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A BOY KNIGHT
by
MARTIN J. SCOTT, S. J.
[Illustration]
New York
P. J. Kenedy & Sons
Copyright, 1921
P. J. Kenedy & Sons
Printed 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 on
their 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 seen
before, 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, and
passed on. The man gave them a searching look and groaned.
When the boys had gone a block and turned the corner at Gody's drug
store, Frank Mulvy made an excuse to loiter a moment, and then turning
quickly, ran up the avenue. He overtook the poor man and handing him
the 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 the
little package.
The boy had no lunch that day.
Frank Mulvy was fourteen years old. He was a freshman at Regal, a member
of the football team and the secretary of the "Boy's Club" attached to
St. Leonard's Church. The office was elective and Frank had been chosen
with hardly a dissenting vote.
The Club met three times a week in a large room of the parish house
where the boys, about ninety in number, had a good library, billiard
tables, games of various kinds and other attractions. Once a week the
priest in charge, Father Boone, gave them a little talk on something of
interest and profit to boys. Usually these talks were very welcome to
the 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 and
doing things. The boys liked him.
Frank was Father Boone's right hand man, and the director was glad that
the boys had elected him secretary, although he had given no indication
of his preference. He allowed the boys the greatest latitude and found
generally that they did the right thing. While Father Boone would be the
last to give it as the cause, the fact was that they did the right thing
because he himself did. He always endeavored to create an atmosphere of
trust and manliness. The morale of the Club was proof that he had
succeeded, for altogether the boys were a fine set, and the director
considered that Frank was the best of the lot.
Father Boone was very liberal, but if he once drew a line he never
allowed it to be crossed. The boys knew that. They used to say, "Father
Boone 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 Frank
aside and said to him:
"I have a bit of good news for you. A friend who is interested in the
work of the Club has given me one hundred dollars to spend as I like on
you boys. You are all very fond of music, and I am thinking of buying
some fine records for our victrola. What do you say?"
Frank replied, "I guess it's all right, Father. You know best what the
boys want."
The priest added, "I have another plan also, but I am not certain which
to 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 crowd
to a ride both ways. How does that strike you?"
"Pretty good, Father," said Frank. "But," he continued, "suppose we put
it up to the fellows. Then you are sure to satisfy them."
"Capital!" exclaimed the priest, "and now you go ahead and put it to a
vote."
It was surprising how short a time it took to pass the word around. Soon
every one knew that something out of the ordinary was up.
When the boys had assembled, Frank put the matter before the Club, and
all without hesitation declared for John McCormack. They had heard his
records on the victrola, and were desirous of seeing and hearing
himself. When Frank informed the director, Father Boone said:
"That's all hunky dory," an expression he used when he was well
satisfied, and when the committee which the boys had sent to thank him
for his kind thought appeared, he said:
"That's all right, boys; that's the best fun I get, doing something for
you fellows."
After that, McCormack's were the only records to be heard in that club
room. 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 million
and two."
"O! I don't know," said Tommy. "I heard some records that were better
than the performer. You remember that war song we had last year? Well, I
heard his Nibbs himself sing it at a vaudeville show, and I liked the
record better."
"Well, his Nibbs isn't McCormack," snapped Dick, "and you'll see the
difference when you hear him."
So the boys were pretty well worked up over the concert, and awaited it
eagerly. Most of them were in moderate circumstances and the limit of
their entertainment was the movies. For them to see the great McCormack
was what in the old days it meant to the country lads to see Barnum's
Circus.
There were, as we have said, ninety boys in the Club, from eleven to
fifteen years of age. When they got to sixteen, they were obliged to
drop membership, and were encouraged to join the older boys' club, which
admitted those from sixteen to nineteen. Most of the lads did that. In
Father 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 Boone
certainly made it a very desirable place. It was because membership was
so highly regarded that he was able to set a high standard for his boys
and keep them up to it.
For every vacancy there was a score on the waiting list. Every mother in
the parish wanted her boy to get into the Club. Frequently the director
would 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 you
please 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 usually
took such a one in hand, and made it pretty hot for him. They knew that
their own welfare depended on the general conduct, and they took good
care 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 Father
Boone. His father was a drunkard and his mother was a hard-working
woman. Bill was the only child. Father Boone had got him a good job
downtown and placed him in the Club to help him along and to put a
little 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 the
consideration which he received as a sign of his "pull," of his
superiority over the others. He was the oldest boy in the Club and
different from all the others. On several occasions a fist fight was
barely averted when he tried to bully some smaller boy.
The boys never told Father Boone about Bill,--first, because the
director had let them know that he did not want any tattling, and
secondly, because most of them felt sorry for the fellow, and saw that
his one chance for making something of himself was by remaining in the
Club. If they fancied that Father Boone knew nothing about Bill,
however, they were much mistaken. In fact, there was little going on
that he did not know. But as he said, "A man has to see a lot and yet
not see it." For reasons of his own, he saw and yet did not see the
doings of Bill.
When Frank Mulvy was elected secretary, Bill had tried hard to get the
place, but as soon as he saw that the sentiment was all for Frank, he
joined in. Nevertheless, he had it in for Frank. He was tired hearing
the fellows say "Frank this," and "Frank that." He could not understand
how, without trying for it at all, Frank got the esteem and affection of
everybody.
One day Father Boone came into the Club and announced that he wanted a
very 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 was
chosen. He threw out his chest, gave a superior look at the crowd,
especially at Frank, and received his commission. As soon as he was
gone, Father Boone called the boys together and said, "I know you are
surprised 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 him
several times. But if he is sent out of this Club, he will go to the
devil. Of course I know there is a limit. But in his case that limit is
going to be 'the limit.'"
Saying that, he left.
Frank immediately said to the crowd, "I say, fellows, let's give Bill a
show. He means well. His home is a pretty bad place, and I guess he is
not half to blame." The boys agreed with Frank.
When Bill returned, he came in swaggering and going over to Frank, he
said, "You think you're the whole bunch, don't you? Well, you see you're
not. I'd punch you, you stuck-up kid, if you were not the pet of the
Boss." Bill's language was as low as his ideals.
The blood rushed to Frank's face, his hands tightened, his jaws set, and
he was about to resent the charge, when, recalling what Father Boone had
just 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, and
said, loud enough for all to hear, "A great kid, that Mulvy. He don't
know when he gets a slap in the face. I just gave him a good one, but he
takes it like a sissie."
"Now, look here, 'Bull,' I want none of your 'sissie,' do you
understand?" Frank exclaimed, his voice trembling.
"Who are you calling 'Bull,' little girl?" roared Bill. "Another word
and I'll smash you."
The "sissie" and the "little girl" got under Frank's skin. For a moment
he neither saw nor heard anything. He was ready to fight. His blood
tingled. But he gripped himself and swallowed his retort just as Daly,
mistaking the silence for cowardice, rushed forward and struck him a
blow in the face. Like a flash, the color came to Frank's face. He had
gone _the limit_ and the lion in him was let loose. Any fellow who had
played football against Frank would have known what that meant. With
set, 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 and
approached 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 thing
happened 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 straight
blow on the forehead. It rang like a ball from a bat. It staggered
Frank. But he came right on. He did not strike a blow, but simply stood
up 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 two
years older than his opponent and much taller and heavier. But Frank had
grit. The fellows said that they never knew anyone who had so much
"sand" as Mulvy. He needed it now. Daly was infuriated. He rushed at
Frank hitting him on the head and neck and chest. All of a sudden,
without a word, straight from the shoulder, Frank sent a terrific jolt
to Daly's jaw. He roared and tore and threatened. Frank did not open
his mouth. He kept his eyes on Bill, and was cool and firm. He waited
for the next on-rush. It came like a whirlwind. Bill crashed into him,
swinging blindly in his rage, hitting here and there. Frank took his
punishment and coolly studied his opponent.
Bill rose on his toes to come down with a swing on Frank's face. In an
instant, while Bill's face was completely unguarded, Frank drove home a
blow right on his nose. The blood spurted and at the sight of it, both
fighters clinched and pounded as hard as they could. Finally, in the
struggle, 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 fight
went on, he might lose it. So, as he had Frank under him, he yelled, "Do
you give up?" No reply. "Do you hear, do you give up? I have given you
enough. 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 a
fierce blow on the ear, and another on the jaw. Bill had all he could
take 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 him
on the back, and in various ways showed him their approval. Daly,
abandoned by everybody, slunk away towards the door to make a hasty
exit. 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 that
to him.
As he was about to open the door to go out, Frank broke from the crowd
and going toward Bill, said: "Daly, you are not such a bad fellow. You
might have licked me if you had wanted to keep it up. I say, let's be
friends."
"I'm no dude, I don't belong to your '_bunch_,'" he retorted angrily, as
he slammed the door behind him.
(II)
Daly was angry with himself, with Mulvy, with the Club, even with Father
Boone. He was desperate. Instead of going home, he waited around the
corner. He was boiling with resentment. He must do something to square
things. After thinking awhile he decided to try to "queer" the crowd
with Father Boone and break off the McCormack treat. But how was he to
do it? If he could only bring some discredit on the Club, it would hurt
the fellows as well as Father Boone. That was it. He acted quickly on
the 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 way
of 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 half
hour. When he was certain that there was nobody in the Club, he crossed
over and tried one window after another. All were locked. He turned to
the door under the front steps. It was bolted, as usual. Looking up to
the story above, he saw a window slightly opened. But it was too high
for him to reach. Just then, a policeman came along. Bill heard his
steps and concealed himself in the areaway. He began to reflect that he
was taking a risk. "Suppose the cop caught me," he said to himself. But
his resentment was greater than his caution, and so he kept at his
design.
He figured that by a long reach from the railing of the steps to the
window 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. It
took him but a minute to open the window and enter. Once in, he went
straight to the room where the fight had occurred. He threw everything
about in disorder, broke several chairs, threw down two large pictures
from the wall, overturned the victrola and records and made the place
look like the scene of a mob fight. He then went upstairs to the
library, threw the books around, damaged some, overturned a desk, upset
a table and spilled ink on the floor. "I guess that's enough for one
round," he said, and cautiously went to the window and got out
unobserved.
Next morning when the janitor came to set things in order, he scarcely
believed his eyes as he looked upon the wreckage before him. He
straightway went to Father Boone.
"Impossible, my good man!" the director exclaimed. "You must be
mistaken."
"Perhaps I am," he replied, "and you may be mistaken too when you see
it."
The janitor was so agitated and vehement that the priest went over to
the Club rooms to see for himself. There it was. Worse, in fact, than
the janitor had described. What did it mean? His boys! St. Leonard's
Boys' Club! With the instinct which was part of his nature, he divined
at 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 told
the janitor to put everything in order. He sent for the carpenter to
mend the chairs and tables and hang the pictures. He himself got some
acid and removed the inkstains from the floor. The Club was never
occupied except evenings, and by the time it was open, everything was in
ship-shape.
(III)
That night as the boys came in, in twos and threes, they talked over the
fight, and what they were to do in regard to Daly. Of course not one of
them suspected that anything had occurred after they left. When Frank
came in, they gave him a cheer. He was now the official and popular head
of the crowd. He had won his leadership last night by the means most
admired by boys, courage and generosity, and he took his honors
modestly.
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, some
to read, and some to hear the victrola, but they generally returned to
talk over the events of the previous evening. Frank sat silent and
moody. Soon Dick Brian came up to him. Dick was what you would call a
little _man_. He was quiet, thoughtful, affectionate and very wise.
Frank and Dick were close friends. Dick thought that Frank was the
finest boy in the world, and Frank had intense admiration for Dick's
fearlessness 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 wise
lad, you struck it right."
Dick was two years younger than Frank, but he had an old head. That made
them 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 I
considered myself only, it would be easy. I'd go and make a clean breast
of the whole affair. But there is Daly, and the crowd. I know that
Father Boone is tolerating a lot from Bill because he has hopes of
setting him right. It'll be an awful blow to him if he knows that the
crowd is down on Bill and that the secretary was the cause of it. I know
you'll say that I'm not the cause of it, that I did only what any fellow
would do. But we fellows of the Club aren't just any fellows. A whole
lot's been done for us, extra. And especially for me. I got all that
last night, before I struck back. But gee, I lost my head when he called
me a girl, and simply had to fight. I kept thinking of it all last night
and what Father Boone'd say. Not that he minds a fight. You remember on
the outing last month, two fellows had a scrap. He just said, 'It's
better to let the bad blood out than to keep it in.' He didn't even ask
who they were. And he never wants any tattling either. That is why I
feel this affair so much, and also because Daly is concerned. Father
Boone is so terribly decent with us that I just hate to think he will be
disappointed in any of us, and that I couldn't take Daly's slurs and
laugh them off."
"You big boob," put in Dick after listening gravely to all. "You'd be
just what he called you if you did that."
"I know, I know," repeated Frank, "but I feel terribly sore about the
whole thing."
"Take my advice, Frank, go direct to Father Boone when he comes in, and
tell him the whole thing from A to Z. He'll understand. Besides, I'll
bet 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 did
not expect to see Daly, but some of them thought that he might show up
to brave it out. When Father Boone came in, smiling as usual, a word for
this lad, and that, a tap for Jack and a handshake for Tommy and Willie
and John, no one would ever have suspected that he knew anything out of
the ordinary.
Generally on entering, after greeting the boys, he went to his office
and straightened out the details of the preceding day. After that he
would circulate among the boys, asking one if his father got the job he
recommended him to, another how his mother was, a third what his marks
were for the last school month, and so on. He knew them all, and all
about them. He was their big brother. In his presence there was no
restraint. He knew them so well, and they understood him so well, that
he was like one of them. If a dispute were on, and he came in, it went
on 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 of
his success. The result was that he could do anything with them. A word
from him and they would leave off what most pleased them. A suggestion
from him and they would do what was hardest and ordinarily most
disagreeable. 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. The
consequence was that with very few words, he accomplished what he wanted
done.
This evening he looked around at the crowd. There was something the
matter. That was evident. He knew he could find out by asking but he
never did that. He began now to observe. There was a restraint evident
among the boys. That was unusual. Not so much hilarity. He ran his eye
over the crowd. He could see at a glance, just who was and who was not
present. Daly was always conspicuous, because he was so noisy, but Daly
was not among those present tonight. Usually the boys were scattered,
some in one room, some in another. Not so tonight. They were all in the
same room. Generally they were interested in the games. Tonight they
seemed to be interested in him. Putting things together, he concluded
that the crowd as a crowd was in the mix-up, and that the boys were on
the lookout for something to happen. Frank sat off in a corner looking
pensive. That was not his way.
Poor Frank was in torture. He was hoping that Father Boone would go
upstairs 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 reference
to the wreckage of the night before.
"Why don't they speak up? They're all concerned in it. It isn't a case
of being an informer. They know I don't want tattlers around. But this
is different. This is a serious matter. Damage was done. It is a
question of justice. And they know my mind on that. And that secretary
owes me a report. He is an official. I've told them often enough that
when 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'll
take action."
Father Boone went upstairs and after fifteen minutes left, in a very
sober mood.
It was some minutes later that Frank, thinking the director was
upstairs, went up to open his heart to him. But Father Boone was not in
his office. Frank descended to the "gym," stayed awhile and then went
home. He had a bad headache. The night before he had not slept. He could
not eat. When he got home, however, he decided to get the thing off his
mind before going to bed, and tired as he was, he started back to the
Club, hoping to find Father Boone. But the priest had not returned.
Hesitating a moment, he finally decided to go to the rectory and have it
all over with. But at the rectory they told him that Father Boone was
out 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, somewhat
relieved.
(IV)
Next night, Father Boone came into the Club not looking as pleasant as
usual. He came late, too; not his wont. He greeted few, and his face
showed firm. The boys whispered one to another, "He's on."
Frank now felt that he was a culprit. Something told him that Father
Boone knew the whole matter and that he was cut up because Daly was
concerned. It was too late now to go to him and make a clean breast of
it. What must Father Boone think of him for driving Daly out of the
Club. Forgetting all his efforts to do the right thing, Frank saw only
that Father Boone was offended. He blamed himself as the cause of it and
gloomily admitted that he had not been man enough to inform the
director. That hurt him. Once more, when the priest went up to his
office after a few minutes stay with the boys, Frank was determined to
go to him and take the consequence.
Meanwhile, Father Boone had come to a decision. There had been some
rowdyism in the Club. Furniture was broken, serious damage was done. It
certainly 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, had
explained. Taking down a large sheet of paper, the director wrote on it
in big letters,
"The McCormack treat is off,
JEROME BOONE."
Pressing a button, he summoned Frank. As Frank heard the bell, a lump
formed in his throat. He felt sure that every fellow in the room could
see how his knees shook. But he was glad, in a way, that matters were
coming to a head. He expected that Father Boone would give him a good
scolding and that that would settle it. He was all prepared for the
interview, but was not admitting, even to himself, how near the tears
were to flowing.
As Frank approached the desk, Father Boone was writing. Frank hoped he
would not look up, and as he stood there for a second, it seemed an
hour. Then, without pausing or turning toward Frank, Father Boone said
in a low, measured voice: "Take that notice, Mulvy, and put it up on the
board below." That was all. Frank stood perfectly still for a moment,
clutching the jamb of the door while Father Boone went on writing. If
the director had turned but a little, he would have seen agony and
anguish in Frank's face, and he would have understood. But he kept on
writing and Frank remained standing, unable to move a step.
Then a hard feeling crept into the boy's heart. He felt that he was
being dealt with unjustly, that he was condemned unheard. Every bit of
his pride came to the top and the boy who, a few seconds before, was
ready to blame himself for Father Boone's disappointment, now would not
have yielded an inch. Father Boone was Frank's ideal. He thought more of
him than of anyone outside his own family. But suddenly he saw the
priest as a hard-hearted and unjust man. For the moment he was glad to
find that he was in an out-and-out struggle. "No explanations now," he
reflected, "time for all that is past." The director had not given him a
chance 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 stairs
and posted the notice on the board.
The crowd gathered quickly. As they read the brief lines on the
notice-board, the wave of disappointment that passed over them could
almost be felt in the air.
Of course the boys had told their parents of the McCormack treat and now
it was off. That meant explanations. They usually kept the Club's
affairs entirely to themselves, but the McCormack affair was altogether
different--good news to those at home. How could they explain why it
was off? Everybody knew that Father Boone never made promises without
fulfilling them. Now every mother and sister and--yes--every father
would want to know why this treat was cancelled. These and other things
ran through the boys' minds. But, above all, the sentiment most keenly
felt was regret that Father Boone had had to take such action. They knew
he was even more delighted to do them a kindness than they were to
receive 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, but
was rather pale. One of the lads inquired of him, "How did Father Boone
find it out?"
"Search me!" Frank replied.
"I say," whispered another, "I'll bet 'Bull' squealed to get square with
the crowd."
Tommy Hefnan edged up to Dick. "What's up, anyway? Father Boone never
did anything before if the fellows scrapped. He usually let them have it
out and appeared not to know about it. What's up now that he is soaking
the whole crowd for this scrap?"
"Search me!" answered Dick. "The only line I can get on it is there's
something else that we don't know. We've got to take our medicine, of
course, and you can be sure Father Boone knows what he's doing. If there
is 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 saw
through the disguise and finally asked him point blank, if he did not
feel 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 with
it, 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's
doing, 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 also
realized that every word he said was true. Nevertheless, he felt like
punching him for saying it.
The rest of the way, they walked on in silence, until they came to
parting, when Frank abruptly put out his hand and said, "You're all
right, Dick." Then, as the younger boy turned the corner, Frank
reflected:
"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 at
once that whatever was troubling her boy, was even worse tonight than it
had been before. Then she had said nothing but tonight she was truly
alarmed at Frank's pallor.
"Why, what on earth is the matter, dear?" she exclaimed, as he entered
the room. "You are as white as a sheet and trembling all over." As she
spoke she put her arms around him and gave him that silent sympathy
which only a mother can impart. That was the one thing Frank could not
resist. He could fight anything but kindness. At his mother's gentle
pressure, his eyes filled and for a moment he could not answer. His
words were all choked back by strange sounds in his throat, but his
mother waited and presently, when he was sufficiently composed, the
whole story came tumbling out. He told his mother all that had
happened. He omitted nothing. For a while she made no comment. Then with
the tenderness of a mother who knows her boy, she said,
"Frank, you've done nothing to be ashamed of. There's more to that
affair, 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, knelt
down at his bedside, under the crucifix hanging from the wall, and
making an act of contrition for his faults of the day, asked God to give
him the grace to do right always. Then turning to a little shrine at the
head of the bed, where a large picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus was
hung, he said, "O Heart wounded for me, give me strength to bear this
hurt for love of Thee."
He arose, feeling that he had offered something to our Lord. That
brought 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 had
made 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 knew
Father Boone, and she knew Frank, and further, she knew how they
esteemed each other. Father Boone had often stopped her in the street to
tell her what a fine boy Frank was. And Frank was never tired talking
about Father Boone, admiring him for this and for that, but mainly for
himself.
Nothing was said by mother or son on the important topic until Frank was
leaving 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 about
what I've told you and that you will not let Father Boone know I told
you. Even if you should meet him _accidentally_," he said slyly, "you
are 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 perhaps
it was better to let the matter adjust itself, after all. "True love
never runs smoothly," she mused, "and I am sure Father Boone and Frank
are very fond of each other."
When Frank got back to school and mingled with the boys, the peace of
the night before and his mother's assurances all seemed to vanish. He
could not see any justice in the way Father Boone had acted.
"It was entirely unfair," he kept thinking. "The whole thing was out of
measure with the fault. After all, a scrap is a scrap. Lots of fellows
fight and make up and it's all over. I made up with Daly, or at least I
tried to. Why should the crowd be punished for one or two? I know what
I'll do. I'll go straight to Father Boone this evening and tell him the
whole thing. Then if he wants to, he can punish me, not the whole
crowd."
Meanwhile, in his room at the rectory, Father Boone too was considering
the same subject. "Boys are not ingrates, as a rule," he reflected.
"True, they may be thoughtless and impulsive, but I have generally found
them appreciative. But there is Mulvy,--straight and open as he usually
is,--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 surely
saw I was indignant. It's not like him. What can it be? Is he afraid of
the crowd? Hardly. But I can't get away from that wholesale disorder and
breakage--the work of a mob. Those boys seem to care for me--but--they
know 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 care
about. 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 been
holding up high standards to them and they fall down just when they
should stand erect. I hated to call off that McCormack treat, but--what
could I do? Well, I'll have to see it through now." And at that he set
his 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 his
room and said that a young man was below to see him. He went down and
found Dick Brian awaiting him. It was not Father Boone's nature to be at
odds with any one, and so when he came upon Dick thus unexpectedly,
forgetting for the instant that war was on between him and the club
boys, he saluted the lad wholeheartedly. The next instant, recollecting
that there was a hostile camp to deal with, he quickly tightened up and
said, "Well, my boy, what is it?"
Dick, though ordinarily very self-possessed, was not quite composed
under 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 boys
would not do anything to displease you. It's not the McCormack treat
that they are thinking about. It's you. Of course, they feel sore that
it is off, but they can stand that, but we don't want you to feel that
we are not grateful."
It was quite a speech even for Dick, but he got it out and every word
rang true. The director realized it, which only increased the mystery.
"If the boys were so considerate of him," he reflected, "why did they
not explain? They should know that he would do what was right in the
matter. If there were any allowances to be made, they ought to know that
he would make them. It was not as if it were an individual affair. The
whole Club was in question. A riot had occurred. And just because the
boys knew he never went about prying into things he had a right to
expect a full explanation. But Dick's speech didn't explain."
Father Boone's next remark was true to his principle of not asking for
information 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 and
when the priest turned to leave, he picked up his hat and started for
the door. But just at that moment something--was it the suggestion of a
trembling lip in the last glimpse he had of Dick's face, or just his own
kind instincts that made Father Boone turn back?
"I thank you, little man," he said, "for coming to say to me what you
did. I _am_ put out by this affair and I don't know yet what to think of
it. At any rate, Dick, you did the right thing in coming here." So
saying, he opened the door for the lad, who went out not knowing just
what to make of it all.
(VI)
On the same evening Dick met Frank on the way down to the Club. He began
at once:
"I say, Frank, Father Boone is terribly cut up over this thing. Do you
know what I think? Something or somebody has set him wrong. It is not
his way to take on so about a scrap that he didn't even see. I tell you,
old man, I believe that 'Bull' has got in some dirty work. He has not
been around for two days, and how do we know what he may have told
Father Boone?"
"Wise guy you are, kid. I have been wondering myself, but I was too
stupid to reason out any kind of explanation. I'd not be surprised if
you have it right. At any rate, I guess I'll try to see Father Boone
tonight and have it out. I should have done it before, but I got my back
up when he ignored me, and became as stiff as he was stout."
When they reached the Club, the fellows were all sitting around
discussing the matter in groups. The Club was not itself, that was
clear. As Frank and Dick entered, Tommy Hefnan exclaimed, "Say, fellows,
let's send a committee to Father Boone. Let's elect a committee to go
and straighten out the fuss."
To this some of the boys objected, maintaining that it looked like
weakness. Others said that it might seem as if they were doing it to
get the McCormack treat back. To this one of the older lads rejoined,
"Let us tell him before we begin, that we know the treat is off and that
although we regret it, we regret something else much more."
"That's not half bad," echoed several.
"And it's the truth, too," muttered Tommy.
There it was again--in plain words. What really worried every boy in the
Club was the fact that somehow, they had disappointed Father Boone.
Every fellow there owed him something for special favors in addition to
all he had done for the crowd as a whole. And every fellow knew that the
very best way to pay Father Boone back, was to be the kind of boy that
the director wanted him to be.
What was to be done? Everybody was too devoted to Father Boone to
deliberately ignore one of his very strongest principles--"_the
tell-tale is not a man of honour_"--and of all the crowd only two had a
right to speak, because only two had actually taken part in the fight.
Frank had tried to see Father Boone, without success thus far--and Bill
evidently was steering clear of the affair.
Even then, why should a scrap cause the director such great worry--they
thought--unless he was angry because it had happened right after what he
had said about Bill, and had resulted in his leaving the Club. As for
Frank--well, every boy knew that he would do the same himself under the
circumstances.
As for Father Boone, the more he thought of the whole affair, the more
he was sure of his first decision. It was a free fight in which most of
the boys had had some part; only Frank deserved special censure because
he had failed in his official capacity. By now the director was
beginning to be concerned about Daly who had not appeared at the Club
since the disorder. He did not want the boy to get away from his
influence and so decided to call at his home.
While the boys were discussing the advisability of sending a committee
to the director, he was on his way to Daly's house. When he got there,
he was met at the door by Mrs. Daly. She was a large slovenly woman. The
home was like herself. It was on the top floor of a side street
tenement. A dark and crooked stairs led up to it. Father Boone reflected
that some people were like that stairway, and when he reached the top
floor and saw before him Bill Daly's mother, he thought that poor Bill
was to be pitied more than anything else. "I must hold on to that boy if
possible," he mused. "After all, it's not they who are well who need the
physician, but they who are ill."
Mrs. Daly conducted him into a dirty room. He was asked to please pass
through to the parlor. Groping his way through two dark bed-rooms, with
no light or ventilation except from a small window opening upon a shaft,
he came to the parlor. Apparently, it was more of a clothes room than
anything else. On the couch, which was a bed at night, on the table, and
on the chairs were articles of wearing apparel. Father Boone had to
remove an armful of assorted garments from a chair to get a seat. His
hostess was not at all concerned. It was her normal surroundings.
Mrs. Daly was glad to see the priest. Her heart was good and her
religion meant something to her in spite of everything. But she was
dragged down by conditions, like many another. Some natures are superior
to environment. 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 the
better will come, some time."
"I hope it comes before it's too late," she sighed. "He has all of us
nearly as bad as himself with his ways. He drinks his money and leaves
nothing for the home, but what Willie brings in. God bless you, Father,
for the job you got Willie. It is the only steady money that comes in."
"How is William?" asked the priest. "I've missed him from the Club the
last few days, so I have just dropped in to see how he is; I hope he is
a good boy."
"Oh, Willie is a good enough boy, he might be worse," answered Bill's
mother. "His father sets him no good example, and the poor boy has to
put up with a lot of abuse. The wonder is that he is any good at all."
She wiped her face with her apron, and sat down on the edge of a chair.
She was evidently in a mood to talk. The kindliness of the priest seemed
to invite her confidence, for she began:
"Mike was a good man before the drink got him. We had our nice little
home and his wages came in as regular as Saturday night. We went to
church together every Sunday morning and God was good to us. But when
Willie was about six years old, his father got a job over at King's
automobile place. He was ambitious and started in and learned how to
drive a taxi. He was out day and night. His money came in fast, and he
was good to me and Willie.
"At first, everything went all right, and I thanked God. But soon, he
began to leave off Church on Sunday from time to time. After a while, he
dropped it entirely. Then he got in with a bad set. It was not long
before he came home under the influence. I cried before him and begged
him to let the liquor alone. He did for a while, but he began again and
kept it up. Then he lost his job. He got another easy enough but he kept
at the drink. And then he began to hold back his money. And it wasn't
everyday that we had something in the house to eat. I had to sell things
from the house to buy food. If I didn't, he would come home drunk and
start a fight. And when there was nothing more to sell he began to beat
me. If Willie cried, he beat him. The poor boy was often black and blue.
Things went on from bad to worse. I had to have him arrested, although
it broke my heart. It was a disgrace to us all. Willie was ashamed to go
out and play with the other boys. One day as he was going along the
street, two boys yelled at him and called his father bad names. Willie
liked his dad, even if he was in jail, because he knew what a good
father he was once.
"When the boys yelled at Willie, he got afraid and ran. But they ran
after him. I suppose if he stood, they wouldn't have chased him. They
caught him and beat him. He tried to get away and then he struck out.
You see, Father, Willie was a big boy for his age, and very strong. He
takes after me. But he never knew his strength. Well, this time he just
struck out. He knocked one of the boys down, gave another a fine black
eye, and both of them took to their heels. It soon got around that my
Willie was a terror. All the boys got afraid of him. He had his own way
after that in every gang, and he got into a lot of scrapes, but he was
always good to his mother.
"When his father got out of jail, he was surprised to see the difference
in Willie. Well, to make a long story short, the father has been
drinking ever since, and that's nearly eight years ago, and my heart is
broken. If it were not for little Willie, I don't know what I'd do."
The priest was a good listener. Although this was but another of the
many similar stories which he had heard, there was something pathetic in
the mother's pride, and in her love of Willie.
The home explained itself now. Poor woman. Discouraged and without
sufficient means, she had drifted and the home had drifted with her, and
Willie too.
Just then footsteps were heard, and as the door opened Bill stood there.
He was amazed on seeing the priest. It flashed on him that he was found
out but he didn't want his mother to know. He made a sign to the priest
to say nothing for the present. Father Boone understood it at once and
was glad to see this consideration of the boy for his mother, although
it didn't tell him how much Bill knew of the Club mystery.
Daly was a shrewd lad, and after his mother withdrew, he kept his
composure. He had to find out first how much the priest knew. Was it
just the fight he came to see about or the wreckage? And how could he
handle it so that even if everything came out, Father Boone would not
cause him the loss of the job he had got him? Bill decided to fence as
cleverly as possible and not tell a bit more than he had to. The priest
began.
"Well, William, I hope you are not ill. I've missed you from the Club
the past few nights?"
"O, I'm all right," answered Bill.
"Have you any reason for staying away?" asked the priest. There was
silence for a moment.
"He is fishing," thought Bill.
Father Boone looked him steadily in the eye and repeated, "I asked you,
Willie, if there was any reason for your staying away?"
"Better ask Mulvy," Bill replied, with a grin.
Father Boone's heart sank. He wanted to clear Frank--and everybody
else--but here was the secretary's name again. Bill's answer and his
manner both implied that Frank was in the affair deeper than the
director had even suspected.
"I hope," he said aloud, "I shall not be disappointed in you, William.
No matter what has happened, I want you to continue in the Club." With
that he took his departure. But as he left the house he reflected that
if William Daly ever got away from his influence, he might go down hill
fast. There was one thing that gave him hope, and that was the boy's
love for his mother. He knew that a boy who was so fond of his mother
had something to work on.
(VII)
Down the dark and crooked stairs Father Boone made his way. When he got
to the street floor and opened the door and took in the clear sunlight,
he thought, "Will this dark passage of mind in which I find myself
terminate in a clear understanding?" While going along he reflected that
so far every step had only led into darker ways. He had tried to
convince himself that Frank was not cognizant of the mischief. He could
not understand how such a boy would fail him. He felt as mean for
himself as he did for Frank. To be so utterly deceived in a boy! Frank
should have reported it, even though he had no part in it. Decision and
consequences should be left to the director of the Club.
When Frank had taken office, it was made clear to him that the
secretary as an officer was obliged to keep the director informed
concerning matters of importance. This wreckage was a matter of the
greatest importance. It had taken him a whole day to restore the place
and had cost him no small sum of money. Besides, it was not only that;
the breakage indicated a big disturbance. There had been a free fight,
evidently, and bad blood. Perhaps there was a division in the Club. It
was Mulvy's business to report the affair and leave the rest to the
director. He failed to do so. That in itself, in a boy like him, was
worse by far than a dozen fights.
Every thing tended to convince Father Boone that Frank had taken a false
step. In this indignant mood, he reached the Club about half an hour
before closing time. The boys were waiting for him. He was hardly seated
in his office, when he heard a knock at the door. Looking up he saw
three boys before him. "Well?" said Father Boone sternly, for by now he
was in a fighting mood. The committee consisted of Frank, Dick and
Tommy. Frank was spokesman.
"We have come, please, Father, in regard to the trouble in the Club. We
have been chosen as a committee to see you about it. We . . ." He got
no further.
"We!" shouted the director. "We! Is this committee secretary of the Club
or are you?--you sir, Frank Mulvy. Here it is the third day since the
disgraceful affair occurred and you--you sir, Mr. Frank Mulvy,
Secretary, have kept me in the dark on a matter that it was your
official duty to report! Do you understand, sir! that you are the
secretary of this Club; and you have duties as well as privileges?"
Poor Frank! If some one had struck him a blow between the eyes, he could
not have been half so stunned. He had to exert all his power to master
his feelings. He tried to speak. His throat refused to let the words
out. Was he to go away again misunderstood? Was he to have the agony of
it all over again? He was helpless, speechless. And there sat the
director, indignant and angry.
While Frank was trying to get himself together, the director arose,
dismissed them, and left his room and the Club.
(VIII)
After the interview, if such it could be called, the committee went back
to the crowd. On the way downstairs, Dick turned to the spokesman. "Why
didn't you speak up, Frank?" Frank's soul at that moment was on fire.
"Speak up?" he fairly yelled, "and what were you 'boobs' doing? Why
didn't you back me up! You stood there like dummies. You'd think we were
culprits the way he sailed into us. And neither of you opened your
mouths."
"That was your job," retorted Dick, "and you got cold feet as soon as he
looked at you. I thought you had more sand."
"Sand!" echoed Frank, "maybe you'd do better. Didn't you have your
chance yesterday at the rectory? And you said yourself that you went out
of the place like a sheep. Don't talk to me about 'sand'. You know
yourself it's not lack of courage, either on your part or mine. I could
face any one else and have it out. But when I saw his face, and heard
his voice, I just wilted. You can't fight a man that's already wounded.
The thing is hurting him worse than it hurts us. But I'll be blamed if I
know what's up. It's more than that scrap we had, I'm sure of that."
By this time they were down with the rest of the boys.
"Well?" they exclaimed anxiously.
"It's all up," said Frank. "He wouldn't even listen to us. He gave me an
awful roast."
"Gosh, fellows, it's tough," added Dick. "You should have seen the way
he fired at us. Before we caught our breath, he up and left. We stood
stock still for a moment, and didn't know where we were."
"It seems," said Frank, "that he is terribly put out because I did not
officially report the matter."
"Well, you'd think there was a robbery or a murder or something like
that, the way you fellows talk," said Ned Mullen. "A scrap is a scrap,
and that's all there is to it," he added, "and I don't see the reason
for all this fuss, except it may be because he is angry that an official
was in it."
He paused for a moment and, as the crowd seemed to concur with him, he
continued, "I say, Frank, why don't you write him a note? He can't fire
at that, nor run away from it. If you write the note, I'll take it to
him, or if you don't like that, mail it."
The proposal struck the fellows as sensible and practicable. Frank
agreed to have the note ready by the next night and to read it to the
crowd before sending it. After a little further talk, they wound up the
evening and started for home.
As Ned was going out, Frank signalled him to hang back a little. He gave
the same hint to Dick. In a few minutes the three were together, Frank,
Dick and Ned.
Ned Mullen was one of the smallest boys of the Club. He was a bundle of
nerves and laughter. Wherever Ned was, there was mirth. Everybody liked
him. These three were close friends. They were three of a kind. Ned had
won his class-medal three years in succession. Dick was always first or
second in his class, and besides he had had the great distinction of
winning the diocesan gold medal for the best English essay. Frank had
led his class as far back as the boys could remember.
When they were alone, Frank said to Ned, "Well, little bright eyes,
you've certainly saved the situation. I was just about desperate when
you 'butted in.' I had made up my mind to resign and clear out
altogether. But I guess if Father Boone gets our explanation, it will
fix things all right."
"Why didn't you go to him in the beginning, Frank?" asked Ned.
"I did, kid, but I got cold feet." And then he told Dick and Ned all
that had occurred from the start.
"There's more to it than appears," suggested Dick.
"You said it," added Ned, and then continued, "I never saw Father Boone
like this before. The fellows have got into lots of worse scrapes than
this, and he only laughed. Why, you remember that day in the woods last
month, on the outing. Do you suppose he didn't know all about that fight
between Barry and Dolan? And he never said a word. Except about a week
after, if you noticed, he wanted two boys to go on an errand to Bailey's
and he sent them. It turned out that they had to help at putting on
labels for the Hospital Fair and Mrs. Bailey gave them a dollar each.
They came back chums. Father Boone doesn't 'grouch' or snarl if a fellow
breaks out. He just says nothing, or else mends matters quietly in his
own way."
"Say, Ned, that's quite a speech," exclaimed Dick, a bit envious. "You
ought to have been on that committee."
At that "Bright Eyes" chuckled and soon he had the others laughing.
After a moment Frank announced, "I want you fellows to help me out with
this note. I never did anything like it before. I've written lots of
compositions. But this is diplomatic work."
Ned tapped his forehead and took on a look of deep thought. Dick coughed
and struck the attitude of a thinker.
"O, laugh if you like, but if you had been through what I have, you
wouldn't think it was a joke," muttered Frank.
"Well, what do you want us to do?" asked Dick.
"Put our heads together and send the right kind of note," answered
Frank.
"I say," suggested Dick, "suppose we each write a note and the one
that's best, goes."
"Good idea," replied Frank, "and let's do it now, right here."
So they sat down to frame the note. For ten minutes not a word was
spoken. Each boy at his own place was poring over a few lines he had
written and then scratched, and then written again.
The silence was broken at last by Frank's voice exclaiming, "Well, who's
through?" No reply. "I say fellows, I can't get started."
"Ditto," echoed Dick.
"Me too!" chimed in Ned.
Each boy had about ten pages partly written and scratched or torn. They
had never before realized the arduous task of a diplomat. For this had
to be a real diplomatic note. A lot was at stake, and a single word
might spoil everything. At least so they fancied.
"Let's do it at home, and get down here early tomorrow night and settle
it," said Dick.
"Agreed," exclaimed Frank and Ned together. And so hearty was their
approval that they left without even putting the stopper on the ink
bottle, let alone picking up the scribbled and torn papers.