No matter what has happened, I want you to continue in the Club." Withthat he took his departure. But as he left the house he reflected thatif William Daly ever got away from his influence, he might go down hillfast. There was one thing that gave him hope, and that was the boy'slove for his mother. He knew that a boy who was so fond of his motherhad something to work on.
(VII)
Down the dark and crooked stairs Father Boone made his way. When he gotto the street floor and opened the door and took in the clear sunlight,he thought, "Will this dark passage of mind in which I find myselfterminate in a clear understanding?" While going along he reflected thatso far every step had only led into darker ways. He had tried toconvince himself that Frank was not cognizant of the mischief. He couldnot understand how such a boy would fail him. He felt as mean forhimself as he did for Frank. To be so utterly deceived in a boy! Frankshould have reported it, even though he had no part in it. Decision andconsequences should be left to the director of the Club.
When Frank had taken office, it was made clear to him that thesecretary as an officer was obliged to keep the director informedconcerning matters of importance. This wreckage was a matter of thegreatest importance. It had taken him a whole day to restore the placeand had cost him no small sum of money. Besides, it was not only that;the breakage indicated a big disturbance. There had been a free fight,evidently, and bad blood. Perhaps there was a division in the Club. Itwas Mulvy's business to report the affair and leave the rest to thedirector. He failed to do so. That in itself, in a boy like him, wasworse by far than a dozen fights.
Every thing tended to convince Father Boone that Frank had taken a falsestep. In this indignant mood, he reached the Club about half an hourbefore closing time. The boys were waiting for him. He was hardly seatedin his office, when he heard a knock at the door. Looking up he sawthree boys before him. "Well?" said Father Boone sternly, for by now hewas in a fighting mood. The committee consisted of Frank, Dick andTommy. Frank was spokesman.
"We have come, plea
se, Father, in regard to the trouble in the Club. Wehave been chosen as a committee to see you about it. We . . ." He gotno further.
"We!" shouted the director. "We! Is this committee secretary of the Clubor are you?--you sir, Frank Mulvy. Here it is the third day since thedisgraceful affair occurred and you--you sir, Mr. Frank Mulvy,Secretary, have kept me in the dark on a matter that it was yourofficial duty to report! Do you understand, sir! that you are thesecretary of this Club; and you have duties as well as privileges?"
Poor Frank! If some one had struck him a blow between the eyes, he couldnot have been half so stunned. He had to exert all his power to masterhis feelings. He tried to speak. His throat refused to let the wordsout. Was he to go away again misunderstood? Was he to have the agony ofit all over again? He was helpless, speechless. And there sat thedirector, indignant and angry.
While Frank was trying to get himself together, the director arose,dismissed them, and left his room and the Club.
(VIII)
After the interview, if such it could be called, the committee went backto the crowd. On the way downstairs, Dick turned to the spokesman. "Whydidn't you speak up, Frank?" Frank's soul at that moment was on fire.
"Speak up?" he fairly yelled, "and what were you 'boobs' doing? Whydidn't you back me up! You stood there like dummies. You'd think we wereculprits the way he sailed into us. And neither of you opened yourmouths."
"That was your job," retorted Dick, "and you got cold feet as soon as helooked at you. I thought you had more sand."
"Sand!" echoed Frank, "maybe you'd do better. Didn't you have yourchance yesterday at the rectory? And you said yourself that you went outof the place like a sheep. Don't talk to me about 'sand'. You knowyourself it's not lack of courage, either on your part or mine. I couldface any one else and have it out. But when I saw his face, and heardhis voice, I just wilted. You can't fight a man that's already wounded.The thing is hurting him worse than it hurts us. But I'll be blamed if Iknow what's up. It's more than that scrap we had, I'm sure of that."
By this time they were down with the rest of the boys.
"Well?" they exclaimed anxiously.
"It's all up," said Frank. "He wouldn't even listen to us. He gave me anawful roast."
"Gosh, fellows, it's tough," added Dick. "You should have seen the wayhe fired at us. Before we caught our breath, he up and left. We stoodstock still for a moment, and didn't know where we were."
"It seems," said Frank, "that he is terribly put out because I did notofficially report the matter."
"Well, you'd think there was a robbery or a murder or something likethat, the way you fellows talk," said Ned Mullen. "A scrap is a scrap,and that's all there is to it," he added, "and I don't see the reasonfor all this fuss, except it may be because he is angry that an officialwas in it."
He paused for a moment and, as the crowd seemed to concur with him, hecontinued, "I say, Frank, why don't you write him a note? He can't fireat that, nor run away from it. If you write the note, I'll take it tohim, or if you don't like that, mail it."
The proposal struck the fellows as sensible and practicable. Frankagreed to have the note ready by the next night and to read it to thecrowd before sending it. After a little further talk, they wound up theevening and started for home.
As Ned was going out, Frank signalled him to hang back a little. He gavethe same hint to Dick. In a few minutes the three were together, Frank,Dick and Ned.
Ned Mullen was one of the smallest boys of the Club. He was a bundle ofnerves and laughter. Wherever Ned was, there was mirth. Everybody likedhim. These three were close friends. They were three of a kind. Ned hadwon his class-medal three years in succession. Dick was always first orsecond in his class, and besides he had had the great distinction ofwinning the diocesan gold medal for the best English essay. Frank hadled his class as far back as the boys could remember.
When they were alone, Frank said to Ned, "Well, little bright eyes,you've certainly saved the situation. I was just about desperate whenyou 'butted in.' I had made up my mind to resign and clear outaltogether. But I guess if Father Boone gets our explanation, it willfix things all right."
"Why didn't you go to him in the beginning, Frank?" asked Ned.
"I did, kid, but I got cold feet." And then he told Dick and Ned allthat had occurred from the start.
"There's more to it than appears," suggested Dick.
"You said it," added Ned, and then continued, "I never saw Father Boonelike this before. The fellows have got into lots of worse scrapes thanthis, and he only laughed. Why, you remember that day in the woods lastmonth, on the outing. Do you suppose he didn't know all about that fightbetween Barry and Dolan? And he never said a word. Except about a weekafter, if you noticed, he wanted two boys to go on an errand to Bailey'sand he sent them. It turned out that they had to help at putting onlabels for the Hospital Fair and Mrs. Bailey gave them a dollar each.They came back chums. Father Boone doesn't 'grouch' or snarl if a fellowbreaks out. He just says nothing, or else mends matters quietly in hisown way."
"Say, Ned, that's quite a speech," exclaimed Dick, a bit envious. "Youought to have been on that committee."
At that "Bright Eyes" chuckled and soon he had the others laughing.
After a moment Frank announced, "I want you fellows to help me out withthis note. I never did anything like it before. I've written lots ofcompositions. But this is diplomatic work."
Ned tapped his forehead and took on a look of deep thought. Dick coughedand struck the attitude of a thinker.
"O, laugh if you like, but if you had been through what I have, youwouldn't think it was a joke," muttered Frank.
"Well, what do you want us to do?" asked Dick.
"Put our heads together and send the right kind of note," answeredFrank.
"I say," suggested Dick, "suppose we each write a note and the onethat's best, goes."
"Good idea," replied Frank, "and let's do it now, right here."
So they sat down to frame the note. For ten minutes not a word wasspoken. Each boy at his own place was poring over a few lines he hadwritten and then scratched, and then written again.
The silence was broken at last by Frank's voice exclaiming, "Well, who'sthrough?" No reply. "I say fellows, I can't get started."
"Ditto," echoed Dick.
"Me too!" chimed in Ned.
Each boy had about ten pages partly written and scratched or torn. Theyhad never before realized the arduous task of a diplomat. For this hadto be a real diplomatic note. A lot was at stake, and a single wordmight spoil everything. At least so they fancied.
"Let's do it at home, and get down here early tomorrow night and settleit," said Dick.
"Agreed," exclaimed Frank and Ned together. And so hearty was theirapproval that they left without even putting the stopper on the inkbottle, let alone picking up the scribbled and torn papers.