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 passed 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 Dick'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 Dick 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—Dick—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 scraps 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 attitude 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 sanctity, 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."

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 hit. 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 passed 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 Dick 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:

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

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?"

The priest listened sympathetically, and when she paused, he asked, "Is he home now?"

"He is, your Reverence."

"Well, I'll go over and see him."

He showed her to the door, told her to say nothing to her husband, and promised he would be over inside an hour. Some thirty or forty minutes later he was poking his way up the dingy and dirty stairs to the Daly flat. Bill was out. No doubt the home had few attractions for him. Mr. Daly had been pretty badly shaken up by the encounter with his son, and sat fairly sobered on the edge of the bed. The priest entered, made a sign to Mrs. Daly to withdraw, and crossing the room, sat down alongside Daly.

"Well, Michael," he began, "I have come over to see you because I know you need a friend. You know I married you, Michael, and baptized Willie. You were a fine man then, none better, and you and the Missus were very proud of the baby. Well, Michael, you have got clean off the track—and it does not pay, does it, Michael? You had your nice little home and a tender wife, and a boy you were proud of. And all that is gone now, Michael. And pretty soon you'll be gone, too. It does not pay, does it? For the bit of pleasure you get from the liquor, see the price you have paid. It was not the ten cents nor the quarter you put over the bar, but it is this ruined home, Michael Daly. It is a slave and a sloven you have made of your wife, and it is driving the boy to the police, you are doing. Now, in God's Name, Michael, stop it. It is not too late. I will help you, and the wife will help you and Willie will help you. I know you had a fight with him just now, but that is past. It was the liquor did it. Tell me, Michael, you will be a man and cut the stuff out?"

Tears were forming in the man's eyes as the priest looked at his upturned face.

"I'm a beast and no man," he moaned, "I'm down and out. I'm a curse to myself and my own. I'm not worth your bothering about me. Let me alone. Let Mike Daly go his way, he's done for. The devil of whisky has got him and he'll get him for good some day."

"Mike Daly," said the priest firmly, "you are down, God knows, but you are not out. And you are not going to be."

"That's all very well. It's that easy to say, but you don't know the grip that this devil has on me. I've tried and tried and tried, only to fall back again into the gutter. I tell you it's all up with me."

"If it is up with you, it is because you want it to be so," said the priest. "But I tell you, Mike Daly, you are on the brink of hell and the only thing that keeps you from falling into it, is the slender barrier of life. Do you realize that you may be called out of life to judgment any moment without warning? My God! man, where is your faith? If you break the law of the government, you know what would happen! And is not God's law more sacred? Do you suppose you can trifle with the Almighty? Because God does not punish you on the spot, do you think you can ignore Him?"

By this time Daly was quite himself. He had never had such a talking to. The words went right into his soul. He knew about punishment for a man if he breaks the law of the country. And it surely was true that God's law is more serious. That hit him hard. The priest saw that the man was wavering, and he continued:

"Now, Michael, I'll tell you what we will do. But first I shall ask you an honest question, man to man. Do you want to get away from the vile stuff?"

"I do," fairly roared Daly.

"Good," said the priest, "that's half the battle. Now, I want you to know that I am the best friend you've got on earth outside your own family. I shall ask you to do nothing but what is for your own good. Will you trust me?"

"I will, so help me God!" he shouted.

"And it is God who is going to help you," said the priest. "You are going to be a man again, Mike Daly. I guarantee that. Do ... you ... understand ... that?" said the priest slowly and firmly.

"I do," answered the now aroused and interested man.

"Then listen: You are just a 'bum' now—a low down, bar-room 'bum.' Nobody wants you around. You can't get a job anywhere. I am going to get you a good job. You won't go back on the priest if he gives his word for you?"

"So help me! No," cried Mike.

"Now, another thing," said the priest. "When you went to church every Sunday, and received Holy Communion once a month, you were a good God-fearing man. That's where we begin. You make a friend of God first of all. It's hard enough to go through life right with God and with His help, but it is impossible without it. It's years since you have been to church, and the Sacraments, and you know these have been the most unhappy years of your life."

Just then Bill entered. He was surprised to see the priest talking to his father. Immediately he supposed that he had come to complain about the breakage and mischief at the Club. But he was set right almost immediately.

"William," said the priest, kindly and proudly, "come over here and shake hands with your father."

The boy hesitated.

Again the priest spoke: "William, come and take the hand of a man that is never going to touch liquor in his life again. Your father is a new man."

"O father, father!" cried Bill, as he rushed across the room.

No words. Tears of the father and son as the two embraced.

The priest, meanwhile, had gone into the kitchen to tell the good news to Mrs. Daly. She rushed in to find the father and son weeping over each other.

"O Michael, Michael," she shouted, "I knew the Blessed Mother would never let you go to the end as you were!" And she fairly fell on them both.

The priest withdrew, and would have left altogether, but that he had not finished his work. After a while, he came into the room and said, "All three of you kneel down." They got on their knees. "May God Almighty, the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, bless you."

"Amen" responded the three.

"And may the Blessed Mother help and protect you."

"Amen" again came the response.

They arose. It was a transfiguration. Determination and pride on Daly's face, love on Mrs. Daly's, and gladness on the boy's.

"Now, Michael, I want you to go to confession next Saturday night and receive Holy Communion on Sunday," said the priest. "You do your part, and God will do His. You have given Him no opportunity to help you these past years. You have kept away from Him, your best Friend and Helper."

"Never again," said Daly, firmly.

"Straighten up now," said the priest, "and come to see me Monday morning. I'll have a job for you by that time. Here's a few dollars to get some clothes. You can pay me back when you have it to spare. Good-bye."

For sometime after the priest went away, they spoke not a word. They could not, for something seemed to lodge in their throats. When Mrs. Daly found that she could use her voice, she went to a little box on the bureau, kept carefully in the midst of all the confusion, and taking out her rosary of the Blessed Virgin, she went over to her husband and son and said, "And now let us thank her." They knelt down, said the beads and finished with the prayer:

"Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope; to thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve; to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, and after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus. O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary."

There is joy even in heaven over a sinner that doth penance.

The effects of Father Boone's visit at the Daly home began to show at once; the father, mother and son were transformed. Michael Daly spoke of it first. "I've not had a day's luck since I've been away from the Church, and I'm going to get back."

"O Blessed Mother, do you hear him?" exclaimed Mrs. Daly. "Holy Mary, pray for us sinners now."

"I've had my last drink, so help me!" continued Daly. "I've said it often before, and gone back to the dirty stuff. But something new has come into my life. Father Boone's words burned right into my soul. And every word he said was true, so help me!"

All the while, Bill was wondering. Could it be real? It all seemed so new to him. For eight years he had heard nothing but blasphemy and abuse from his father, and here he was now, talking and acting like a man. Was it a reality? He could hardly believe his senses. But there was his father arm and arm with his mother. That certainly was real. It was years since he had seen anything like that before. The sight, so unusual, began to overpower him. He ran to his father and cried out, "O Dad, Dad, Dad!"

For a moment he could say no more.

"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 bluster. 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 God in the world. He remembered a large frame in the class 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 God." The Sister one day had said to the boys that they should always live in such a way that they should be glad God 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 God 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 God 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 God. Bill also remembered how every day the Sister had had the whole class 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 God, he prayed earnestly, finishing with "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen." Then he added, "Blessed Mother of God, 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 God or of the Saints, they should add sacrifices to their petitions. "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."

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 God. "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, passed 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.

Ordinarily, the passing 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 God, 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.

Having been assured that the case was not fatal, Father Boone boarded a trolley and soon found himself near the Daly tenement. He was used to errands like this. And yet this had something different about it. Often had he carried sad news to wives and mothers and fathers. But there was an element of tragedy in this case. Only the day before, he had left the Dalys starting out on a new way, father, mother and son. And now the link that bound father and mother, if not broken, was very close to it. Would the news start Mike Daly drinking? Would it harden him, or would he see in it the hand of God?

With these thoughts in his mind, he rapped gently at the door. Mrs. Daly met him all radiant. A wonderful change had occurred. The room was neat and clean, she herself was as tidy as a pin and in walked Daly himself, greatly improved by a clean shave and a clean collar. "I want to see both of you together," he said. "I have a bit of good news for you."

They walked into the front room. It was really decent now. The home as well as the occupants had undergone a change.

"Mr. and Mrs. Daly," began the priest, "I want to congratulate you. You have a boy to be proud of. You have someone to live for. Willie is a hero. He has just saved two lives at a fire."

At the word fire, and at not seeing their boy along with the priest, a certain apprehension seized them both. Neither spoke for a moment, and then Daly said, "And where is the boy?"

"He is all right," answered the priest. "He got a few scratches and bruises, but it is nothing much. He is a real hero, and all the boys are talking about him. I just thought I'd be the first to bring you the news."

"Tell us about it, Father dear," exclaimed Mrs. Daly.

The priest now felt that the worst part of his task was over. In a reassuring tone he narrated all that had happened. He made up his mind to tell everything just as it was, because he felt it was better for them to get it from him and with him near, than in any other way.

When he got to the fall from the ladder, the mother screamed and fell back in her chair. The priest was not unprepared for this. He dashed cold water into her face, and soon she came to, moaning and uttering pious ejaculations for her son. By the time the priest was ready to leave, both father and mother were composed and resigned.

"You should thank God, both of you," said Father Boone to them, "that He has left you your boy. It is a lesson to all of us to live in such a way as to be always ready to meet God whenever He calls us out of life. Now you, Michael, no matter what happens, don't you ever think that the liquor will drown your sorrow. I'd rather see Willie a corpse than to see you drunk again."

"And so would I myself, so help me!" exclaimed Michael.

The priest nodded, satisfied that now Michael was out of the pit. He gave them the hospital address, and advised them not to go before the next day, unless they received a message. No news, he assured them, was good news.

No news might be good news, but not for a mother. Hardly had the door closed when Mrs. Daly put on her things and made ready to start for the hospital.

The priest had a good deal to think about. There was a possibility that Willie's condition was serious on account of internal injuries. What a blow it would be to the parents if he should die! When he reached home, the first thing he did was to telephone to the hospital and inquire about the boy. He was informed that the patient was resting quietly. "That is good," he said to himself, "for I should not be at all surprised if Mrs. Daly ran down to see the lad tonight." With that he went over to the Club, wrote a few letters, and then returned to the rectory for the night.

The boys were late leaving the Club after the excitement of the fire. They spoke in suppressed tones. Admiration and regret prevailed—admiration for Bill's daring deed—regret for their conduct to him just before.

"Gee!" said Tommy, "I'm sorry I sailed into him the way I did."

"And who would have thought he was such a daring chap!" exclaimed Dick.

"It only shows," added Ned, "that you never can tell what's in a fellow."

"We called him the 'Bull'," said Frank, "and in one way we were right, for that was the bulliest thing I ever saw. My hat is off to Bill Daly."

After a while, they turned to speculating on his condition.

"I hope it's nothing serious," remarked Dick.

"Suppose we wait until Father Boone comes back," added Tommy. "He'll tell us exactly what's the matter."

After it had got to be late, Frank observed, "I'll bet he's waiting for Bill to regain consciousness, and there's no telling when he'll be back. Let's wait a quarter of an hour more, and then if he's not here, we'd better go."

They all assented to this and when the time was up, they started to leave. Frank, however, signalled to Dick and Ned and Tommy, and they loitered about until the rest had gone.

"Fellows," began Frank, "I had a letter all written to Father Boone about the scrape we're in, but I tore it up, I'm surer than ever that something worse has happened than that fight. I don't even believe that Father Boone knows who was in it. But that scrap was the basis of something else, something really serious. Bill Daly knows what it was, believe me. He came here tonight to straighten things out. Did you see how he came in, and how he stood the 'gaff'? Would he have taken all that from kids like you unless he had something big troubling him? And that's not all. He got me aside and began to talk confidentially, hinting at something dark, you know. He was just getting ready to accuse himself when the fire engine came along, and you know the rest."

The three others nodded in agreement with Frank and awaited further light on the matter.

"That's all," he continued, "except that I never saw such an exalted look on any boy's face as when he leaped for that ladder. It just seemed to say 'I know you've got me down bad, boys, but here goes to show you that there is some good left in Bill Daly.'"

In point of fact, Bill had never given the boys a thought when he made his plunge for the ladder. But the look of exaltation, as Frank called it, was there nevertheless. Its source was higher than Frank gave him credit for.

"Now I maintain," asserted Frank, "that the fellow was glad of the chance to set himself right with the Club. And from what he hinted at, I'm certain, too, that he did something to 'queer' us with Father Boone, something pretty bad, too, for I never before knew Father Boone to take such measures as he has in this affair."

"You're a regular Sherlock Holmes, old man," observed Dick.

"Sherlock Holmes or not," said Frank, "you'll find out before this thing is settled that I'm right. A man like Father Boone does not change his character over night. Something has happened to make him take this attitude, and I'd give my hat to know what it is."

Frank's hat may not have been worth much, but it seemed to be the limit of his disposable property—to judge by the extreme earnestness with which he risked it. At all events the boys felt that Frank was keenly convinced of his position, and as he was always careful about his conclusions, they were inclined to agree with him.

In this frame of mind the chums parted. The others went directly home. Frank made some excuse for loitering and as soon as they were gone, took his way in the direction of the hospital. It was fully ten o'clock, and the hospital was nearly a mile off. He had to walk, but by a combination of brisk walking and occasional sprints, he got to the place in short time.

Everything was quiet about the immense building. In the main vestibule Frank found a matter-of-fact, middle-aged man standing behind a desk, over which was a sign—"Bureau of Information." Several people were seated on a long bench nearby, waiting to be conducted to friends or relatives who were patients, or to get word of their condition.

Frank approached the desk timidly, and said to the clerk, "May I ask, sir, how William Daly is?"

At the words 'William Daly,' there was a scream and a flutter from the bench, and in a moment a woman stood before Frank and put her arms about him, crying as she did so, "Do you know my Willie? Are you one of Father Boone's boys?" Without waiting for an answer, she went on, with sobs and exclamations, to give a fond mother's estimate of the best boy in the world.

As Mrs. Daly told of her Willie's affection for her, she broke down completely. The clerk summoned a nurse. Mrs. Daly was taken into a side room, and under the firm but kind management of the nurse, she soon calmed down. Frank, although so tender-hearted, was not an expert at giving sympathy. Indeed, it was good that he was not, for in Mrs. Daly's hysterical condition, sympathy would have made her worse. The excitement was hardly over when word came from the office that William had regained consciousness, and that he was out of danger. The messenger also added that he was sleeping quietly, and that it was not advisable to disturb him now, but that his mother would be welcome to see him in the morning.

Mrs. Daly turned to Frank. "You are one of Willie's friends?"

Frank reflected on the fight and the contemptuous terms that Bill had used toward him, but he also remembered their final talk, and so replied without hesitation, "Yes, Mrs. Daly."

"Oh, he was the good boy to his mother! And it's a hard time of it he's had, with no one knowing how much the poor boy went through to help his mother. O Blessed Mother of God, help him from your place in heaven!"

Frank was affected by the emotion which was again overcoming the fond mother, but he said as calmly as he could, "Don't you think we had better go home now, Mrs. Daly?"

"No, I can't go home and him up there," she replied.

"But you can't stay here all night," objected Frank. "Come home with me now. That's what Bill would want if he had the say."

"Is that what you call him—Bill?"

"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 boob," 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.