"It was entirely unfair," he kept thinking. "The whole thing was out of measure with the fault. After all, a sc.r.a.p is a sc.r.a.p. Lots of fellows fight and make up and it's all over. I made up with Daly, or at least I tried to. Why should the crowd be punished for one or two? I know what I'll do. I'll go straight to Father Boone this evening and tell him the whole thing. Then if he wants to, he can punish me, not the whole crowd."

Meanwhile, in his room at the rectory, Father Boone too was considering the same subject. "Boys are not ingrates, as a rule," he reflected.

"True, they may be thoughtless and impulsive, but I have generally found them appreciative. But there is Mulvy,--straight and open as he usually is,--and he hasn't offered a word of explanation. He had his chance, when I sent for him to post that notice but--not a word. And he surely saw I was indignant. It's not like him. What can it be? Is he afraid of the crowd? Hardly. But I can't get away from that wholesale disorder and breakage--the work of a mob. Those boys seem to care for me--but--they know how this kind of thing affects me. They've had two days to reflect.

Not one boy to say a word! It is not the thing in itself that I care about. There's a big bill for damages, but I don't give a fig for that.

It's the principle back of it all. Here--all these years, I've been holding up high standards to them and they fall down just when they should stand erect. I hated to call off that McCormack treat, but--what could I do? Well, I'll have to see it through now." And at that he set his jaws, and it was easy to realize that he would see it through.

He had hardly finished his musings when the rectory door-man came to his room and said that a young man was below to see him. He went down and found d.i.c.k Brian awaiting him. It was not Father Boone's nature to be at odds with any one, and so when he came upon d.i.c.k thus unexpectedly, forgetting for the instant that war was on between him and the club boys, he saluted the lad wholeheartedly. The next instant, recollecting that there was a hostile camp to deal with, he quickly tightened up and said, "Well, my boy, what is it?"

d.i.c.k, though ordinarily very self-possessed, was not quite composed under the circ.u.mstances. He summoned as much calm as he could and said, "I have come, Father, to say that there must be some mistake. The boys would not do anything to displease you. It's not the McCormack treat that they are thinking about. It's you. Of course, they feel sore that it is off, but they can stand that, but we don't want you to feel that we are not grateful."

It was quite a speech even for d.i.c.k, but he got it out and every word rang true. The director realized it, which only increased the mystery.

"If the boys were so considerate of him," he reflected, "why did they not explain? They should know that he would do what was right in the matter. If there were any allowances to be made, they ought to know that he would make them. It was not as if it were an individual affair. The whole Club was in question. A riot had occurred. And just because the boys knew he never went about prying into things he had a right to expect a full explanation. But d.i.c.k's speech didn't explain."

Father Boone's next remark was true to his principle of not asking for information in such cases. "And is there anything else you wish to say?"

Poor d.i.c.k! That took his breath away. He stood silent for a moment and when the priest turned to leave, he picked up his hat and started for the door. But just at that moment something--was it the suggestion of a trembling lip in the last glimpse he had of d.i.c.k's face, or just his own kind instincts that made Father Boone turn back?

"I thank you, little man," he said, "for coming to say to me what you did. I _am_ put out by this affair and I don't know yet what to think of it. At any rate, d.i.c.k, you did the right thing in coming here." So saying, he opened the door for the lad, who went out not knowing just what to make of it all.

(VI)

On the same evening d.i.c.k met Frank on the way down to the Club. He began at once:

"I say, Frank, Father Boone is terribly cut up over this thing. Do you know what I think? Something or somebody has set him wrong. It is not his way to take on so about a sc.r.a.p that he didn't even see. I tell you, old man, I believe that 'Bull' has got in some dirty work. He has not been around for two days, and how do we know what he may have told Father Boone?"

"Wise guy you are, kid. I have been wondering myself, but I was too stupid to reason out any kind of explanation. I'd not be surprised if you have it right. At any rate, I guess I'll try to see Father Boone tonight and have it out. I should have done it before, but I got my back up when he ignored me, and became as stiff as he was stout."

When they reached the Club, the fellows were all sitting around discussing the matter in groups. The Club was not itself, that was clear. As Frank and d.i.c.k entered, Tommy Hefnan exclaimed, "Say, fellows, let's send a committee to Father Boone. Let's elect a committee to go and straighten out the fuss."

To this some of the boys objected, maintaining that it looked like weakness. Others said that it might seem as if they were doing it to get the McCormack treat back. To this one of the older lads rejoined, "Let us tell him before we begin, that we know the treat is off and that although we regret it, we regret something else much more."

"That's not half bad," echoed several.

"And it's the truth, too," muttered Tommy.

There it was again--in plain words. What really worried every boy in the Club was the fact that somehow, they had disappointed Father Boone.

Every fellow there owed him something for special favors in addition to all he had done for the crowd as a whole. And every fellow knew that the very best way to pay Father Boone back, was to be the kind of boy that the director wanted him to be.

What was to be done? Everybody was too devoted to Father Boone to deliberately ignore one of his very strongest principles--"_the tell-tale is not a man of honour_"--and of all the crowd only two had a right to speak, because only two had actually taken part in the fight.

Frank had tried to see Father Boone, without success thus far--and Bill evidently was steering clear of the affair.

Even then, why should a sc.r.a.p cause the director such great worry--they thought--unless he was angry because it had happened right after what he had said about Bill, and had resulted in his leaving the Club. As for Frank--well, every boy knew that he would do the same himself under the circ.u.mstances.

As for Father Boone, the more he thought of the whole affair, the more he was sure of his first decision. It was a free fight in which most of the boys had had some part; only Frank deserved special censure because he had failed in his official capacity. By now the director was beginning to be concerned about Daly who had not appeared at the Club since the disorder. He did not want the boy to get away from his influence and so decided to call at his home.

While the boys were discussing the advisability of sending a committee to the director, he was on his way to Daly's house. When he got there, he was met at the door by Mrs. Daly. She was a large slovenly woman. The home was like herself. It was on the top floor of a side street tenement. A dark and crooked stairs led up to it. Father Boone reflected that some people were like that stairway, and when he reached the top floor and saw before him Bill Daly's mother, he thought that poor Bill was to be pitied more than anything else. "I must hold on to that boy if possible," he mused. "After all, it's not they who are well who need the physician, but they who are ill."

Mrs. Daly conducted him into a dirty room. He was asked to please pa.s.s through to the parlor. Groping his way through two dark bed-rooms, with no light or ventilation except from a small window opening upon a shaft, he came to the parlor. Apparently, it was more of a clothes room than anything else. On the couch, which was a bed at night, on the table, and on the chairs were articles of wearing apparel. Father Boone had to remove an armful of a.s.sorted garments from a chair to get a seat. His hostess was not at all concerned. It was her normal surroundings.

Mrs. Daly was glad to see the priest. Her heart was good and her religion meant something to her in spite of everything. But she was dragged down by conditions, like many another. Some natures are superior to environment. Hers was not.

"And how is Mr. Daly?" began the priest.

"Drinking as usual," she replied.

"Well, that's a great cross," he continued, "but I hope a turn for the better will come, some time."

"I hope it comes before it's too late," she sighed. "He has all of us nearly as bad as himself with his ways. He drinks his money and leaves nothing for the home, but what Willie brings in. G.o.d bless you, Father, for the job you got Willie. It is the only steady money that comes in."

"How is William?" asked the priest. "I've missed him from the Club the last few days, so I have just dropped in to see how he is; I hope he is a good boy."

"Oh, Willie is a good enough boy, he might be worse," answered Bill's mother. "His father sets him no good example, and the poor boy has to put up with a lot of abuse. The wonder is that he is any good at all."

She wiped her face with her ap.r.o.n, and sat down on the edge of a chair.

She was evidently in a mood to talk. The kindliness of the priest seemed to invite her confidence, for she began:

"Mike was a good man before the drink got him. We had our nice little home and his wages came in as regular as Sat.u.r.day night. We went to church together every Sunday morning and G.o.d was good to us. But when Willie was about six years old, his father got a job over at King's automobile place. He was ambitious and started in and learned how to drive a taxi. He was out day and night. His money came in fast, and he was good to me and Willie.

"At first, everything went all right, and I thanked G.o.d. But soon, he began to leave off Church on Sunday from time to time. After a while, he dropped it entirely. Then he got in with a bad set. It was not long before he came home under the influence. I cried before him and begged him to let the liquor alone. He did for a while, but he began again and kept it up. Then he lost his job. He got another easy enough but he kept at the drink. And then he began to hold back his money. And it wasn't everyday that we had something in the house to eat. I had to sell things from the house to buy food. If I didn't, he would come home drunk and start a fight. And when there was nothing more to sell he began to beat me. If Willie cried, he beat him. The poor boy was often black and blue.

Things went on from bad to worse. I had to have him arrested, although it broke my heart. It was a disgrace to us all. Willie was ashamed to go out and play with the other boys. One day as he was going along the street, two boys yelled at him and called his father bad names. Willie liked his dad, even if he was in jail, because he knew what a good father he was once.

"When the boys yelled at Willie, he got afraid and ran. But they ran after him. I suppose if he stood, they wouldn't have chased him. They caught him and beat him. He tried to get away and then he struck out.

You see, Father, Willie was a big boy for his age, and very strong. He takes after me. But he never knew his strength. Well, this time he just struck out. He knocked one of the boys down, gave another a fine black eye, and both of them took to their heels. It soon got around that my Willie was a terror. All the boys got afraid of him. He had his own way after that in every gang, and he got into a lot of sc.r.a.pes, but he was always good to his mother.

"When his father got out of jail, he was surprised to see the difference in Willie. Well, to make a long story short, the father has been drinking ever since, and that's nearly eight years ago, and my heart is broken. If it were not for little Willie, I don't know what I'd do."

The priest was a good listener. Although this was but another of the many similar stories which he had heard, there was something pathetic in the mother's pride, and in her love of Willie.

The home explained itself now. Poor woman. Discouraged and without sufficient means, she had drifted and the home had drifted with her, and Willie too.

Just then footsteps were heard, and as the door opened Bill stood there.

He was amazed on seeing the priest. It flashed on him that he was found out but he didn't want his mother to know. He made a sign to the priest to say nothing for the present. Father Boone understood it at once and was glad to see this consideration of the boy for his mother, although it didn't tell him how much Bill knew of the Club mystery.

Daly was a shrewd lad, and after his mother withdrew, he kept his composure. He had to find out first how much the priest knew. Was it just the fight he came to see about or the wreckage? And how could he handle it so that even if everything came out, Father Boone would not cause him the loss of the job he had got him? Bill decided to fence as cleverly as possible and not tell a bit more than he had to. The priest began.

"Well, William, I hope you are not ill. I've missed you from the Club the past few nights?"

"O, I'm all right," answered Bill.

"Have you any reason for staying away?" asked the priest. There was silence for a moment.

"He is fishing," thought Bill.

Father Boone looked him steadily in the eye and repeated, "I asked you, Willie, if there was any reason for your staying away?"

"Better ask Mulvy," Bill replied, with a grin.

Father Boone's heart sank. He wanted to clear Frank--and everybody else--but here was the secretary's name again. Bill's answer and his manner both implied that Frank was in the affair deeper than the director had even suspected.