(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 a.s.sured 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 n.o.bler 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 rea.s.suring 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 sc.r.a.p. 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 G.o.d, 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 grat.i.tude 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 G.o.d.' 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 circ.u.mstances 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!"