"O, for short you know, Mrs. Daly. Boys always take short cuts."

"I never called him anything but Willie," she sighed and started to cry again.

"Won't you come home now?" Frank asked tenderly.

"I've got no heart to go anywhere while he is up there," she again declared.

Frank now realized that things were getting serious. His own mother would be anxious about him, and the hospital bench was not a place for Mrs. Daly to spend the night. He tried all his persuasive powers, to no effect.

While he was in this state of anxiety, he heard a voice at the desk ask, "Is William Daly doing nicely? Has he regained consciousness yet?"

Looking up, Frank, to his great joy, saw Father Boone. At the same instant, hearing a sob and looking in its direction, the priest perceived Mrs. Daly and Frank. He stepped over to where they were.

"Good gracious, my dear woman," he exclaimed, "this is no place for you at this hour. And you, Frank? I must say I am glad to see you here, but we must all go home now. Wait for me a minute. I'll just run upstairs and see William." As a priest, he had access to the wards at any hour of the day or night. It occurred to him that the patient might be conscious by that time, and he decided to see him and hear his confession if possible. He was conducted to Daly's bed, and saw that he was sleeping soundly. He knew that sleep was the best medicine; so he left the patient, after giving him his blessing.

"He is sleeping like a baby, Mrs. Daly," was the way he saluted the mother, as he drew near. Then, waiting for neither _yes_ nor _no_, he took it for granted that they were all going home. Under his dominant and kindly manner, Mrs. Daly was like a child. Father Boone called a cab and gave the driver the order to take both Mrs. Daly and Frank to their homes. He put a bill in Frank's hand to pay the fares, and without waiting for thanks or protestations, closed the taxi door, and walked briskly homeward.

Father Boone felt, after the crowded events and impressions of the day, that he needed the walk back to the rectory to clear his head. "I was right," he declared to himself, "Mulvy is all gold. The consideration of that boy! I've gone wrong somewhere! Frank's too tender-hearted to cause me pain, deliberately, and he is too brave to shirk responsibility--to fail in the discharge of his duty. Deductions do not avail against known characteristics. A boy of Mulvy's character doesn't do a cowardly thing.

I know that--evidence or no evidence. And yet--that plagued mystery keeps staring me in the face! If they had told me they'd had a free-for-all! I can make allowances. I know boys. Here it's nearly a week, and not one word in regard to the affair. And they know I am all cut up over it.

"What's up anyway? Why didn't I send for Mulvy after the first day and demand a report or explanation? Pride, I suppose; hurt, at their lack of confidence in me. Well, the only thing is to get down from my high horse now. I've got to begin with myself.

"And yet," his thoughts swung around, "I don't know as it is pride exactly. There's the fitness of things--just indignation. Our Lord himself had to show it to the Scribes and Pharisees. I want those boys to know they're not acting right. That's my real motive." He sighed deeply. "Here I am again between post and pillar. I don't know what to do. I want to take the stand that will be of true benefit to the boys, not merely now but later."

So reflecting, he reached the rectory. A few minutes later, the light in his room was out and he had finished a busy and painful day.

Meanwhile, Frank saw Mrs. Daly home, and in a little while he was dismissing the chauffeur at his own door. Quickly he ran up the steps of his apartment house and in a moment had climbed the three flights of stairs. Everybody was in bed but his mother. Her first words were, "O my boy, what has happened to you? I was alarmed at your staying out so late."

Frank felt he should at least give some account of himself at once. In the most matter of fact way, he narrated the evening's events. But his mother discerned his generous heart beneath his words, and she was proud of him--so brave and so tender. And especially was she glad that Father Boone had found Frank at the hospital with Mrs. Daly. She knew how that would affect the misunderstanding, and she was more than satisfied with the turn of affairs when Frank finished his recital by saying, "I tell you, mother, Father Boone is a brick." Then, as he feared that this did not convey a great deal of meaning to her, he added, "He is 'some' man."

"And somebody is 'some' boy," echoed his mother, kissing him good-night.

Frank went to his room, said his prayers and jumped into bed. "I'll sleep until noon," he muttered, as he got under the covers. He closed his eyes, but although he was dead tired, he could not sleep. Indeed, it seemed he was more wide awake than at midday. The clock struck twelve, and still his mind was all activity.

He saw himself chatting with Daly--heard the fire-clang--saw Bill run up the ladder--beheld him waver, totter and fall--saw his limp body in the net--heard the afflicted mother speak of her Willie--her good boy Willie, whom the boys called "Bull". And then there was Father Boone, always in the right place, and doing the proper thing, cool, firm, kind, commanding. And this was the man he was on the outs with. Was it more likely that a boy like himself would be wrong or Father Boone?

"I'm a b.o.o.b," he accused himself. "I should have gone to him at the start. Even if he were cross--most likely he'd heard there was a row, and I was in it. Then, of course, he'd feel hurt that I hadn't shown him more confidence. But great guns! I did go up to make a clean breast of it, and got 'cold feet'. But that's not his fault. That's how the whole blame thing began. Gosh, I wish I had some of Bill Daly's sand!"

He had begun to feel a little drowsy. The clock struck one and he was murmuring "a little . . . of . . . Bill . . . Daly's . . . 'sand' . . .

Bill . . . Daly's . . . sand . . . sand . . . . sand . . . . . . .

sand!" And off he fell into the land of nod.

Chapter III

Comrades

It was full daylight when Bill Daly opened his eyes the next morning. On all sides of him were beds. Nurses and doctors were walking noiselessly up and down the ward. He did not know what to make of it. He had never been in a hospital before, even as a visitor. He had to make an effort to collect his thoughts.

O yes! the fire. That shaky ladder. The woman and the child at the window crying for help. His quick ascent up the ladder. The adjustment--a sudden sensation of dizziness--and then! Yes, he must have fallen.

Just then he moved his arm a bit, and a moan issued from his distorted mouth. He knew now--who he was and what had happened. He changed the position of his head and a groan escaped him. He moved his body ever so little, and pain shot all through it. "Oh, Oh, Oh," he groaned. After that, for a moment, he lay as quiet as possible. "O, I'm a girl, all right," he told himself. "What am I groaning about? I'll bet Mulvy would take his medicine. That's 'some' boy, Mulvy. Never grunted once, and I hit him all over. O for a little of his 'sand.'"

Just then he moved his arm again, and another moan escaped him. A nurse, pa.s.sing by, heard him.

"That's all right, little man," she said, "it's painful, but no broken bones; you'll be on your feet soon." Bill shut his jaw tight. His suffering recalled to his mind a story one of the Sisters had told the cla.s.s a few years previously, of a little boy led into the Roman Amphitheatre to be tortured for the Faith. They made him hold burning coals in his hands and told him that if he dropped them he was giving incense to the idols. He held the coals until they burned right through his hand. A martyr. His picture was hanging on the wall of the cla.s.s room. An angel was placing a crown on his head and he looked--happy!

"I've been a pretty tough nut," Bill soliloquized, "guess this is my punishment. That martyr kid didn't do any harm. I've done a lot. The fellows aren't a bad set. They gave me a pretty good show. They didn't b.u.t.t in on the fight. What grit that Mulvy has! I'd have given up, if he was on top--but not him! Gee--the way he just squirmed from under, and started in, as if only beginning. No wonder he plays football! A fellow's eyes tell you when you can't lick him. And cool as a cuc.u.mber!

And then--'Let's shake!' 'Some boy' that Mulvy kid! And what a cur I was to go and smash things the way I did! And spoil the fellows having the McCormack treat. I'm pretty 'yellow'. And then Father Boone comes over and straightens things out and puts Dad on his feet!

"Well, I'm through with the roughneck stuff. Pretty painful--but you don't catch me groaning again. I'll 'offer it up', like Sister said, for the love of G.o.d, to atone for my sins. I've got the sins all right. So here goes for the 'offer up' part. No more grunts, Bill Daly."

He had hardly finished his resolve to bear his pain patiently and without murmur, as an offering to G.o.d, when the doctor and nurse approached his bed.

"Well, sonny," began the doctor, "you did quite a circus stunt, I'm told."

Bill grinned for reply, as the doctor proceeded to examine him. It was necessary to press and probe and lift and handle him generally. Every pressure and every slightest movement caused him exquisite pain. But not a murmur escaped him. Once or twice there was an "Oh!" in spite of his best efforts, but not a complaint nor a whimper. Doctor and nurse were surprised. Finally, the doctor said, "Son, either you are not much hurt or you are the pluckiest lad I've ever examined."

"I don't know about the pluck, doctor," he replied, "but I do know that if I were hurt much more, it would be all over with me."

He had hardly finished the words when he fainted. When he came to, the doctor said, "Boy, nothing but dynamite can kill you, and I want to tell you that your name is pluck." They left him for a few minutes and when the nurse returned, she remarked: "You are not seriously injured, but you will be pretty sore for some days, and I want to tell you, you are a little hero."

When she was gone, Bill mused: "I wonder what she'd say to the 'little hero,' if she saw that damaged room and knew it was spite? I'm getting mine. I'll cut out the 'hero' stuff, for a while anyway."

About an hour later, as he was lying quietly on his back, he was delighted to see his mother coming towards him. The sudden movement he made, hurt him dreadfully but he quickly mastered himself, and gave no indication whatever of the pain he experienced. The nurse had given the mother strict orders not to touch him but, when she saw her Willie there before her, the great love she bore him made her forget everything. She threw her arms about him and before he could say a word, had given him a hug and a hearty kiss. It was almost as bad as the doctor's examination.

Willie writhed in pain, but he uttered no complaint.

"O my dear, dear boy," exclaimed Mrs. Daly, seeing his efforts at suppressing the pain. "The nurse told me not to touch you, and here I've almost squeezed the life out of you, and made you suffer in every part of your body."

His suffering was so intense that it was some minutes before Bill could reply to her. At length he said, "O mother, I'm so glad to see you. It seems so long since I left the house yesterday and, mother, life seems so different."

This exhausted him. He just lay still, his mother's hand on his forehead, and her eyes looking into his. In his weakened state, tears soon gathered, not of pain, but of gratefulness, of emotion from a high resolve to bury the old Bill Daly and to live anew.

By degrees they began to talk. She told him of the night before, and the meeting with the boy at the office below, and his kindness to her. Bill was all interest. She could not recall the boy's name and she was a poor hand at description. Bill mentioned a number of his corner chums. The Club boys did not even enter his head. "Think hard, mother, and see if you can't get it. I want to know. I didn't think anyone cared so much for me."

"O yes, now I remember," she replied, "When Father Boone came in he called him Frank."

That was too much for Bill. He thought of a thousand things all at once.

His mother, only half understanding, continued: "He was one of the nicest boys I ever saw. When we got to our house, he took me by the hand and says, 'Don't worry, Mrs. Daly. You've got one of the finest boys in the world, and he'll be home with you soon,' and his voice as kind and as tender as a woman's, G.o.d bless him!"

Bill was still thinking. This was the boy he had provoked to fight, the one who had had to take the brunt of the director's anger! Mrs. Daly was rambling on when Bill looked up and asked her if Father Boone had been around.

She was not a little surprised. "Didn't you know about him, dear?" she inquired. Then she proceeded to tell everything in detail, from the time that Father Boone brought her the news until he closed the taxi door and sent her home with Frank. The narration seemed to Bill like a story from a book. He had the illusion, again, of not being a party to the events at all, but just a spectator. Then the thought of his ingrat.i.tude came back full force. The kindly and tactful deeds of Father Boone bored into his soul like a red hot iron. What an ingrate he was. Hero! indeed. Such a hero!

While he was thus reflecting, the nurse came over and informed his mother that it was time to go now, as the doctors would be in soon.

Reluctantly she bade good-bye to her boy. Wiser by experience, she did not embrace him, but just bent low and kissed him gently on the forehead.