This evening he looked around at the crowd. There was something the matter. That was evident. He knew he could find out by asking but he never did that. He began now to observe. There was a restraint evident among the boys. That was unusual. Not so much hilarity. He ran his eye over the crowd. He could see at a glance, just who was and who was not present. Daly was always conspicuous, because he was so noisy, but Daly was not among those present tonight. Usually the boys were scattered, some in one room, some in another. Not so tonight. They were all in the same room. Generally they were interested in the games. Tonight they seemed to be interested in him. Putting things together, he concluded that the crowd as a crowd was in the mix-up, and that the boys were on the lookout for something to happen. Frank sat off in a corner looking pensive. That was not his way.

Poor Frank was in torture. He was hoping that Father Boone would go upstairs so that he could follow him and explain matters.

And Father Boone was hurt because no one volunteered an explanation.

Surely Frank would say a word. But no, no one at all made any reference to the wreckage of the night before.

"Why don't they speak up? They're all concerned in it. It isn't a case of being an informer. They know I don't want tattlers around. But this is different. This is a serious matter. Damage was done. It is a question of justice. And they know my mind on that. And that secretary owes me a report. He is an official. I've told them often enough that when an official reports matters pertaining to his office, it is not 'squealing,' but duty. They all understand that; Frank especially. Well, I'll wait here fifteen minutes longer, and if they don't explain, I'll take action."

Father Boone went upstairs and after fifteen minutes left, in a very sober mood.

It was some minutes later that Frank, thinking the director was upstairs, went up to open his heart to him. But Father Boone was not in his office. Frank descended to the "gym," stayed awhile and then went home. He had a bad headache. The night before he had not slept. He could not eat. When he got home, however, he decided to get the thing off his mind before going to bed, and tired as he was, he started back to the Club, hoping to find Father Boone. But the priest had not returned.

Hesitating a moment, he finally decided to go to the rectory and have it all over with. But at the rectory they told him that Father Boone was out on a sick call and might not be back for a couple of hours.

"Well, I've done my part," said Frank, and back home he went, somewhat relieved.

(IV)

Next night, Father Boone came into the Club not looking as pleasant as usual. He came late, too; not his wont. He greeted few, and his face showed firm. The boys whispered one to another, "He's on."

Frank now felt that he was a culprit. Something told him that Father Boone knew the whole matter and that he was cut up because Daly was concerned. It was too late now to go to him and make a clean breast of it. What must Father Boone think of him for driving Daly out of the Club. Forgetting all his efforts to do the right thing, Frank saw only that Father Boone was offended. He blamed himself as the cause of it and gloomily admitted that he had not been man enough to inform the director. That hurt him. Once more, when the priest went up to his office after a few minutes stay with the boys, Frank was determined to go to him and take the consequence.

Meanwhile, Father Boone had come to a decision. There had been some rowdyism in the Club. Furniture was broken, serious damage was done. It certainly was the work of more than one or two. By their very att.i.tude, the boys showed their guilt. Yet no one, not even the secretary, had explained. Taking down a large sheet of paper, the director wrote on it in big letters,

"The McCormack treat is off, JEROME BOONE."

Pressing a b.u.t.ton, he summoned Frank. As Frank heard the bell, a lump formed in his throat. He felt sure that every fellow in the room could see how his knees shook. But he was glad, in a way, that matters were coming to a head. He expected that Father Boone would give him a good scolding and that that would settle it. He was all prepared for the interview, but was not admitting, even to himself, how near the tears were to flowing.

As Frank approached the desk, Father Boone was writing. Frank hoped he would not look up, and as he stood there for a second, it seemed an hour. Then, without pausing or turning toward Frank, Father Boone said in a low, measured voice: "Take that notice, Mulvy, and put it up on the board below." That was all. Frank stood perfectly still for a moment, clutching the jamb of the door while Father Boone went on writing. If the director had turned but a little, he would have seen agony and anguish in Frank's face, and he would have understood. But he kept on writing and Frank remained standing, unable to move a step.

Then a hard feeling crept into the boy's heart. He felt that he was being dealt with unjustly, that he was condemned unheard. Every bit of his pride came to the top and the boy who, a few seconds before, was ready to blame himself for Father Boone's disappointment, now would not have yielded an inch. Father Boone was Frank's ideal. He thought more of him than of anyone outside his own family. But suddenly he saw the priest as a hard-hearted and unjust man. For the moment he was glad to find that he was in an out-and-out struggle. "No explanations now," he reflected, "time for all that is past." The director had not given him a chance to do the right thing and now he, too, would show his mettle.

There was an air of defiance about Frank as he walked down the stairs and posted the notice on the board.

The crowd gathered quickly. As they read the brief lines on the notice-board, the wave of disappointment that pa.s.sed over them could almost be felt in the air.

Of course the boys had told their parents of the McCormack treat and now it was off. That meant explanations. They usually kept the Club's affairs entirely to themselves, but the McCormack affair was altogether different--good news to those at home. How could they explain why it was off? Everybody knew that Father Boone never made promises without fulfilling them. Now every mother and sister and--yes--every father would want to know why this treat was cancelled. These and other things ran through the boys' minds. But, above all, the sentiment most keenly felt was regret that Father Boone had had to take such action. They knew he was even more delighted to do them a kindness than they were to receive one. d.i.c.k Brian expressed the feeling of the crowd when he said: "Gee, it's tough on us, but it's worse on Father Boone."

Frank heard the comments with a cynical smile. He said not a word, but was rather pale. One of the lads inquired of him, "How did Father Boone find it out?"

"Search me!" Frank replied.

"I say," whispered another, "I'll bet 'Bull' squealed to get square with the crowd."

Tommy Hefnan edged up to d.i.c.k. "What's up, anyway? Father Boone never did anything before if the fellows sc.r.a.pped. He usually let them have it out and appeared not to know about it. What's up now that he is soaking the whole crowd for this sc.r.a.p?"

"Search me!" answered d.i.c.k. "The only line I can get on it is there's something else that we don't know. We've got to take our medicine, of course, and you can be sure Father Boone knows what he's doing. If there is anything wrong, it's somewhere else."

"That's what I say," echoed Tommy as he sauntered off.

Frank and d.i.c.k lived near each other and generally went home together.

That night, Frank tried hard to a.s.sume indifference, but wise d.i.c.k saw through the disguise and finally asked him point blank, if he did not feel cut up over the affair.

"No, I don't," Frank almost yelled, in reply. "It's not a square deal.

If Father Boone has anything against us, why doesn't he come out with it, and not hit blindly and in the dark?"

"Well, I get what you're aiming at," answered d.i.c.k, "but you know, Frank, that Father Boone is the squarest man going. He knows what he's doing, and there's a reason. I'll stand by him, no matter what happens."

This cut Frank like a knife. He knew d.i.c.k was manly and wise. He also realized that every word he said was true. Nevertheless, he felt like punching him for saying it.

The rest of the way, they walked on in silence, until they came to parting, when Frank abruptly put out his hand and said, "You're all right, d.i.c.k." Then, as the younger boy turned the corner, Frank reflected:

"Yes, he's all right. The kid has more balance than I have."

At the door of the Mulvy apartment, Frank met his mother. She saw at once that whatever was troubling her boy, was even worse tonight than it had been before. Then she had said nothing but tonight she was truly alarmed at Frank's pallor.

"Why, what on earth is the matter, dear?" she exclaimed, as he entered the room. "You are as white as a sheet and trembling all over." As she spoke she put her arms around him and gave him that silent sympathy which only a mother can impart. That was the one thing Frank could not resist. He could fight anything but kindness. At his mother's gentle pressure, his eyes filled and for a moment he could not answer. His words were all choked back by strange sounds in his throat, but his mother waited and presently, when he was sufficiently composed, the whole story came tumbling out. He told his mother all that had happened. He omitted nothing. For a while she made no comment. Then with the tenderness of a mother who knows her boy, she said,

"Frank, you've done nothing to be ashamed of. There's more to that affair, I'm sure. And above all, Father Boone does not act rashly.

Remember now, mother says so."

Frank felt a weight lifted from his heart. He went to his room, knelt down at his bedside, under the crucifix hanging from the wall, and making an act of contrition for his faults of the day, asked G.o.d to give him the grace to do right always. Then turning to a little shrine at the head of the bed, where a large picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus was hung, he said, "O Heart wounded for me, give me strength to bear this hurt for love of Thee."

He arose, feeling that he had offered something to our Lord. That brought peace to his soul and a few minutes later he was fast asleep.

(V)

By the time Frank was ready for breakfast next morning, Mrs. Mulvy had made up her mind to see Father Boone and find out what the trouble was.

She was certain that there was something back of it all. She knew Father Boone, and she knew Frank, and further, she knew how they esteemed each other. Father Boone had often stopped her in the street to tell her what a fine boy Frank was. And Frank was never tired talking about Father Boone, admiring him for this and for that, but mainly for himself.

Nothing was said by mother or son on the important topic until Frank was leaving the house to go to school. Then, as he kissed her, he said, "Mother, I want you to promise me something."

"Very well, dear."

"Remember now, it's a promise."

"Certainly, Frank."

"Well, mother, I want you to promise that you won't say anything about what I've told you and that you will not let Father Boone know I told you. Even if you should meet him _accidentally_," he said slyly, "you are not to let on."

She hesitated a moment.

"You promised, Mother. It's too late now to consider," he urged.

"Well, just as you say, dear," she answered. And she felt that perhaps it was better to let the matter adjust itself, after all. "True love never runs smoothly," she mused, "and I am sure Father Boone and Frank are very fond of each other."

When Frank got back to school and mingled with the boys, the peace of the night before and his mother's a.s.surances all seemed to vanish. He could not see any justice in the way Father Boone had acted.