"It's all right, Willie boy," said his father. "Dad's all right, and he's going to stay so."

It is true that Willie had become more or less a "tough." His environment had hardened him. He had had to fight his way along. But one thing always stood by him, his affection for his mother. Something else also was a big factor in keeping him from going altogether bad. He never failed to say his morning and evening prayers. His early training under the good Sisters at the parochial school served as an anchor to hold him to his religion. The prayers he had learned there, the pious mottoes on the walls, the example of the Sisters, all had made a strong impression on his young mind although his conduct often failed to show it.

He remembered also some of the incidents they had related. One in particular never left his mind. In consequence of it, he had resolved never to say an immodest word or do an unclean deed. No boy ever heard an impure word from Bill, no matter how rough he might be. He would fight, yes. He would swagger and bl.u.s.ter. But he could never forget the promise he had made one day in church, before the altar of the Blessed Virgin, that he would never say anything to make her blush. And so far he never had, although he had often been with companions whose conversation and conduct would bring the crimson to any decent face.

He had from his faith a realization of the presence of G.o.d in the world.

He remembered a large frame in the cla.s.s room wherein was the picture of a triangle. In the center was an Eye. It seemed to be looking right at him, no matter where he was, and under it was written, "The All-Seeing Eye of G.o.d." The Sister one day had said to the boys that they should always live in such a way that they should be glad G.o.d was looking at them. That made a great impression on him. Of course, he often forgot the Eye. But on one occasion, when he was strongly tempted to steal, and the two boys with him did steal, he saw that Eye, and remained honest. The day after, the two fellows were caught and sent to the reformatory for a year. The Eye of G.o.d meant even more to him after that.

On another occasion, he could have received an afternoon off by lying, as did several of his companions. But the Eye was looking at him, and he would not tell the lie. It is true, there was many a slip, for poor Bill was only human and a boy. And after all, religion does not suppose we are all saints. Its purpose is to make us such. It has hard work on some material. But no substance is too hard for it, if only it has half a chance. Bill, although a 'bad nut' as many called him, was not so bad as he might have been. If it were not for his religion, poorly as he practised it, he would have gone to the bad utterly. So Bill now stood facing a new thing in his life. His father was turning in a new direction. Would he keep on in it, or fall back, as so often before?

There was something different about this event, Bill felt. He had never seen that peculiar and stern look in his father's eyes before. And he remembered that the Sisters had often told them how G.o.d would help us do things that we could not do ourselves if we truly turned to Him. It did seem as though his father had truly turned to G.o.d. Bill also remembered how every day the Sister had had the whole cla.s.s say one "Hail Mary" for those who were in temptation.

He went to his bedroom, closed the door, took out an old prayer book and, opening it to a picture of the Mother of G.o.d, he prayed earnestly, finishing with "Holy Mary, Mother of G.o.d, pray for us sinners _now_ and at the hour of our death, Amen." Then he added, "Blessed Mother of G.o.d, strengthen my poor father and make him good and sober."

Bill reflected that Father Boone had once told the boys that if they wanted anything of G.o.d or of the Saints, they should add sacrifices to their pet.i.tions. "Blessed Mother, in thy honor and for my father's reform, I will leave off smoking until I am twenty-one." He arose renewed and light-hearted.

All next day he revolved in his mind the scurvy trick he had done at the Club. He knew the pride Father Boone took in having things nice there.

In reality it was the priest who had suffered by his wreckage, he reflected, not the boys. Sure, they had suffered, too. The McCormack treat had been called off. That was a mean trick. He had "queered" the crowd to get square on one or two. And after all, what had he to square?

Mulvy had fought him straight.

The more he thought on it, the more Bill felt ashamed of himself. By night he had fully made up his mind to go over to the Club, make a clean breast of it all, and take the consequences. "And I'll offer that up too," said he, "for Dad."

(V)

At the Club the next evening, all the fellows were talking matters over.

Father Boone was upstairs in his office. He had said to himself a dozen times, "I must keep a hold on that boy Daly. He is a diamond in the rough. I'd like to know how many of these fellows downstairs would be much better if they went through what he has experienced. I must see to it that he gets a fair show. The fellows are down on him. Maybe they have had cause, but they've got to help me give the fellow his chance.

Another reason for getting at the heart of this affair without any more delay--a boy's soul and his welfare are at stake."

The boys below were pretty glum. Things were not the same. A shadow was over the place. When Frank came in, however, his face was so placid that at first they thought he had adjusted matters.

"Well, old man, what's the good news?"

"Nothing yet, fellows, but I guess it'll come out all right."

Just then the door opened, and in walked Daly. For a few seconds no one said a word. They just looked at him in astonishment.

Daly's walk to the Club had been hard going. The nearer he got to it, the more he hesitated. What would Father Boone say? Facing the boys was one thing--he could fight down his mean deed, but how about Father Boone and his interest in his father--and the job he was going to get him?

Would this revelation knock that all to pieces? How could Father Boone trust a man whose boy broke into a house and smashed things up?

All this stood out boldly before Bill. So did the Eye of G.o.d. "He sees, and I'll go ahead and trust in Him," he concluded. And so he went up the steps leading to the Club door, pa.s.sed timidly along the hallway and opened the door, where the boys were discussing the committee affair. As he stood in the doorway, silence held the crowd. After a moment, indignation broke loose. It showed itself first in looks of contempt, then in moving away from him.

"That's all right fellows, I'm the goat, and I deserve to be."

They thought he was sarcastic. But the words came from his very soul.

Mistaking him, they flung back cutting remarks: "You're a Billy Goat, all right," came from one quarter.

"So you've changed from a Bull to a Goat" greeted him from another side.

For a few seconds Bill felt like rushing in and striking right and left.

But he checked himself. It was a violent effort and showed on his countenance.

"It's a nice fix you've got us in," shouted Tommy Hefnan.

Of course that meant to Bill that they knew the whole story of the damaged room. "Fellows," he exclaimed, "I did a mean trick and I'm willing to take my medicine." The boys saw in this only a reference to the fight.

"That's all right, Bill," exclaimed Frank. "It was my fault as much as yours. We shook hands on it when it was over, and as far as I'm concerned, it's ended." Then turning to the crowd he said, "I say, fellows, let's call it square," to which they more or less willingly agreed.

Bill now felt that he was small compared with his late opponent. He saw Frank do by a word what he himself could not do by words or blows. He waited until he got the opportunity, and then gave Frank a signal that he had something to say. Frank stepped aside.

"I want to make myself right with the 'bunch'," Bill told him. "I came over for that. But if I start to speak, they'll 'ride' me. You can help me. I got to say, Mulvy, that you're a far better fellow than I am, in every way. I was a skunk to bring on that fight. And I was worse than a skunk in doing what I did afterwards. But I'll be hanged if I'm going to stay one. I'll take all that's coming to me and square myself. You know what I mean?"

He paused for a reply, but Frank's ideas were in too much confusion to permit a ready answer. This was strong language to apply to a mere fight. It suggested that there was truth in the surmise of Ned Mullen, that there was more than the fight to account for the unusual stand taken by Father Boone in the affair.

Bill cleared his throat nervously, to continue, when the clang of fire bells sounded, and the rushing of the fire engines and trucks along the street brought the boys in a stampede to the door and the street windows. Frank and Bill were carried along with the others.

(VI)

Ordinarily, the pa.s.sing of a fire engine engaged the crowd's attention but a few moments. The dashing engine and hose-cart always made a good spectacle. But now as the Club boys looked along the street, they saw not only smoke but flames. And they heard screams. All the fellows rushed out and followed the engine to the place where the police were roping off the fire line. The hook-and-ladder came along at a tearing pace. The firemen jumped from the truck, hoisted up the long, frail-looking ladder, and threw it against the cornice of the roof.

The shock somehow unhitched a connection at the last extension. The ladder hung suspended by only a light piece of the frame. In the window right under the ladder was a woman, and a child of four or five years.

The firemen felt that if they brought the ladder back to an upright position, the last extension would break and they would not be able to reach the window. On the other hand, the ladder, as it stood, could not sustain a man's weight. A minute seemed an hour.

One of the firemen started to take the chance and run up. His foreman pulled him back. "It's sure death, Jim," he shouted. "That ladder won't hold you. You'd drop before you could reach them."

The foreman was right. The men were willing enough but there was no chance of reaching the top, or halfway to it.

Now Father Boone came running up. On learning that lives were in danger he had hastened to the Church, gotten the holy oils, and hurried over to be of service, if occasion required.

The cries of the woman and child were piercing and heart-rending. The life nets were spread and the men shouted to them to jump. But they were paralyzed with fear. One of the firemen was heard to exclaim, "I wish I weighed a hundred pounds less, I'd risk that ladder."

Bill Daly, in the forefront of the crowd, heard him. Two lives at stake!

He weighed a hundred pounds less than that man. And, as he hesitated, a great fear clutching at his heart, his mind was filled with a medley of thoughts, in which mingled the idea of sacrifice for his father's reform, the Eye of G.o.d, his own worthlessness, his confession not yet made, and the glory of heroic deeds. Again a terrible, piercing cry from above. Without a second's waiting, without warning, before the firemen knew it, he had rushed under the rope, over to the truck, and like a cat, was on his way up the ladder.

Bill had often seen the firemen couple the ladders in the station near his home. He knew if he got there in time he could put the detached parts together. Up he went, hands and feet, as fast as he could move.

The ladder swayed. The men yelled to him to come back. He evidently heard nothing and saw nothing but that dangling extension, which was all that separated him from death. Without slowing up a bit, he reached the uncoupled extension, fastened it, and made the ladder secure. Hardly had it fallen into place, when several, firemen were on their way up. The thing was done.

The excitement of it over, Bill suddenly realized that he was high up in the air. The climbing of the firemen made the ladder sway. Before anyone realized what was happening, Bill lost his balance, tottered, fell over completely, and went headlong down. The men below holding the life net under the window, saw him totter and changed their position as fast as possible in order to get under him. But he fell so suddenly that they hardly had time to shift. They had scarcely got into position, when down he came into the net, before it had tightened up. The fall was considerably broken, but he landed hard enough to make the thud distinctly heard. And there he lay in a heap, limp. He was unconscious.

They lifted him out, carried him over to the Club room, and sent for a doctor.

Meanwhile, Father Boone, who had been the first to reach him, hastily anointed him and gave him conditional absolution. He was about to return to the fire to be on hand in case others were injured, but one of the firemen came in just then and said that the woman and child were rescued, and that the fire was under control.

So the priest sat beside Bill, holding his hand, and patting his forehead. Instead of a doctor, an ambulance arrived. Bill was carried on a stretcher into the wagon, and with a warning clang, it was off for the hospital. The doctor was on one side of him, the priest on the other.

Neither spoke. Both kept their eyes on the patient. The doctor held his pulse, and moved his eyelids to observe the extent of the danger. A hasty examination at the hospital emergency room showed a badly injured arm and side, and a bruised, but not fractured, skull.