Comrades
It was full daylight when Bill Daly opened his eyes the next morning. On
all sides of him were beds. Nurses and doctors were walking noiselessly
up and down the ward. He did not know what to make of it. He had never
been in a hospital before, even as a visitor. He had to make an effort
to collect his thoughts.
O yes! the fire. That shaky ladder. The woman and the child at the
window crying for help. His quick ascent up the ladder. The
adjustment--a sudden sensation of dizziness--and then! Yes, he must have
fallen.
Just then he moved his arm a bit, and a moan issued from his distorted
mouth. He knew now--who he was and what had happened. He changed the
position of his head and a groan escaped him. He moved his body ever so
little, and pain shot all through it. "Oh, Oh, Oh," he groaned. After
that, for a moment, he lay as quiet as possible. "O, I'm a girl, all
right," he told himself. "What am I groaning about? I'll bet Mulvy would
take his medicine. That's 'some' boy, Mulvy. Never grunted once, and I
hit him all over. O for a little of his 'sand.'"
Just then he moved his arm again, and another moan escaped him. A nurse,
passing by, heard him.
"That's all right, little man," she said, "it's painful, but no broken
bones; you'll be on your feet soon." Bill shut his jaw tight. His
suffering recalled to his mind a story one of the Sisters had told the
class a few years previously, of a little boy led into the Roman
Amphitheatre to be tortured for the Faith. They made him hold burning
coals in his hands and told him that if he dropped them he was giving
incense to the idols. He held the coals until they burned right through
his hand. A martyr. His picture was hanging on the wall of the class
room. An angel was placing a crown on his head and he looked--happy!
"I've been a pretty tough nut," Bill soliloquized, "guess this is my
punishment. That martyr kid didn't do any harm. I've done a lot. The
fellows aren't a bad set. They gave me a pretty good show. They didn't
butt in on the fight. What grit that Mulvy has! I'd have given up, if he
was on top--but not him! Gee--the way he just squirmed from under, and
started in, as if only beginning. No wonder he plays football! A
fellow's eyes tell you when you can't lick him. And cool as a cucumber!
And then--'Let's shake!' 'Some boy' that Mulvy kid! And what a cur I was
to go and smash things the way I did! And spoil the fellows having the
McCormack treat. I'm pretty 'yellow'. And then Father Boone comes over
and straightens things out and puts Dad on his feet!
"Well, I'm through with the roughneck stuff. Pretty painful--but you
don't catch me groaning again. I'll 'offer it up', like Sister said, for
the love of God, to atone for my sins. I've got the sins all right. So
here goes for the 'offer up' part. No more grunts, Bill Daly."
He had hardly finished his resolve to bear his pain patiently and
without murmur, as an offering to God, when the doctor and nurse
approached his bed.
"Well, sonny," began the doctor, "you did quite a circus stunt, I'm
told."
Bill grinned for reply, as the doctor proceeded to examine him. It was
necessary to press and probe and lift and handle him generally. Every
pressure and every slightest movement caused him exquisite pain. But not
a murmur escaped him. Once or twice there was an "Oh!" in spite of his
best efforts, but not a complaint nor a whimper. Doctor and nurse were
surprised. Finally, the doctor said, "Son, either you are not much hurt
or you are the pluckiest lad I've ever examined."
"I don't know about the pluck, doctor," he replied, "but I do know that
if I were hurt much more, it would be all over with me."
He had hardly finished the words when he fainted. When he came to, the
doctor said, "Boy, nothing but dynamite can kill you, and I want to tell
you that your name is pluck." They left him for a few minutes and when
the nurse returned, she remarked: "You are not seriously injured, but
you will be pretty sore for some days, and I want to tell you, you are a
little hero."
When she was gone, Bill mused: "I wonder what she'd say to the 'little
hero,' if she saw that damaged room and knew it was spite? I'm getting
mine. I'll cut out the 'hero' stuff, for a while anyway."
About an hour later, as he was lying quietly on his back, he was
delighted to see his mother coming towards him. The sudden movement he
made, hurt him dreadfully but he quickly mastered himself, and gave no
indication whatever of the pain he experienced. The nurse had given the
mother strict orders not to touch him but, when she saw her Willie there
before her, the great love she bore him made her forget everything. She
threw her arms about him and before he could say a word, had given him a
hug and a hearty kiss. It was almost as bad as the doctor's examination.
Willie writhed in pain, but he uttered no complaint.
"O my dear, dear boy," exclaimed Mrs. Daly, seeing his efforts at
suppressing the pain. "The nurse told me not to touch you, and here I've
almost squeezed the life out of you, and made you suffer in every part
of your body."
His suffering was so intense that it was some minutes before Bill could
reply to her. At length he said, "O mother, I'm so glad to see you. It
seems so long since I left the house yesterday and, mother, life seems
so different."
This exhausted him. He just lay still, his mother's hand on his
forehead, and her eyes looking into his. In his weakened state, tears
soon gathered, not of pain, but of gratefulness, of emotion from a high
resolve to bury the old Bill Daly and to live anew.
By degrees they began to talk. She told him of the night before, and the
meeting with the boy at the office below, and his kindness to her. Bill
was all interest. She could not recall the boy's name and she was a poor
hand at description. Bill mentioned a number of his corner chums. The
Club boys did not even enter his head. "Think hard, mother, and see if
you can't get it. I want to know. I didn't think anyone cared so much
for me."
"O yes, now I remember," she replied, "When Father Boone came in he
called him Frank."
That was too much for Bill. He thought of a thousand things all at once.
His mother, only half understanding, continued: "He was one of the
nicest boys I ever saw. When we got to our house, he took me by the hand
and says, 'Don't worry, Mrs. Daly. You've got one of the finest boys in
the world, and he'll be home with you soon,' and his voice as kind and
as tender as a woman's, God bless him!"
Bill was still thinking. This was the boy he had provoked to fight, the
one who had had to take the brunt of the director's anger! Mrs. Daly was
rambling on when Bill looked up and asked her if Father Boone had been
around.
She was not a little surprised. "Didn't you know about him, dear?" she
inquired. Then she proceeded to tell everything in detail, from the time
that Father Boone brought her the news until he closed the taxi door and
sent her home with Frank. The narration seemed to Bill like a story from
a book. He had the illusion, again, of not being a party to the events
at all, but just a spectator. Then the thought of his ingratitude came
back full force. The kindly and tactful deeds of Father Boone bored into
his soul like a red hot iron. What an ingrate he was. Hero! indeed. Such
a hero!
While he was thus reflecting, the nurse came over and informed his
mother that it was time to go now, as the doctors would be in soon.
Reluctantly she bade good-bye to her boy. Wiser by experience, she did
not embrace him, but just bent low and kissed him gently on the
forehead.
(II)
The doctors made their usual round of the ward, and when they came to
Daly, the physician who had dressed his bruises the night before
remarked, "Here's the hero kid." The head doctor looked at him kindly.
"Well, little man," he said, "the next time you go to a fire, send us
word so we can see you perform." They all laughed at this, and Bill
smiled. After the examination, the doctor assured him, "Nothing the
matter, my boy. You're sound as a dollar, just a little shaken up and
bruised; and you'll be out in a few days."
When Mrs. Daly came in again about four o'clock in the afternoon, she
was over-joyed to hear the good report of her son's condition. She saw
now, however, that he was very serious. Indeed, it had been the most
serious day of his life.
All day long Bill had been reflecting on what his mother had told him of
Father Boone and of Frank. He had begun to realize that he had something
to do besides being grateful to them both. There was a duty to perform.
It had been hard to go to the Club when he intended to tell them about
the breakage. And now it seemed ten times harder. How could he do it?
After all the goodness shown him, to be obliged to admit that he was a
thug. The thought had tortured him all the day. It was still racking his
mind when his mother came in.
If only Father Boone would come around, he reflected. It would be easier
to make a clean breast of it to him. He would understand. Father Boone
seemed to understand everything. He'd see, too, that the Bill who had
done the rough stuff was changed. He'd know without a lot of explaining,
how some things hurt more than pain. The thing to do was to tell Father
Boone and let it all rest with him.
That was Bill's conclusion and his resolve. He did not dare tell his
mother. He wondered how much the boys knew. His mother, sitting
admiringly at his side, told him one piece of news which pleased him
greatly. Father Boone had got his father a good job and he had started
in right away. That was why he was not down with her to see him. But he
would be around in the evening. While she was telling this, Bill
interrupted her.
"O mother, see," he whispered, indicating two nuns who were coming
toward them, "and one of them is Sister Mary Thomas."
They were Sisters from the school which Daly had attended before he went
to work, and they greeted the mother and her boy sympathetically. After
a bit, Mrs. Daly recalled that her husband returning from work would be
waiting for his dinner, and she hurried away. The Sisters stayed for
some time, giving Bill that comfort which they alone can impart. Before
going Sister Mary Thomas placed a crucifix and a pair of beads in his
hands. "He suffered for you, William," she said, "and you must also
suffer for Him--now especially."
He watched them going out, as he might gaze on departing angels. Then
his eyes were turned toward the crucifix. "He suffered in mind as well
as body for me," he mused. For Bill was remembering many things now,
which he had not recalled since the Sisters had taught them to him in
his school days. Calvary had a meaning for him now--an atonement for sin
and a restoration to goodness. "Some job--to tell on myself," he sighed,
"but I'll show the Lord that I mean business."
About seven o'clock in came Frank. Bill was both glad, and not glad, to
see him. Everything Frank did for him only made matters harder for Bill.
And yet he wanted that boy near him. Bill recognized the combination of
strength and goodness in Frank. Indeed, one reason for the fight, had
been his envy of Mulvy. But Bill's disposition had undergone a change.
After what his mother had told him Frank appeared as a boy of nobler
mould than the rest.
Frank began with an offhand, "Well, how goes it, old man?"
"Fine," answered Bill.
"You're all right, Bill. Your stock is pretty high now at the Club."
But Bill was thinking of other things than compliments, and after a
moment's silence, Frank decided that the patient was suffering a good
deal, and that he'd better go.
"No, don't go yet, Mulvy," Bill begged, "stay with a fellow a little
while."
"Why, you are crying, old man," said Frank, as he looked into his face,
"you must be suffering terribly. It takes a lot of pain to make you
cry."
"It's not pain," he whispered. "It's something worse."
"O, I know, old fellow. You're thinking about your father and mother.
But you're not seriously hurt, the nurse told me. Father Boone has been
around to see your folks, and he has made them feel all right."
"It's something worse than that," answered Daly. "If I told you, you'd
cut me dead, and so would the other fellows."
"Come now, old chap, you are not yourself. You've nothing to worry over.
You're a guy that's got sand."
This had a reassuring effect on Bill. A doctor or a nurse might
compliment him, but what do they know? But when a boy tells you you have
"sand," that's different!
Frank was soon relating to him the fall into the net--the first account
Daly had heard of it. Frank went on to tell about the ambulance and
Father Boone, and the priest's visit to his parents, and again how the
priest came late at night and went up to see him, his kind words to his
mother, and finally his sending her home in the taxi. It all seemed like
a movie to Daly.
For some time he lay perfectly quiet. Then, although it cost him a deal
of pain, he reached for Frank's hand and grasped it firmly. Their eyes
met. Bill felt a great yearning to tell Frank everything. He had fully
determined to tell only Father Boone. Even that would be hard. But now
he really wanted to tell Frank. It would be such a relief!
While they were still grasping hands, he began, pausing after each
sentence and speaking with an effort:
"Mulvy, I'm a cur . . . don't stop me . . . I'm worse . . . Let me go on
. . . please . . . I've got to get this off my mind or bust . . . I'm
bad, clean through, but from now on, never again . . . You've got a good
home. . . . You don't know what mine was . . . drunkenness, fights and
the like . . . I've lived in the streets . . . nothing but roughnecks
. . . became the worst of the lot . . . My Dad was sent to jail . . . Ma
and me were in a bad way . . . no money for rent or food . . . Somehow
Father Boone turned up . . . helped us out . . . Then he got me a job
. . . After that he put me in the Club . . . I didn't fit there . . .
You know that . . . Something you don't know . . . I hated the bunch
because they were decent . . . picked a fight with you . . . You licked
me . . . yes you did . . . I had to clear out . . . But I was yellow and
a thug . . . I fought underhand against you all . . . I did the meanest
thing out."
At this point Frank tried to remonstrate with him, but at the same time
he was keenly interested in what was coming.
"I hated the whole bunch and Father Boone and everybody. So when the
crowd left, I sneaked back and broke a lot of chairs, overturned tables,
tore down pictures, threw over the victrola, spilled ink on the floor. I
knew it'd queer the crowd with Father Boone and spoil the McCormack
treat. I got square . . . but . . . well, someone else has got square
too. There are different kinds of pain, and my worst now is not my
injuries."
There was a moment's silence. Frank was too much amazed to say a word.
Bill continued: "I'm taking my medicine. If I'm not the right sort the
rest of my life, I hope to be cut and quartered. Look at Father Boone
right afterwards helping my Dad . . . He'n' I had a terrible scrap. We'd
have killed each other only for mother. Then she got Father Boone to
come over. I don't know what he did--but--well, it was all different
when I got back. Dad put out his hand to me. We knelt down. Said the
'Hail Holy Queen.' Father took the pledge. I felt like a whipped cur,
all next day. I saw I'd have to square myself at any cost. That's why I
came to the Club. You know the rest."
Here he paused, heaved a sigh, and exclaimed, "O God, what a relief."
Frank's feelings can be imagined. Here was the key to the mystery, and
Father Boone justified. Apparently he had known all about the wreck--and
it was natural to suppose that it was the work of a crowd. What a
surprise to the director to see that damaged room! And worse--no
explanation. It was all clear to Frank now. The fog was lifted. The
missing parts of the picture fitted into place. But what of Father
Boone?
After a brief silence, which seemed to both a very long while, Frank
gave an extra squeeze to Daly's hand and said, "It's all right, Bill,
we'll stand together. You can count on me to the limit."
The look of gratitude in Daly's face told Frank that there was now a
special bond between them.
"You have told me so much, old man," he said, "that I suppose you won't
mind if I ask you a few questions?"
"All you want," replied Daly.
"Well, first of all, does Father Boone know anything about the affair?"
"Not as far as I know. I was intending to tell him that night of the
fire, but you saw how it turned out. First I was going to tell the
fellows, and then see Father Boone and squeal on myself to him."
"Daly--that was a dirty job . . . but it's past and done. You're no
longer yellow. Only one in a million would come back as you're doing.
We're chums, Bill Daly, through thick and thin."
"I like you for that, Mulvy, and I hope you'll never regret it. Here's
something," he continued, timidly showing the crucifix in his other
hand. "I've promised Him, never a crooked thing again,--and a promise to
Him means no going back." They joined hands--and hearts. They were
comrades now. With a look which showed that the past was buried, Frank
tenderly said,
"How's the pain, old man?"
"Well, since I've told you so much, I'll tell you a little more. It's
something awful. I'm not doing any baby stunts,--but--just the same I've
got an awful dose. While on the broad of my back, thinking, and in pain,
I remembered that martyr boy the Sister told us about, who held the
burning coals in his hands, and I said to myself, 'Bill Daly, that kid
didn't have your score, but see what he endured for God.' And that's
when I promised. I just told Him I deserved it all, I'd take it for
penance, and I promised to cut out the cry-baby stuff."
"Daly, you're a brick."
To which Bill rejoined, "And Mulvy, you're all gold--twenty-two carat."
"You'll get over that, Daly," replied Frank. "I must be going now. Mum
is the word. What you've told me, is the same as not said. I'll not
breathe it to a living soul."
A tempest raged in Frank's soul. His was a magnanimous character, and it
pained him to think that circumstances should have framed for Father
Boone, such a strong case against him. The director had placed absolute
confidence in him. No wonder he showed such indignation. "And wasn't it
just like Father Boone--to turn in a half dozen men and fix things up at
once, and then wait for developments as if nothing had happened!"
Frank made his way toward the Club. "If I can get hold of the janitor,"
he thought, "I can find out all I want to know." He turned off to the
street where the janitor lived, and soon found his man.
"Good evening, Mr. Dunn," he began.
"Good evening, sir."
In an apparently indifferent manner, Frank led up to his objective. But
old Dunn suspected something right from the start. It is true that
Father Boone had not imposed silence in regard to the mischief at the
Club, but the janitor was a sensible and loyal man, and he judged that
if Father Boone wanted anything to be said about the affair, he would
say it himself. The indifference that Dunn displayed whenever Frank
tried to lead up to the point, was amazing. The boy finally gave up the
flank attack and tried the front.
"Mr. Dunn, that was quite a bit of damage we had over there the other
day, wasn't it?"
"Quite a bit," said Dunn, "but I guess Daly was not hurt as badly as we
thought at first."
"Oh, I don't refer to the fire, but to the Club," observed Frank.
"There was no fire at the Club, as far as I know," remarked Dunn.
"No, but there was a whole lot of breakage over there, and you know all
about it. Now, how in the name of Sam Hill did they fix things up by the
time we got there in the evening?"
"Young man, if you want to know anything about the Club, I think you'll
find Father Boone in his office at his usual hours. And now good night!"
"By gum," muttered Frank, "the old snoozer's no fool. I'll bet if he had
an education, he'd be on top somewhere."
Meanwhile, Father Boone was in the Club office attending to the little
matters that came up daily. He was poring over a letter which had come
in the afternoon mail. It was written on exceptionally fine paper, and
was signed "James Roberts." The director indulged in a moment's
speculation. "Roberts, Roberts," he reflected. "New name to me. I wonder
what he wants. I hope it's not a complaint," he sighed, as he turned
back to the first page.
"Reverend Sir:
I trust you will pardon my addressing you without
knowing your name. I am sending this letter to the
head of the Boys' Club, as that is as definite as
I can be for the moment. Later, I hope to call on
you personally.
I have just returned from Cuba and found my family
in the Hotel Plaza instead of at their home, where
I left them. They have informed me of what you
already know better than myself. It was my house
that was on fire, and my wife and daughter
attribute the saving of their lives to a boy of
your Club, who hitched up the detached ladder, and
in doing so, met with such a dreadful accident.
I've been home for only an hour, but my first
duty, I consider, is to convey to you my gratitude
and to inquire what I can do for the boy. If you
will let me know where he is, I shall have a
trained nurse sent to care for him, and I shall
consider it my privilege to do anything else that
is possible.
I await your reply.
Gratefully,
James D. Roberts."
Father Boone never allowed his correspondence to accumulate. Every
evening saw his desk cleared. No letter that called for a reply was left
over for the next day, if he could possibly help it. He answered this
letter even before he read the rest which were on the table before him.
"My dear Mr. Roberts:
I want to thank you for your letter. The boy is
out of danger, and is getting the best of care at
the Lawrence Hospital. I shall let him know of
your kind inquiry, and of your wish to be of
assistance to him.
With kindest regards,
Sincerely,
Jerome Boone, S.J."
"A good man to interest in Willie's family," he reflected, as he
addressed the letter.
Father Boone was always planning how he could help people. Every time he
made the acquaintance of anyone in a position of authority or influence,
he seized the opportunity to remark:
"If you ever need a good bright boy, let me know, and I shall send you
one with whom you will be satisfied."
In this way, he got many a boy placed in a good position. Often, too, he
got jobs for their fathers. He was always so careful to recommend only
the right sort, that a word from Father Boone was the best
recommendation a man or boy could have in getting work.
Just as he finished his letter to Mr. Roberts, he heard a knock at his
door, and a moment later, a bright little chap of about thirteen
presented himself.
"Good evening, Vincent," said the priest. "What can I do for you?"
"Please, Father," began the lad, "my father is home from work three
weeks now with rheumatism, and mother says would you give me a line to
some place downtown to get a job?"
"Well, my little man, have you got your working papers?"
"Yes, Father, my mother went with me to the City Hall this morning and
got them."
"It's too bad, Vinc., that a bright boy like you must give up school so
soon. But I suppose your mother wouldn't do this unless she had to. I'll
get you a place, and then we must see about your keeping up your studies
at night school." He wrote a line or two, and addressing the envelope,
gave it to the boy.
"Now, Vincent, I am sorry to do this, but you just make the best of it.
I'm sending you to a very nice place with a good chance for advancement.
The pay is not much, but you're only thirteen, and it's a fine start.
Now that you are starting out, mark well what I say: Make yourself so
useful that when there is a vacancy higher up, you will be the first boy
they'll think about. And what you do, do pleasantly. Good-bye and God
bless you. And," he added, as Vincent was going out the door, "let me
know from time to time how you are doing."
The boy had gone but a few steps when, with a jerk, he wheeled round and
returned. "O Father, excuse me," he faltered, "I forgot to thank you."
"That's all right," said the priest. "The best way to thank me will be
to let me hear a good report of you."
The priest's next thought was, "I must run down to the hospital, and see
Willie. But he does not worry me so much just now as Frank does. I can't
make out his conduct in regard to this Club mix-up. He is certainly an
honorable boy and most considerate, and yet he has left me in the dark
all this time. He knows that 'committees' are not my way of doing
business. After last night, I'd like to drop the whole matter. But it is
not an affair of sentiment. I must see it through for his sake, and for
the sake of the rest also. If nothing develops before tomorrow night,
I'll take the initiative myself. I hate that, and I'd much rather they'd
do the right thing of their own accord. But,--" he shut down his desk,
put on his hat and coat, and started for the hospital.
Frank, at the same time, was on his way from Dunn's to the Club. Once
more he was going straight to the director,--to tell him now, that there
must be a misunderstanding, and that he was sorry to see him grieved.
He saw the director's point of view--of course he couldn't explain--but
perhaps Father Boone would understand that he wasn't really slipping so
badly.
He was walking pretty fast, with his head down, his chin buried in his
coat collar, and his hands deep in his pockets. Buried in his thoughts,
he did not see Father Boone approaching on his way to the hospital. The
priest was almost on top of him before he was aware of his presence.
Looking up suddenly he tipped his hat and stammered--"Good evening,
Father."
"Good evening, sir," answered the priest and hurried on.
Frank stopped. He was dumfounded. "Good evening, _sir_! _Sir_, is it? So
it's '_sir_' now? Good evening, _sir_." He kept on repeating the phrase,
indignation following his astonishment. He knew where the priest was
going, and realized that the interview with him could not be held that
evening. Another day of torture stood before him. He was about to give
free rein to his feeling of injustice when he recollected again that the
priest with the data he possessed was perfectly right in his attitude.
So, instead of going to the Club, he turned aside and went into the
church. It was always open from five in the morning until ten at night.
Going up to the altar of the Sacred Heart, he knelt down and prayed.
Long and earnestly he poured out his soul to God, ending with the words,
"Accept, O Sacred Heart of Jesus, my sad heart as a sacrifice and bless
my father and mother and Bill Daly and Father Boone."
So saying, he arose light-hearted and made his way into the street. He
actually began to whistle, and when a boy whistles, he is all right with
the world. He did not mind now how misunderstood he might be. It was no
longer a load of lead that weighed him down. Rather, his sorrow had
turned to gold. It was something that God esteemed. He had been able to
give God something acceptable to Him, because it had cost him a good
deal. That made him happy.
Father Boone was on his way to the hospital when he had met Frank so
abruptly. For an instant he too had held his breath. Then as he hurried
on, he could not but wonder whether Frank's chin in collar, hands deep
in pockets attitude, had meant that he was trying to slink past.
Certainly his greeting had been sudden and disturbed. "Well," declared
the priest to himself, "I'll settle this whole thing tomorrow. It's gone
on long enough."
Father Boone entered the hospital and ascending the stairway leading to
the office, found himself before the Bureau of Information.
"How is that little fire hero?" he asked of the clerk.
"I'll 'phone up and see," was the reply.
"O, don't mind, I am going right up. I just asked because I thought you
had news of him here."
"It's only the serious patients whose condition we have here, Father,"
answered the clerk.
"In that case," remarked the priest, "at least he is not seriously ill;
that is some news anyway."
There was a sign on the door of the ward saying: "_Closed_, doctors
visiting." He knew that this did not apply to him, as he was allowed
entrance any hour of the day or night. Still, as it was not an urgent
case, he decided to wait until the doctors came out. The nurse at the
desk offered him her chair, which he declined with thanks.
"But, if you don't mind," he said, "I'll sit on the edge of this table."
"Certainly, Father," she replied, "until I run and get you a chair."
"No, no," he protested, "I like this much better."
So the ice was broken.
"You have got one of my little fellows inside," he continued. "How is he
getting along?"
"You mean that Daly boy?"
He nodded assent.
"Why, we are all in love with him. He is one grand boy. This morning the
doctor had to remove some loose skin from his arm, and he found that he
would have to do a little cutting of the flesh to get at some of the
skin which had become imbedded. The boy heard him say to me, 'It will
hurt him like the mischief.' The lad spoke up, 'Go ahead, Doc. If you
can stand it, I guess I can.'
"The doctor didn't want to use cocaine on it, so he took the boy at his
word. It was simply terrific, Father! We had to pull the skin out with
pincers. He just tightened his jaws, and never let out a moan. That boy
is a credit to you. He has always taken just what was given him and has
been no trouble to anybody."
As Father Boone was getting ready to reply, the doctors passed into the
next ward.
The priest went in at once to see his patient. Daly's eyes, as big as
saucers, greeted him.
"Well, that was a nice scare you gave us all, you little rascal," was
the priest's greeting. All Bill could do was grin. "They tell me there
is nothing the matter with you, that you are just a bit frightened."
"O, I don't know about the frightened part," rejoined Daly, "I guess
there was somebody else in that boat, as well as myself."
"My boy, I want to congratulate you. Not on your ladder stunt, anyone
could do that, and not fall off, either; but on your fortitude here.
True, there are no bones broken or anything like that, but you've had a
lot of acute pain to endure, and they tell me you have not whimpered.
You have given the Club a good name here. William, I am proud of you."
Poor Bill! All day long he had been fortifying his resolution to tell
Father Boone everything. But after this praise from the priest, he could
no more touch on the affair than fly. Two or three times he made an
attempt to begin, but the words stuck in his throat. They talked on a
lot of things, but after that first allusion to the Club, there did not
seem to be another opening for Bill. At last, however, he made one great
effort.
"Father," he cried out, "there is something on my mind, I must let it
out! It's got me all on fire inside. I'll burn up unless I out with it."
Father Boone could see his excitement and knowing that the boy was in an
overwrought condition, which must not be made worse, took him quietly by
the hand, patted his head and said, "Now that's all right, Willie. Don't
take things to heart so much; we'll have a good talk when you are
yourself again." He saw Bill look steadily into his eyes and swallow
once or twice, but he did not understand that the words of an accusation
were sticking in the boy's throat and blocking his speech. So thinking
that the lad had need of rest and quiet, he spoke a few kindly words and
withdrew.
Daly felt like calling after him, but before he could make up his mind,
Father Boone had gone. Usually, the priest did not leave a bedside
without suggesting confession, if the patient were at all seriously ill.
Even if the illness were slight, he frequently took occasion of it to
reconcile the sick person with God, and to bring into the soul that
comfort which goes so far to restore health to the body, besides
bringing solace and healing to the mind. But as director of the Club, he
felt a special delicacy in suggesting confession to one of his boys, and
since, just now, Bill had seemed bordering on hysteria, the priest
believed that a little reassurance was the proper thing.
"The poor boy got a worse shaking up than he is aware of," he thought,
"but it will pass off soon. I shall see him tomorrow, and arrange to
bring him Holy Communion. The dear Lord will do the rest." So he
hastened home.
Daly, meanwhile, had quieted down somewhat. But reflections came thick
and fast. "Father Boone congratulated me, did he? If he only knew what
he was congratulating! Yes, I'm a brave boy! Couldn't open my mouth.
Mulvy would act that way,--not! I wish I had a little of his 'sand.'
Gee, next time I've got to get it out--even if it chokes me!"
He turned over and tried to sleep. The lights were low in the ward now,
and a great quiet reigned. But sleep would not come. He began by
counting sheep going through a gate. One, two, three--he got up to a
hundred, and there before his eyes was a big black sheep stuck in the
gate. "That's me," he uttered, and stopped the count. Then he tried
going up a very high stairs, counting the steps one by one. At last he
got to the top and looking about he saw a room, in disorder. Broken
chairs, upset tables, pictures on the floor, and a boy spilling ink.
"That's me," he sighed. Then he rehearsed all that his mother and Frank
had told him of Father Boone's kindness. He saw the ambulance rushing
along and the priest watching tenderly over an unconscious form. "That's
me," he thought to himself.
He began to feel very thirsty. "I wish I had a drink," he sighed. An
hour passed, two, three. He heard the clock strike twelve. A nurse was
passing. He called to her and asked her for a drink of water. She drew
near to him, observed his dry hot face and glistening eyes. His tongue
was parched and thick. She felt his pulse. Then she took out a
thermometer and put it in his mouth. He submitted patiently to it all,
but when the thermometer was withdrawn, he said beseechingly, "Please
give me a drink."
The nurse assured him that she would attend to him and left his side.
Going to her desk in the corridor, she called the house surgeon. "I
think, doctor," she told him over the phone, "you'd better come up. That
Daly boy has quite a temperature." The doctor was soon in consultation
with her, and together they went to the patient. After a careful
inspection, they withdrew.
"Typhoid," exclaimed the doctor.
"I was afraid so," she replied.