"Want it straight?" asked Ned. "The word's round that the Club is going to be disbanded, and that you're the cause of it. I almost got into a fight with the first guy that told me."

"Yes," added d.i.c.k, "and they say that the best fellows are getting out on account of you."

"Where did you get that?" asked Frank.

"Some one saw three or four of the fellows' mothers coming from the rectory the last few days, and one of them asked Joe Rooney if his mother was going to let him stay in the Club. You know Joe's father keeps a store on 42nd Street and is somebody. Well, Joe is true blue even if he is a dude, and he said, 'Why shouldn't I stay in the Club?'

She said, 'Oh, I thought all the decent boys had left. I can't have my boy ever put his foot in that place again, with that pack of rowdies.'"

This was news for Frank, but to their surprise he showed little concern.

"Don't you see, Hank," said d.i.c.k, "that you are getting in bad. If a lot of mud is thrown, some will stick. It's easy to give a fellow a bad name, but it's hard to get rid of it. Why don't you do something? I am sure Father Boone also will get a lot of annoyance from it, unless you clear yourself."

But Frank did not seem to mind. It was so unlike him that Ned said, "If we didn't know you so well, Frank, we'd think you were mixed up in it ourselves."

"Yes," declared d.i.c.k, "to one on the outside it looks bad for you. That Dunn kid told everybody that you were over to see his father and then someone else blabbed what happened in the Club, that you owned up to knowing all about it. Putting two and two together, they have built up an ugly story, and it's spread like fire."

"That's all right, fellows," replied Frank nonchalantly, as they parted at the school. But just the same Frank was doing a lot of thinking.

"Suppose the decent fellows should leave the Club! Suppose it got a rowdy name!

"But," he went on, "Father Boone knows how things are, and he'll straighten them out. But can he? What he knows, he does not know, for all intents and purposes. He can't use what he got in confession, and that's all he got. He may know that I am right. That settles something.

But how about my mother, and the others?"

These reflections came to Frank as he was going upstairs to his cla.s.s room. It was a relief to know that his teacher had some confidence in him. Some of the boys gave him sly looks and one or two made insinuations. At recess, however, he met his real ordeal. First one, then two, and at length a dozen or more had gathered around him.

"Well, fellows, you are getting a good show, I hope," laughed Frank, with a forced grin. As they kept on staring he added, in a tone trying to be pleasant, "Movies free today."

Outside the circle someone called, "What's up over there?"

The reply cut him through and through. "That's the goody-good kid that got caught in the roughneck stuff over at the Club."

If a thrust were made designedly in order to inflict exquisite pain, it could not have served the purpose better. Frank moved off with hot iron in his very flesh. He knew that the last word in contempt among boys was that same "goody-good." It implied everything that he detested. With the boys it meant a girlish goodness, a sort of "softy." That hurt him. Of course, in a school where there were nearly a thousand boys, he was known only to his own set. He was not thinking of them, but of the great crowd who knew him but slightly, and who would credit what they heard.

And out over the whole yard had rung those words, "goody-good!" And on the top of that, to be called a "roughneck!"

In cla.s.s the next hour, the recess and its every incident occupied Frank's whole mind. Every word and look was rehea.r.s.ed over and over again. He was called on for recitation, but his name had to be repeated before he responded. When he did reply, he appeared like one just out of a trance. The hour of cla.s.s seemed very long.

At noon, he delayed going out in order not to face the crowd. When he thought that most of the boys had gone, he went out into the street. His face was burning. He fancied everyone he met was looking at him. He could almost hear pa.s.sersby say "goody-good" and "roughneck."

If Frank had been "just any boy," the experience of the recess hour would not have caused him such exquisite anguish. But a boy of high honor resents with all his soul the insinuation that he appears one thing, while in reality he is another. "But why," he reflected, almost aloud, "why should I carry a load that is not mine? I did not ask Daly's confidence. Why should I suffer for it?" He knew the answer, at once.

Honor demanded it, and honor's price at times comes high. That is what makes its value. But the thing kept coming back. It would not let him alone. When apparently settled, it came again in a new form.

"Daly is gone," he reflected. "He hasn't got to face a crowd and bear their jeers and insults. I kept this secret as long as it could possibly hurt him any. Now, what's the harm in clearing myself?"

This thought clung to him like a wet garment. It looked right, but his fine sense of honor detected the wrong that lurked in it.

"Yes," he said, "Daly is gone, but his father and mother are here. What a blow it would be to them!"

But back again came the temptation, were his own father and mother not to be considered also? Did he not owe more to them than to Bill Daly's parents? And so he went on, balancing duty with duty. Yes, it certainly was right for him to clear himself. This conclusion, however, did not satisfy him either.

"Two things are against it," he mused. "First, any crook can accuse the silent dead. I am free of guilt, but I must not establish my innocence by making the dead guilty. Moreover, who would believe me? They'd all say that a fellow mean enough to wreck a club room, would be mean enough to lie. It wouldn't do me any good to speak out.

"And then--Bill Daly's death made a profound impression on everybody.

Father Boone's sermon at the funeral was as good as a mission. All that would be undone if I let out on Daly. I can live this thing down, he can't. Should I, even because of the pain of this thing to myself and my father and mother, break up all that? No. Not even if I was sure it would help my case. I know I am right with G.o.d. That counts most. If I am doing something for Him, I must do it right. No whining, nor complaining, nor getting amazed that I am ill-treated. All that goes with the sacrifice."

He entered the church and went to the altar of the Sacred Heart. "O my G.o.d, for the love of Thee, I do this. I offer Thee a bleeding heart. It costs me much, but I am glad to give Thee what does cost so much. And, my dear Lord, grant me the grace to give cheerfully what I give. Amen."

He arose and went out, strong and buoyant, like the martyrs who went to the lions rejoicing. "A soldier fights for the flag," he thought, "and does so with enthusiasm, although he may meet with wounds, capture and death. I must fight under the standard of the Cross, and be a brave soldier of Christ, a Knight of the Cross."

There was no school that afternoon and so he took his time getting home.

On his way, he was met by Mrs. Joyce, mother of one of the Club members.

"Aren't you that Mulvy boy?" she asked.

"Yes, Mrs. Joyce," he replied.

"I thought so," she continued. "Well, you've been found out at last."

That was all. It was a terrible lot for Frank's sensitive soul, but he said in his heart, "For Thee, Jesus," and went bravely on. At home, a new trial was awaiting him. His mother had been stopped on the street several times this morning, and had received very pointed inquiries about her boy. The last woman who addressed her had virtually insulted her.

"Well, Mrs. Mulvy, it's too bad. Who would have thought that your boy, Frank, would turn out so bad!"

Mrs. Mulvy had to make an effort to smile and not reply. But when she got home, she found that she had bit her lips even to blood.

When Frank came in, doubly dear to her now, she almost lost control of herself. She sank with a groan into the large arm chair. Frank was at her side in a second, smothering her with kisses, and breathing out terms of endearment to her. In a moment, she was herself again.

"Excuse me, Frank," she said, "I was all undone. But tell mother, dear, what in the world have you done?"

Frank was brave for himself. But where his mother was concerned, it was different. He knew now that what he had promised at the altar was going to cost him much dearer even than he had calculated. He was strongly tempted to make an exception in his mother's case, and to tell her all.

But he remembered his promise at the altar and how Bill himself had said, "There's no going back on a promise to Him."

"A soldier does not quit when he gets a blow, neither will I," he reflected. "This blow is worse because it strikes me through my mother, but I will trust G.o.d, and do what I have promised Him. Moreover, if mother could not trust me now, when I tell her I am blameless, would it do any good to tell her the dime-novel truth of the matter?"

Looking deep into her eyes, he said, "Mother, you never knew me to deceive you. You must trust me now more than ever. But I will tell you more than I shall say to any other human being. Mother, there is a mistake. Everything points to me, I know. I'm under this cloud because I would not be untrue to a confidence. I've just left the church, where I promised G.o.d to carry this cross for Him. I was thinking of you when I made that offering. Now, Mother, won't you be good and not worry any more?"

For an answer she embraced him, and taking him by the hand, she led the way to the little oratory. They knelt down before the Sacred Heart, and still holding his hand in hers, she said, "Dear Sacred Heart, I add my offering to my boy's. Do thou keep him ever in Thy love and Thy Grace.

Amen."

"It's all right now, mother. The cross has lost its weight."

"Yes, dear," she answered, "we won't mind anything now. I'll tell your father that I know things are all right, so he won't be embarra.s.sed by any gossip he hears."

"Mother, I'd rather you wouldn't say anything to father. He has enough to worry him without our cares."

"Yes, dear, things don't always run smoothly with him, yet he spares us his worries. I'll do as you say, unless something makes me see it's best to tell him."

(II)

After lunch, Frank went out to the football field. There was to be heavy practice that afternoon for the big game of the year. On his way, he met d.i.c.k and Ned, headed in the same direction.