A Boy Knight.

by Martin J. (Martin Jerome) Scott.

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 pa.s.sed on. The man gave them a searching look and groaned.

When the boys had gone a block and turned the corner at G.o.dy'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."

"G.o.d bless you, boy," the old man sighed, as he almost s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 ill.u.s.trate 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 lat.i.tude 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 pa.s.s the word around. Soon every one knew that something out of the ordinary was up.

When the boys had a.s.sembled, 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k, "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 circ.u.mstances 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.