The Field of Honor
The next morning Father Boone, in his office, at the Club, sent for
Thomas Dunn. When the janitor came, the priest said, "It is several days
now since that room was upset. I expected the boys to report it at once.
But not even the officials have said a word to me yet. I know I could
find out about it if I wished to quiz them, but I don't want to do that.
It may have been some sort of a mix-up in which the fellows all feel
that to say a word about it would be mean. They may not take the serious
view of it that I do. So now I am going to start in, in my own way, to
get at the bottom of it. And I begin with you. Have you observed
anything that would give me a clue?"
"Well no, I can't say that I have," replied Dunn. "The lads have been
unusually well behaved since that night."
"Very well, but if you should come across anything that will throw light
on the mystery, let me know."
Dunn turned to go, but suddenly recollected something. "I don't know
whether it's much of a clue, Father, or if it's worth while mentioning,
but one of the boys was over to my house last night seeming to want me
to talk on the matter."
"Why, that's a straw that shows how the wind blows. Who was the boy?"
"Well, you know, Father, I don't know the boys much by name. But as he
was going out I called my boy Harry and I says to him, 'Harry, who is
that chap, do you know'?
"'Yes, Pa,' he says, and he gave me his name, but I forget it. I'll have
to ask Harry, if you like, and let you know this evening."
"Very well, Thomas, do so."
Dunn left, and was half way downstairs when he turned back again.
"Pardon me, Father, but I think I've got the name or near it. Harry said
the boy was Murray, but I'm not quite sure, but it was Murray, or
Murphy, or Mulvy or some such name."
At the name Mulvy, an electric spark seemed to pass through the
director. Dunn did not notice it, as he went out at once. He caught the
words "Thank you, Thomas," as he was leaving the room, and that was all.
But Father Boone! This was adding insult to injury! So Mulvy did know
something about it! And instead of coming to the director, he had gone
over to the janitor! A nice way for a trusted and honorable boy to act!
Father Boone had been trying all along to convince himself that somehow
Mulvy would come out of it clear and clean. He had thought of a thousand
excuses for the delay--questions of divided allegiance or some point or
other of honor and so on. But Mulvy's going to the janitor to get
information looked like an underhand mission, certainly. What for?--To
find out what the director knew, or how he had taken it--or to arrange
some explanation?
All these questions shot through his mind with the rapidity of
lightning. None of them carried its own answer. All of them seemed out
of harmony with what he knew of Mulvy. And yet, there were the facts.
(II)
The parochial school was around the corner from the church and club and
it was at this very hour that the department of which young Harry Dunn
was a member had been turned loose in the play yard for recess. A game
of tag was soon on, and Dunn, dodging in and out, ran right into Ned
Mullen. The collision sent Dunn sprawling to the ground. He was two
years younger than Ned, but very stocky. It was nobody's fault that he
got the bump; but nevertheless as soon as he rose to his feet, he rushed
at Ned and gave him a kick in the shins. Ned's first impulse was to box
his ears, but as the boy was so small, he merely took hold of him and
gave him a good shaking.
Dunn began to blubber. In a thrice a crowd gathered, and Dunn, seeing
that he was being teased, got ugly. Turning to Ned, who was about to
back off with Tommy, he cried out: "Yes, you belong to the crowd that
smashed up things! Father Boone will fix you!"
The threat didn't mean much to Tommy and Ned and they walked away.
Harry Dunn, however, had heard just enough from his father about the
Club damage to think he could best get even by telling his teacher
about it. So, when the boys got into their school rooms again, he tried
to tell the Sister that two fellows had thrown him down in the yard. She
paid no attention to him. After class, he went to her again, and said
that the boys who broke things at the Club were trying to pick on him.
"Mind your own business, Harry," she said, "and nobody will pick on you,
you little tattletale." As the boys say, he got "his."
That afternoon Father Boone, passing through the school after class,
stopped to talk to the Sister in the vestibule. Just then along came
young Dunn.
"Here's a young gentleman who is talking about a row at the Club," she
said to the priest, as she held the lad by her eye. She thought the boy
had made a mountain out of a mole hill, and that the director's shrug or
laugh would show the youngster where he stood. Instead, Father Boone
grew instantly serious. The Sister saw she had made a mistake, but
before she could change the subject, he said, disregarding the boy:
"It was bad business, Sister. I feel ashamed and hurt about it. I did
not think my boys would act so."
Then he continued, "But how did you know about it, Sister?"
"O, a little bird told me."
"Indeed, and may I ask what the little bird told you?"
"Really, Father, it's not worth while referring to. I shouldn't have
recalled it but for that young lad who passed us this moment. You know
him, don't you?"
"I can't say that I do."
"He is Harry Dunn, Father, the son of your janitor."
"O, that's interesting, Sister; so it seems that I know less--"
At this moment he was interrupted by a messenger who told him that he
was wanted for a sick call. He hurried to the rectory. A woman in the
parlor was waiting to give him the name and address of a sick person.
"Why, that," he exclaimed, "is the house where the Dalys live."
"Yes, Father."
"How old is this boy you say is so ill?"
"About twelve, Father."
"Do you know whether he is seriously ill; has the doctor been there?"
"O yes, Father, and he said the boy had typhoid. There is another case
in the house also, and the Board of Health has been around."
He promised to go at once to administer the consolations of religion to
the sick boy. "I am glad the Board of Health is on the ground," he said
to himself, as he was on his way over. "From what I saw of conditions
there, it's a wonder they're not all down with typhoid. I suppose Willie
would have had it, except that he is such a robust and active lad."
When the priest had finished his ministrations, he went up to the Daly
flat. After his knock at the door, he heard quick movements inside and
then a rather long silence. He rapped again. This time the door was
opened and Mrs. Daly met him. The reason for the delay was evident. She
had been crying and did not care to exhibit herself to a neighbor. But
on seeing Father Boone she broke out afresh, at the same time showing
him a telegram she had just received from the hospital. It read:
"William Daly dangerously ill. You will be admitted any hour." It was
signed by the superintendent.
Father Boone put two and two together, "Typhoid." He made up his mind
at once just what to do. "You stay here until I send a cab for you; then
come along." He himself hurried downstairs, walked quickly over to the
trolley and in ten minutes was at the hospital. Not until he got there
did he go to the phone and call up a taxi for Mrs. Daly. He had a good
start now, and could pave the way for her.
Going immediately to the ward, he found the nurse at Daly's bedside.
"Rather sudden," he remarked.
"Very," she replied.
"There were no signs last night, nurse, as far as I could see. What
seems to be the matter?"
"Typhoid."
All this was in a whisper.
He continued, "I'll just see how he is and say a few words to him before
his mother comes."
"He is delirious, Father."
"Maybe he'll know me," he said, and bent over the patient. He took his
hand gently, saying, "Willie boy, you have not said 'hello' to me yet."
No answer. "You know Father Boone, don't you, Willie?"
"Hello, Frank," was the response. "I wish I had your 'sand.' I say,
Frank," he continued, "I'm starting right when this thing is over." He
paused for a moment and then resumed. "I don't blame the fellows. I'm
down on myself now." Another pause. "Frank, you tell Father Boone I'm
sorry. I want to see him. You are a brick. I am . . . O, I'll tell . . .
the whole thing if it . . . chokes me." This last was said with an
effort.
Father Boone attributed all he was saying to delirium. He realized that
the patient's condition was serious, and prepared to give him the Last
Sacraments. As he took out the Holy Oils, and was about to anoint him
the boy's eyes looked calmly at him and he uttered the words: "Hello,
Father."
The priest was very glad that the boy was conscious, and not knowing how
long he would remain so, he started to hear his confession as quickly as
possible. He began by receiving from him a general acknowledgment of his
sins and contrition for them, intending, if time permitted, to hear his
confession in detail. "You are sorry for all the sins of your life, my
child?"
"Yes, Father."
"Say the Act of Contrition."
He began: "O my God, I am most heartily sorry for all my sins and I . . .
and I . . . and . . ."
When Father Boone saw that William was lapsing into unconsciousness, he
took a crucifix and holding it to the boy's lips, said, "Kiss the
crucifix, my child, and say, 'Jesus have mercy on me.'" As he gave him
absolution, he heard him murmur, "Jesus . . . have mer. . . ." and off
he fell again into delirium.
The priest was sorry that the confession had been cut short, but was
very glad that he was able to give him absolution. Then he anointed him,
for Daly's condition did not permit of his receiving Holy Viaticum. The
priest had barely finished the administration of the last rites, when
Mrs. Daly appeared. He quickly approached her and cautioned her sternly
not to show emotion in the presence of the patient, as any excitement
would only make his condition worse.
"O my Willie, my Willie," was her answer, and her body shook with
emotion. "Willie was the good boy, he was the good boy to his mother. O
blessed Mother, help me now in my hour."
The first burst of grief over, she really showed wonderful control and
approached the bed quite calmly. Bill was now sleeping. The mother sat
by his side with her hand on his. Seeing that the priest was waiting,
she said, "Are you waiting to give him the Sacraments, Father?"
"No, I have already done that," he replied, "but, if you don't mind,
I'll wait for you."
"No, no, Father dear," she said, "don't wait for me, for I am afraid it
would be a long wait."
He considered for a moment, and decided to leave.
(III)
On his way home, Father Boone had time to review the occurrence at the
school earlier in the day. It was the Dunn boy whom the Sister had
pointed out, as she told him the little incident. He said the Club boys
were "picking on him." It could be that they were retaliating for
something connected with the Club affair. He did not like the set of
things. But if he could have seen what was occurring in some other
quarters, he might have liked the looks of things still less.
After school, Ned and Tommy sought Frank. The Regal High was but a short
distance from the parochial school.
"Say, Frank," began Ned, "that Dunn kid is a fresh guy. Today, after
bumping into Tommy and me, he got ugly and gave me a kick. I shook him
up a bit, and he starts in and blabs about the fight with you and
'Bull.' Afterwards, he told the Sister about it, only he made it ten
times worse than it was. To hear him talk you would think we had a free
fight over there. He spoke of breaking things and a lot of stuff like
that."
Of course Frank saw at once what had happened. Harry had heard his
father mention the damaged room. He kept his surmises to himself,
however, replying, "O, don't mind that fellow, he's only a kid."
"But, Frank," continued Ned, "if you heard how the thing has spread and
how your name is mixed up in it, you'd mind."
Frank laughed off this observation, and tried to turn the talk to
something else. But as they walked along, they were stopped by at least
three different boys who asked what the row at the Club had been.
By that time Frank began to get anxious. The mix-up was bad enough to
face when only the Club and Father Boone and his mother knew. How could
the explanation ever catch up with the story--especially if young Dunn
got to talking! Of course, in the end everything would come out all
right. In due time, Father Boone would learn the truth from Daly
himself, but meanwhile--
He knew his mother was as much upset about the misunderstanding as
himself. And to have affairs still further complicated would be pretty
bad. Father Boone must know a good deal, for the place could not have
been set right without his knowledge. But he did not know who had done
it, nor any of the details. That was evident from Daly's story, and so
up to now, he was angry with Frank because he had not reported. It had
all the evidences of a free row surely--and his indignation was
justified--and especially against an official. But now suppose this talk
should reach Father Boone and that it should associate him with the
affair as one of its leaders!
The very thought made Frank shudder, until he recalled that Bill was not
only willing, but anxious to make a clean breast of his spiteful deed.
So in the end, all would turn out right. For the time being, he was
under a cloud. There was nothing to do but wait for the wind to blow it
away or the sun to dissipate it.
But even as he meditated, the cloud was getting thicker and blacker. He
had hardly returned to school for the afternoon session, when his
teacher asked him if the report were true, that he was deposed from his
office as secretary. The inquiry gave him a distinct shock. He had the
greatest respect and affection for his professor, and that Mr. Collins
should entertain for a moment the thought that he had done anything to
deserve the censure of Father Boone, was very painful to him.
"This is the first I have heard of it," Frank answered.
"I am so glad I was misinformed," was the reply.
That afternoon, Frank's thoughts could not be held in check. There was
just the possibility that Father Boone had taken some further action.
When his name was called for recitation in Caesar his mind was
elsewhere. It was not like Frank to hesitate when called upon, but now
he was at sea. The teacher saw his predicament, and having genuine
regard for him said, "Don't you agree with the preceding translation?
Smith, try that passage again." Smith repeated and Frank, now master of
the situation, took up the portion assigned him. But his mind soon
wandered away again. He began to reflect on the consideration his
teacher had shown him, and to wonder if his absent-mindedness suggested
the disquiet of a guilty conscience. It seemed as though every fellow in
the class was watching him.
When school was out, he went to Mr. Collins to thank him. "I was all
upset, sir, by what you said before class."
"I'm sorry, Frank, that I referred to the matter at all. I really was
sure, knowing you as I do, that it was a false rumor."
"Thank you, Mr. Collins."
After school, Frank went straight to the Club to see if Father Boone
were there, and to find out from him if there were anything back of the
report. The priest was not in his office. Frank turned into the reading
room and from force of habit went to look at the notice board where the
items of interest to the Club were usually posted. To his amazement he
read:
"The Office of Secretary is hereby discontinued.
Members will hereafter deal personally with the
Director.
Jerome Boone."
Frank's head was in a whirl. He began to get dizzy. Falling back into a
chair, he repeated again and again: "The office of Secretary is hereby
discontinued." "A direct slap!" he gasped. "Condemned unheard. It is not
fair. That's no way to deal with a fellow. It's an outrage. I did not
believe that Father Boone could do such a thing. Condemned, disgraced
and the whole parish talking about it! It will cut my mother to the very
heart. I've got to keep it from her--to put a stop to it right now. I'll
go to the rectory and have it out with him. This is what I get for not
taking a firm stand in the beginning."
He sat with his head on his arms on the table. His inclination was to
give way to his feelings, but after a moment, he jumped up, stood erect
and exclaimed, "I'll win out."
He started for the rectory, but on his way, he began to hesitate. "What
grievance have I got anyway? When it comes down to 'kicking,' what
'kick' have I got coming? From Daly's own story, there was an awful job
done. No one on earth could believe it the work of one or two. Father
Boone naturally expected some word from me. And if old Dunn told him I
was over there pumping him--? That was a bad move--puts me in deeper.
Young Dunn was only repeating what he got from his father. It certainly
looks bad. And if I start something, what can I say? I'd be cornered, no
matter which way I'd turn. The only thing to do is to lie low for a
while, and let things shape themselves. Daly'll tell the whole thing
himself and then it will be my turn. And then Father Boone--gee--I'll
feel sorry for him then!" So Frank put off his visit to the priest and
went home.
(IV)
If Frank had experienced a sense of relief in deciding not to see the
priest, it was short-lived. He walked into his home, and faced Father
Boone and his mother engaged in serious conversation. His heart leaped
into his mouth. The worst had happened! The priest evidently considered
this affair so serious that he had come to see his mother. And it would
break her heart to have a priest complain of him! And especially Father
Boone--that would be a dagger thrust! These and like thoughts flashed
through his mind in an instant.
As a matter of fact, Frank's deductions were all wrong. Mrs. Mulvy was
the President of the Parish Relief Association of which Father Boone had
charge. Hence it was not unusual for him to call on Mrs. Mulvy to give
her a list of poor to be visited and helped. He was on such an errand
now.
Father Boone's method of directing a club found no place for carrying
information to parents. He preferred to settle matters with the boys
themselves, and in a manner that would be helpful to them, and that
would leave no sting. In his mind, it would be an acknowledgment of
defeat if he had to carry a case into the home. He had never done it
yet.
After his instant of hesitation, and convinced that he knew the subject
of conversation, Frank assumed an indifferent air and stepped forward to
greet the priest. Father Boone continued to talk. Frank waited a moment,
bewildered, and then said, "Good afternoon, Father."
"Good afternoon, _sir_," was the response.
Frank stiffened, every muscle of his body became like steel. He could
not look at his mother. If he did, he might break down and he did not
want to give the director that satisfaction. So he stood facing the
priest.
All three were embarrassed. Mrs. Mulvy knew the significance of that
_sir_. Frank, sure now of his suspicions, made a desperate plunge.
"I am sorry, Father, that you felt obliged to carry this matter to my
mother, but I suppose you know best."
Father Boone literally gasped. For a moment he looked at Mrs. Mulvy,
then he turned back to Frank. Realizing that the matter had come to an
issue, and without his doing, he said, in a deliberate, penetrating
tone,
"Frank Mulvy, do you, or do you not, know anything about that shameful
destruction at the Club?" Already Frank saw his folly. He was in just
the corner he had foreseen. Acknowledgment would mean the betrayal of a
sacred confidence. Every moment of silence was agony to his mother.
Denial he could not make, for he had never in his whole life made a
conscious mis-statement. Silence was fatal. Denial was impossible.
Acknowledgment was betrayal of Bill's confidence. What could he do?
Again the priest said slowly and solemnly: "Do . . . you . . . or . . .
do you . . . not . . . know . . . about that act of destruction?"
"Speak up, Frank," his mother said, imploringly.
At the sound of that voice and the look of that face, he collapsed. His
pent up emotions of the past days burst out in sobs, his body shook
convulsively. Both priest and mother tried to soothe him. That only made
it worse. Father Boone turned away and stood at the window, looking out.
Then with only a quiet and casual good-bye, he took up his hat and left.
Hardly had the door closed behind him when Frank threw his arms about
his mother, and burst into renewed sobs. Mrs. Mulvy was puzzled and
distressed but she had full faith in her boy. She let him have his cry
out, and then said gently: "Don't mind, dear, you are mother's best boy;
she knows this will come out all right."
"O mother, if you feel that way, and will trust me, without asking me a
single question, I promise you it will come out more than all right."
"Very well, darling," she replied, "I'll say nothing again on the matter
except you yourself bring it up."
"O, I'm so glad, mother, because now I can see it through. I don't mind
what others say or think as long as it is all right with you."
"But I feel so sorry for Father Boone," she sighed. "He is apparently
all at sea. He thinks the world of you, Frank, and that is what hurts
him."
"I know, mother, and that is what hurts me, too, but there is no help
for it at present. He's got to get all the facts first--and I can't--"
He broke off and then added, shyly, "You know, mother, I think we are a
good deal the same. Only, of course, his will is so strong, he won't
show what he feels. The other day there were tears in his eyes, but he
didn't know I was seeing him."
"Mother is proud of her boy to hear him talk that way. I'm so glad that
you're not angry with poor Father Boone--it is hard on him."
"Maybe I would be, mother, if I did not know him so well."
A great load was off Frank's mind and the tension was gone. Nothing
could matter now. He could face anything and everything. He realized
that, at most, only a few days would intervene before Bill Daly would
clear up the mystery.
(V)
When Father Boone left Mrs. Mulvy and Frank, he had indeed troublesome
thoughts for companion. The conviction that Frank knew a good deal about
the matter was now absolutely sure. Evidently, also, the boy was in some
way implicated in a conspiracy of silence. His whole appearance showed
that he was holding back something and that he was doing so reluctantly.
His complete collapse indicated a great interior struggle. It also
showed that the boy was naturally high-minded and noble. For otherwise,
he never would have broken down, as he did.
But what was holding him back? Why should he fear to trust the director?
He found no answer to free him from his quandary. He would gladly settle
the whole matter, and regard the affair closed, if he considered only
his own feelings. But his duty to the boys must not be shirked because
it caused present pain to himself or others. "Better to have a tooth
pulled," he said, "than to have it the source of future trouble."
When Father Boone entered his room, he found several letters on his
desk. They were mostly Church matters. But one was different. It was on
better quality of stationery than the ordinary. The envelope and the
paper bore a monogram. Opening it, he found these lines:
Dear Father Boone:
I want to thank you for all your kindness to John.
Enclosed is a little contribution for the Club.
Hereafter, it will be impossible for John to
attend the Club meetings, and so I request you to
drop his name from membership.
Sincerely yours,
Julia Harkins.
(Mrs. John Harkins.)
To Rev. Jerome Boone, S. J.
John Harkins resigned from the Club!... Anyone who knew Father Boone's
ideas about the Club would have understood at once what this resignation
meant to him. Mrs. Harkins' letter didn't explain why it was "impossible
for John to attend the Club" but it was clearly written between the
lines. John Harkins was a boy enjoying exceptional home advantages and
his refinement, manliness and social standards made him just the type to
give "tone" to the Club.
Mrs. Harkins was rightly very careful of the associations her son
formed, and Father Boone had been her guarantee that in the Club John
would mingle with perhaps poor, but good and manly boys. Evidently
rumors of the affair had reached her.
"The Club is discredited! The director has been asleep. Cockle in the
field. And here I am sitting and allowing the weeds to grow and the
wheat to be choked. I will get to the bottom of this at once. With the
Club's name in question, I am certainly justified in drastic action--in
probing the matter directly. I will send for Mulvy right away. I should
have done it long ago."
In answer to his summons, Frank was on hand a half hour ahead of time
that evening, but not ahead of Father Boone. He went straight to the
director's office and found him engaged at his desk.
"Sit down, Frank," the priest began, as he stopped work. "I am going to
get right down to business. I am speaking to you as an official of the
Club. The Club is being discredited. The parish is filled with reports
and rumors. I am being discredited. Look at that letter. Things have
gone too far. Heretofore, I have not asked you any questions on this
matter because your duty was plain. I wanted you to perform it like a
man, unsolicited. You have not done it, I regret to say, and now I must
question you like the others. The welfare of the Club is at stake, and
its fitness for carrying on its work, imperiled. Decent parents won't
want their boys to belong. It is abroad in the parish that rowdyism is
rampant here. I want to nail the nasty rumor, and place it where it
belongs. There is an explanation, and I want you to help me get it.
Frank Mulvy, did you have a hand in the wreckage wrought in the Club the
other night? Answer me _yes_ or _no_."
"No, Father."
"Do you know anything about it?"
"That I cannot answer, Father."
"You cannot answer! You cannot answer! Do you mean to say that you
refuse to do your duty? Cannot! What do you mean, sir?"
In an agitated voice, Frank replied, "Father, I cannot say any more,
except to add that I am doing what you yourself have always inculcated."
"Neglect of duty! Explain yourself, sir."
"Not neglect of duty, Father, but regard for honor. You have always held
that up to us, along with our religion, and it is honor now that makes
me decline to say more. I will answer any questions about myself or
anything that I can answer by official knowledge, and take the
consequences. More I cannot say."
"And more I do not want you to do, Frank. But tell me, why did you not
at least inform me of the wreckage; that was official?"
"Father, I did not know of that until recently."
"What, do you mean to say that all that terrible row occurred, and that
it's out all over the parish, and you, the chief official of the Club at
the time, did not know of it?"
"Father," declared Frank, in trembling tones, "I know it all looks bad,
all the appearances are against me, I have only my word and character to
stand by me."
"It is your character that has stood by you till now, sir. Were you not
Mulvy, I had acted differently. But it is because you are Mulvy that I
have trusted, until the Club and its director are discredited. But
what's the matter, boy?"
For of a sudden, Frank had turned white. He swayed a moment, but Father
Boone caught him in his arms, laid him gently on the floor. It took but
a dash of cold water to fully restore him, and for a moment he just
stared into the face of the priest. Then Father Boone noticed how his
color rushed back and his jaws set and he realized that the boy was
suffering keen mental anguish. It came to him that there was something
most unusual and extraordinary about the whole thing.
After a bit Frank said in a voice choked with emotion, "I know you have
suffered, Father, and that has hurt me." He could say no more but after
a little, he began again. "At first, I did not know anything about the
matter, and when I did know, I could not speak. I wish I could clear the
matter up, but I cannot do so honorably, and I know you don't want me to
do it dishonorably."
The priest patted him on the back and told him to do what was right and
not to think of consequences. "And as you consider silence the right
thing now, I do not wish you to do otherwise than as you are doing."
"Thank you, Father," replied Frank. "But please--I am true to you."
"Yes, I know," answered the priest, "but it's all a mystery,
nevertheless, and it must be solved, and," he added vigorously, "it
shall be solved."
Frank went below. The priest closed the door, and fell into a brown
study. "What am I to do?" he reflected. "This thing must be nailed. But
how?"
He was not looking for boys to punish, but for the solution of the
problem, and the clearing of the good name of the Club. Taking out a
large sheet of paper, he wrote in big letters for the notice board in
the library reading room:
"Boys of St. Leonard's Club:
This is an appeal to the boys who have the good
name of the Club, and their own at heart. I want
no boy to tell on another. But I do request that
the perpetrators of that act of wanton destruction
declare themselves to me at once. You know my
ways, and that I am the first to make every
allowance and to see fair play. I await in the
office a response to this notice this very night.
Jerome Boone."
The first boy to read the notice was Ned Mullen. "Whew!" he exclaimed,
with a long whistle. He ran into the games-room, "Hey, fellows, see
what's up--some notice--riot act!"
At first they paid no attention to him, saying merely, "Quit your
guying, kid."
But as he shouted out, "Frank, Tom, Dick, come see the board, a real
live circus is in town," they all dropped their games, and trooped into
the reading room.
"Gee!" was the exclamation from every throat.
"That's news."
"What row is that?"
"Wanton destruction!"
"That sounds good."
"O, but say, it's the real thing."
"That's Father Boone's handwriting. What does it mean?"
Then they fell to asking questions all together.
Finally, it settled down to what had happened, and when it happened,
and how it happened. Everybody asked everybody else what it was all
about, and everybody told everybody he did not know. Some boys got
around Frank and began to quiz him.
"Did you see any damage done, Mulvy?"
"No."
"Let's form a committee and send our regrets to Father Boone, and also
say there must be a mistake."
They all agreed.
"Name Mulvy spokesman of the committee," shouted McHugh.
Frank protested, but they paid no attention to him. Soon the committee
was formed, and was ready to go upstairs. They waited for Frank. As he
did not move they said, "Step along, Mulvy, we are all ready."
"I said no. Count me out."
"Count you out, nothing," yelled several. "You're elected, now go."
Frank did not move. Sunney Galvin, one of the biggest boys in the Club,
and a good fellow, walked up to him and said, "No nonsense, Frank, face
the music; you owe it to Father Boone and the Club to help set matters
right."
"Sunney, I said no, and that settles it."
"It settles nothing," said Sunney. "Unless you are in the scrape
yourself, you'll go like a man and do your part. You have been chosen."
"Chosen or not, I don't go. That's final," he said with vigor.
"O ho, Mulvy, so there's somebody involved after all! You wouldn't play
safe if you were not concerned."
"See here, Galvin," said Frank, "you know me well enough to know that I
am square. Give a fellow credit for knowing his own business."
"O that's very well, and all that, Mulvy. But your business here and now
is to do the duty you've been elected to. And if you don't, you're
yellow."
"Yes, and something worse," cried another.
"Do you know too much for your own reputation?" shouted another. For
although Frank was the best liked and most admired boy in the Club, boys
are boys, and they talk right out. Frank knew they had a certain amount
of right on their side and that was what helped him to swallow the
insults, which otherwise he would have resented vigorously.
The crowd was rather amazed itself that he did not resent their
insinuations more than he did. Gradually the word passed that he was in
the thing himself, and did not dare face Father Boone. Dick resented
that intensely.
"He is not, and you all know it."
"Hank, old man," he said, "clear yourself, come along with us."
"I can't, Dick."
"O nonsense," replied Dick, "you've got some honor bug in your bonnet
and you're making a fool of yourself. Come along now, and give the crowd
a solar plexus."
"Dick, please don't urge. I tell you I can't go."
The crowd stood around, listening to the dialogue, giving Dick every
encouragement and signalling to Frank to give in. When the fellows saw
his stubborn stand, they resented it. It was not fair. It looked
compromising.
While they stood, thus-minded, Dick said rather timidly, "May I ask you
a question, Hank?" There were only a few boys in the Club who could call
Frank by that name. Dick was one of them.
"Certainly, kid, fire away."
"Did you have anything to do with this racket?"
"No."
"I knew it," said Dick. "That's why I asked you. Now another question.
Do you know anything about it?"
"That's another matter," said Frank.
"We know it's another matter," shouted several, "and we've got a right
to know. It concerns the bunch."
"The bunch doesn't make wrong right," fairly yelled Frank. "The bunch
doesn't make a mean thing honorable. Yes, I know about it, and that's
why I can't go. I can't say more because I have said all I can say, in
honor."
"Honor!" hissed one of the boys, "it's queer honor that will distress
Father Boone and queer a whole crowd."
By this time the racket had grown into a half riot. The voices were loud
and raucous. Their echoes reached Father Boone above. He closed his door
as he did not want to hear what was not intended for his ears. But he
had caught enough to let him know that there was a deepening mystery
about the affair, and that most of the boys were not a party to it.
Things were gradually shaping for a fight. It was clear that Frank had
taken a firm stand. It was equally clear that the crowd was not
satisfied or in sympathy with it.
Some of the larger boys did not relish his excusing himself on the
ground of honor. Fred Gibney bawled out, "You're prating a lot about
honor, Mulvy. What about the Club's honor?"
"Look here, Gibney," snapped Frank, "I have the Club's honor as much at
heart as any of you, and you know it. But just now--" his voice
quivered, "I know how you regard the matter. I suppose I'd feel the same
if I were in your place. All I can say is that I know what I know in
confidence, and I'm in honor bound. Will that satisfy you? I have said
more than I intended to, but it's because I want to go the limit to
satisfy the crowd on my stand."
"That sounds like a book speech," retorted Gibney, "and it's all very
well for you to hide behind honor. Any of us could get out of a bad hole
that way."
"That means that you think I am lying?" questioned Frank, his eyes
fairly aglow.
"It means what you want to make of it," snapped Gibney.
Frank jumped from his place to get at Gibney. Dick got in between the
two, but found it more than he could do to restrain Frank. As blows were
on the point of being exchanged, steps were heard on the stairs, and the
boys signalled that Father Boone was on the way down. At his approach,
the boys assumed a more or less quiet posture. Not so Frank. He stood
just where he was and as he was. His fists were clenched, his whole
frame was trembling with excitement, and his face was determined and
pale.
Father Boone took in the situation at a glance. He appeared, however,
not to see the impending fight. Beckoning to Ned, he said, "I want you
and four or five boys to help me unpack something upstairs." He knew
that this interruption would give all a breathing spell, and stop
further animosity. Then like a flash, it occurred to him to settle the
whole thing then and there.
"Boys," said he, "your shouts and some of your talk have reached me
upstairs. I am very much hurt over this affair, and I know, from what
has happened, that most of you feel as I do. I caught some of the words
between Gibney and Mulvy. They reveal a lot to me. First of all,
apparently, what has happened was not the work of the crowd, but of a
few only and you are as much mystified as I am. I am glad to know that
the Club as a whole is not implicated. But a bad report has gone through
the parish in regard to that occurrence, and I am bound, in duty to the
parish and in devotion to you, to clear up the matter.
"And so I say now to you all, what I have already said by that notice, I
ask the boys who perpetrated that rowdyism or who know anything about
it, to stand out and declare themselves!"
Not a boy moved. After a moment's silence, Frank came forward and stood
before the priest. "Well, Frank, have you anything to say?"
"Only what I said to you upstairs, Father."
"Do you still feel in conscience that you can say no more?"
"Yes, Father."
"Very well," replied the priest. After a pause he continued, "I do not
want any boy to act dishonorably. But there are certain cases where
justice is concerned, where the rights of many are in conflict with
those of a few, where scandal is involved, where the instrument for
doing substantial good is in danger of being destroyed; under such
circumstances it is not only not dishonorable to speak out, but it is
highly honorable to do so. I know a boy's code of honor, and how he
regards a 'squealer.' But it is not squealing to denounce a criminal.
And in this case nothing short of a crime has been committed. Wilful
damage has been done to property, and consequent damage has been done to
reputation. If you saw a boy break into your home, and destroy valuable
things, you would not consider it squealing to denounce him to the
authorities. That very thing has occurred here. And you are in duty
bound to stop sin or crime if it is in your power to do so.
"If you know those who are guilty in this matter, it is your duty to see
to it that they declare themselves, in order that the good name of the
Club may not suffer further, and that the damage done to property may be
made good.
"With this explanation, I again ask those concerned to declare
themselves." Not a boy moved.
"Frank Mulvy, after what I have said, do you still find you are not
justified in speaking out?"
"I do, Father."
"I respect your conscience, Frank, but I am hard put to find a
justification for it. If you were a lawyer or a doctor or a priest, and
had got your information in your capacity of adviser, I could see your
point of view. But you are a boy of fourteen, and hardly of the age that
invites confidence. If I did not know you as well as I do, I should
consider you a party to the affair. As it is, you seem to be the only
boy who knows anything about the matter, or--the only one who has the
courage to say so."
Here Dick spoke up. "Father, the whole thing has us puzzled. We do not
know yet just what you refer to. You speak of damage and rowdyism. We
have not seen any. It was only by report that we heard about it and
we've got into lots of trouble denying and resenting it. Until your
notice was put up today, we treated the entire matter as a calumny. The
only row we know of was that scrap between Frank and Bill Daly. That was
nothing. Frank himself went up to tell you about that. We were all at
sea when we saw you so indignant. We formed a committee to wait on you.
As things are it looks bad for Frank. But we all know him and I--I--want
to go on record now as standing by him, if he says he can't tell, in
honor."
Frank seized his hand. "Dick, you're true blue."
"That's all right, Richard," said Father Boone slowly, and then, taking
Frank by the hand, he added, "Frank, I trust you absolutely."
"Then I am ready for anything, Father."
Gibney now came up rather sheepishly, saying "Mulvy, I hope you'll
pardon me."
"Nothing to pardon, old man, you did what any fellow would do," answered
Frank. Then he swung around to the crowd quickly. "Fellows, I feel I'm
'in bad.' Everything is against me as things go ordinarily. You have
nothing but my word for my defence. I hardly deserve such trust. But I
hope you won't regret it."
"Frank, take that notice off the bulletin board and put it on my desk
upstairs." As Frank left the room, Father Boone turned to the crowd.
"Boys, a good character is the best thing in life. Frank Mulvy's
character alone stands between him and your condemnation. If this
matter has no other issue than the present, it is worth while. I could
talk on uprightness a month, and it would not impress you as much as
what has happened before us."
At this point Frank returned and Tommy spoke up: "Will you tell us,
Father, what it is that you are so much worked up over? We don't know
what has happened, you know, about breakage and wanton destruction."
"I hope," said the priest, "that every boy here is as you are, Tommy,
wholly ignorant of the matter. That only adds to the mystery, for you
may as well expect a man to walk without legs as to have a lot of things
broken and smashed without arms. Whose were the arms, if not yours of
the Club, I'd like to know? I shall describe to you what occurred, and
leave the mystery to you."
Then in a few words he told them how he had come to the Club a few
mornings ago, and found it all upset, chairs broken, tables overturned,
pictures torn down, ink spilled on the floor, and the rest of it. As the
narration went on, the eyes of the boys got as big as saucers. If looks
and gestures were significant, they told of surprise, disgust,
condemnation. As he finished, Dick spoke:
"Father, that solves one mystery. We could not understand why you
withdrew the McCormack treat, and took on so dreadfully. We know, now,
and I for one want to beg your pardon for any feeling I had against
you."
"Me, too!", "Me, too!", came from different parts of the room.
"That is one cloud rolled away, boys," said the priest. "May it be an
augury that the others and bigger ones will vanish also. We are like
travelers in the desert who often see things where they do not exist.
Weary and exhausted caravans frequently have visions of trees and
springs which lure them on, only to see them vanish in thin air.
Scientists call it a _mirage_. Life, too, has its mirages."
"How strange," said Frank to himself, as they were leaving the room,
"Bill and I used the same expression when we were talking together at
the hospital."
The boys went home a pensive lot. But everyone of them was determined to
solve the mystery.