The New Quest

The diplomats had hardly gone ten minutes when Father Boone came into the Club to get something he had forgotten in his indignant exit. On his way down from the office he pa.s.sed through the library, and of course noticed the disordered papers on the table. The sheets were scribbled on and scratched and some were crumpled and torn. He paused to put things a bit in order, and his eye caught his own name on one of the papers. It began, "Dear Father Boone," and the same salutation headed several more of the sheets. "Oho, what's this?" he exclaimed. As the note was addressed to him, and lying there on the open table, he read:

"Dear Father Boone, I want to tell you in writing what I could not say to you in person. I tried to but somehow I could not."

This is as far as it went. On the next page he found the following: "If I could only let you know that what hurts us most is that" and there it stopped. Another page had this, "I am sure there is something besides what we know, because we have done nothing that should so...." and there it ended.

He recognized d.i.c.k's handwriting on another sheet which read as follows: "Dear Father Boone, the boys realize that you must have a good reason for your dis....". That was the abrupt ending. "We know from experience that you never pun....." No more. Evidently d.i.c.k had got stuck fast.

The next pile of paper seemed to have little or nothing on the sheets. The first page the priest took up had "Ned" written all over it. For variety there was here and there "Ned Mullen."

Evidently Ned was hard pressed for a start when he filled that sheet. On the next page there was a little more variety, but not much more literature. Here and there over the page were scrawled the names of Ned--Ned Mullen--Hank--d.i.c.k--Father Boone--Bull--and a drawing of a dog. Poor Ned must have been hunting hard for a good introduction.

Father Boone sat down near the table. His thoughts had taken a new turn. These lads, he recalled, were on the committee. Evidently they wanted to set something before him, and were very much in earnest about it. Such insistence indicated a serious state of affairs. He should have heard them out instead of withdrawing in indignation. Still, he had done that only to impress them with the seriousness of their conduct.

When they saw his indignation, why did they not expostulate? But no, they said not a word. He would have been glad to hear their side, but at his first harsh words, they simply stood there. Yet this attempt at reaching him by note was a good sign. But why did they not give some evidence of regret? Their manner was not at all that of boys who felt they had seriously offended. And Frank, why _had he_ not come like a man to talk it over? "I had thought," he reflected, "that Frank Mulvy had more consideration and more heart."

His eye fell just then on a half-torn sheet of paper on the floor. He picked it up from under the chair and found on it these lines:

"Dear Father: We are all terribly cut up and Frank most of all. We don't mind what's done nor what may happen to us, but we feel awfully sorry for. . . . . . ."

That was all. That scrawl of Ned's fairly upset the priest. It was so candid, so genuine, so earnest. And it was not intended for anyone's eyes. It was an unsuccessful attempt to utter what was in the heart.

Under the stress of the situation it was the most natural thing for the boys to leave the table littered with sc.r.a.ps to be swept up by the janitor next morning. His own coming in was an accident.

He got some relief in considering that these boys had stayed after the others, and filled eight or ten pages in an effort to explain. It meant that they were all right. He had known it all along! He had had to do violence to himself to believe that they would be guilty of anything inconsiderate. He knew how they felt towards him. These notes were a proof. Boys who were not grateful and considerate would not go to such pains to rectify matters. And here he had been for three days, firmly set against them. Perhaps it was their very regard for him that had kept back the explanations. He felt happy in thinking so, for his boys meant a great deal to him. Tomorrow he would waive all formalities and precedents and settle things. He would hit the nail right on the head, state his feelings and his amazement at what had occurred and take whatever explanation they gave. These notes showed him that at heart the boys were the right kind. And that was the main thing.

He had got so far, when back again came the scene that had met his eyes when he entered the Club rooms with the janitor. Broken chairs, pictures down, ink on the floor, overturned tables.

"No . . ." thought he, "that is too much; for such vandalism there should have been an explanation or an apology. And I can't forget that Frank, no matter what his share or his feelings, should have been true enough to his duties to come and tell me. It's not the damage; it's the principle of the thing. What is the use of giving my time to the boys unless I can hold them up to certain standards? This is a social club under a priest's direction, and it should stand for what is best in the formation of character.

"Too much harm is done young fellows by giving in to sentiment. They may resent my att.i.tude now, but they will thank me for it later. If I take a firm stand, it will be a lesson to them for life. They will realize that the right way is the best way. They must be shown that although honor is not necessarily sanct.i.ty, it is, nevertheless, a very close attendant on it. Some boys think that if they don't break one of the Commandments, they are all right. They fail to see that the Commandments, although they must be absolutely kept, are only the big mile posts on the way of life. A boy may easily lose his way unless he cultivates the home virtues and the social virtues.

"That's what this club is for, to make the boys better sons and brothers and later on, better citizens. Anything that is mean must be shunned. A mean act, a mean fellow, must not be tolerated. If a boy is mean or indecent, and he can't be set right, he must go. It may hurt him and his prospects, but that is better than to hurt a crowd and their prospects.

A disgraceful affair has happened in the Club, followed by dishonorable conduct. I'll see it through." And, hitting the table with his fist, he exclaimed, "I'll see it through."

(II)

Meanwhile, Frank had got home, and as he would not have much time tomorrow, he decided on writing his note to Father Boone before going to bed. The rest of the family were out, except his mother. He sat down at his study desk and took up his task. He did not know how to begin. If he could only get a start, the matter would be easy. But that start would not come. Finally he buried his head in his hands, half thinking, half discouraged.

"Why," he thought, "should I do any writing at all? I've been 'on the square.' I have no apology to make. It seems that the harder a fellow tries to be square, the harder he gets. .h.i.t. There's 'Bull,' the cause of all this row. He's a regular thug. Yet he gets off easy. No worry, no hurt feelings, no penalty. And here I am, fretting and stewing, and I haven't done a thing I can put my hand on. Father Boone's treated me like a dog. I don't deserve that from him. He's done a lot for me, of course, but that doesn't give him the right to jump on me." Springing up, he brought his fist down on the table with a bang, and said aloud, "I'll not stand for it--from Father Boone or anybody else."

He looked up in defiance only to see his mother standing before him.

Good mother that she was, she took in the situation at once. She did not say anything, but sat down alongside him, and took his hand in her own.

When he had calmed down a bit, she said, "Won't you let mother help you, dear? You know we always make a good team."

Frank did not reply. He turned his face away. He was deeply agitated.

His mother knew his tenderness and his strong will. She knew there was a tempest raging in his soul, and her heart ached for him. She put her arm about him and pressed him a little closer.

Presently he gasped in choked and vehement words: "I have . . . always . . . tried to do . . . my best . . . and this . . . is . . . the result." Again his mother felt the convulsive trembling through his body. But under her tactful sympathy this paroxysm soon pa.s.sed off and with considerable calm he gave her the outlines of his trouble.

Mrs. Mulvy not only knew her boy, but she knew Father Boone as well. Her heart told her there was a misunderstanding, and a big one at that.

"Now, my dear," she began, "you have suffered a lot but you have not done anything you should be sorry for."

Here Frank interrupted her with a kiss.

"But I am sure," she continued, "that Father Boone has suffered a lot too; maybe more than you. I know how much he thinks of you, and if he has taken this stand you can be sure he has a strong reason for it and that it has caused him pain. We don't know his reason but we do know that he is good and just and very kind, and that he never would be so indignant without cause. My boy, there is a third factor somewhere in this matter, and both you and Father Boone are suffering for it."

"That's what d.i.c.k and Ned said, mother," replied Frank, "but for the life of me I can't figure it out."

"It may be," she answered, "he takes the fight so seriously because you're an officer of the Club--and the highest one."

"But, mother, he doesn't know yet who was in the fight. No one has told him, and he never pumps the fellows. All he knows is that there was a fight, and I don't know how he got that. Maybe someone heard the racket and told him."

"Perhaps that is just it, and whoever told him may have exaggerated the affair, and Father Boone feels hurt that such a serious matter did not reach him by the right way. You see, dear, Father Boone is very honorable himself, and he expects his boys to be very careful of honor.

That might be the explanation, although I still believe there is something more to it."

After a pause, Mrs. Mulvy continued, "And then, Father Boone might feel hurt at what I have referred to, but he would never punish the whole Club for a thing like that. It's all a mystery, I must admit, no matter which way I turn. I have been thinking considerably over it since the first night you spoke to me, and I cannot make head or tail of it.

Except this, that I am certain there is something you and I do not see about it."

"I guess you are right, mother. But what do you advise me to do?"

"That is just it," she replied, "I don't know what to do. If he were not a priest, I would go to him for an explanation right away, but I know that he knows his business and is fair. So I guess it is better to leave it in his hands."

"O mother, I am so glad you said that. I was afraid you'd go down to see him, and then I'd get 'kidded' by the fellows. They would say that I had to get my mother to fight my battles. I was going to make you promise that you would keep out of this thing, but now I don't have to.

You are the good little mother."

"But," she interrupted, "I am going to ask you for a promise. No matter what happens, and no matter what the other boys do, you won't ever do anything or say anything disrespectful to Father Boone, or about him?"

"O, that's easy, mother. I had made up my mind that that was one thing I couldn't do--anything that would reflect on him."

She kissed him proudly, and a big load was lifted from his heart.

Nothing would matter now. His mother was with him. He could stand anything with her back of him. He withdrew to his bedroom and knelt down before his little altar to offer the sufferings of the day as a sacrifice to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. "Sweet Jesus, I have suffered much today. Take my sufferings as penance for my sins and as thanksgiving for bestowing on me such a good mother, and give me strength to bear everything rather than offend Thee." He arose light-hearted.

A few moments later his mother heard him humming a hymn to the Blessed Virgin:

"Mother dear, O pray for me, When far from heaven and thee I wander in a fragile bark O'er life's tempestuous sea."

"He is all right now," reflected Mrs. Mulvy as she went to her room smiling.

(III)

After his soliloquy, Father Boone went to the rectory in a firm frame of mind. When he got there, he found Mrs. Daly waiting for him. She came, she said, to ask his advice about Willie and his father. The father came home drunk nearly every night, and in such a condition, that Willie could not only defend himself, but could also injure his father.

Tonight, she went on to relate, they had an awful time. She had to interfere to prevent serious harm to one or both.

"Only for Willie being so good to his mother I would not dare rush in between them. But I know that no matter what happens, he would never hurt me. So tonight I threw myself right between them, and separated them. Father, I am getting tired of this life. It's not Christian. I was brought up well, and though you mightn't think it, I know the difference. So I came to see you to ask your advice. Should I put him away again? It did no good last time. He came out every bit as bad as before, and worse. Now what am I to do?"