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, passing 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 class 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 class 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 butt 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 cucumber! 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 God, 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 God, 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, God 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 ingratitude 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.

The doctors made their usual round of the ward, and when they came to Daly, the physician who had dressed his bruises the night before remarked, "Here's the hero kid." The head doctor looked at him kindly. "Well, little man," he said, "the next time you go to a fire, send us word so we can see you perform." They all laughed at this, and Bill smiled. After the examination, the doctor assured him, "Nothing the matter, my boy. You're sound as a dollar, just a little shaken up and bruised; and you'll be out in a few days."

When Mrs. Daly came in again about four o'clock in the afternoon, she was over-joyed to hear the good report of her son's condition. She saw now, however, that he was very serious. Indeed, it had been the most serious day of his life.

All day long Bill had been reflecting on what his mother had told him of Father Boone and of Frank. He had begun to realize that he had something to do besides being grateful to them both. There was a duty to perform. It had been hard to go to the Club when he intended to tell them about the breakage. And now it seemed ten times harder. How could he do it? After all the goodness shown him, to be obliged to admit that he was a thug. The thought had tortured him all the day. It was still racking his mind when his mother came in.

If only Father Boone would come around, he reflected. It would be easier to make a clean breast of it to him. He would understand. Father Boone seemed to understand everything. He'd see, too, that the Bill who had done the rough stuff was changed. He'd know without a lot of explaining, how some things hurt more than pain. The thing to do was to tell Father Boone and let it all rest with him.

That was Bill's conclusion and his resolve. He did not dare tell his mother. He wondered how much the boys knew. His mother, sitting admiringly at his side, told him one piece of news which pleased him greatly. Father Boone had got his father a good job and he had started in right away. That was why he was not down with her to see him. But he would be around in the evening. While she was telling this, Bill interrupted her.

"O mother, see," he whispered, indicating two nuns who were coming toward them, "and one of them is Sister Mary Thomas."

They were Sisters from the school which Daly had attended before he went to work, and they greeted the mother and her boy sympathetically. After a bit, Mrs. Daly recalled that her husband returning from work would be waiting for his dinner, and she hurried away. The Sisters stayed for some time, giving Bill that comfort which they alone can impart. Before going Sister Mary Thomas placed a crucifix and a pair of beads in his hands. "He suffered for you, William," she said, "and you must also suffer for Him—now especially."

He watched them going out, as he might gaze on departing angels. Then his eyes were turned toward the crucifix. "He suffered in mind as well as body for me," he mused. For Bill was remembering many things now, which he had not recalled since the Sisters had taught them to him in his school days. Calvary had a meaning for him now—an atonement for sin and a restoration to goodness. "Some job—to tell on myself," he sighed, "but I'll show the Lord that I mean business."

About seven o'clock in came Frank. Bill was both glad, and not glad, to see him. Everything Frank did for him only made matters harder for Bill. And yet he wanted that boy near him. Bill recognized the combination of strength and goodness in Frank. Indeed, one reason for the fight, had been his envy of Mulvy. But Bill's disposition had undergone a change. After what his mother had told him Frank appeared as a boy of nobler mould than the rest.

Frank began with an offhand, "Well, how goes it, old man?"

"Fine," answered Bill.

"You're all right, Bill. Your stock is pretty high now at the Club."

But Bill was thinking of other things than compliments, and after a moment's silence, Frank decided that the patient was suffering a good deal, and that he'd better go.

"No, don't go yet, Mulvy," Bill begged, "stay with a fellow a little while."

"Why, you are crying, old man," said Frank, as he looked into his face, "you must be suffering terribly. It takes a lot of pain to make you cry."

"It's not pain," he whispered. "It's something worse."

"O, I know, old fellow. You're thinking about your father and mother. But you're not seriously hurt, the nurse told me. Father Boone has been around to see your folks, and he has made them feel all right."

"It's something worse than that," answered Daly. "If I told you, you'd cut me dead, and so would the other fellows."

"Come now, old chap, you are not yourself. You've nothing to worry over. You're a guy that's got sand."

This had a reassuring effect on Bill. A doctor or a nurse might compliment him, but what do they know? But when a boy tells you you have "sand," that's different!

Frank was soon relating to him the fall into the net—the first account Daly had heard of it. Frank went on to tell about the ambulance and Father Boone, and the priest's visit to his parents, and again how the priest came late at night and went up to see him, his kind words to his mother, and finally his sending her home in the taxi. It all seemed like a movie to Daly.

For some time he lay perfectly quiet. Then, although it cost him a deal of pain, he reached for Frank's hand and grasped it firmly. Their eyes met. Bill felt a great yearning to tell Frank everything. He had fully determined to tell only Father Boone. Even that would be hard. But now he really wanted to tell Frank. It would be such a relief!

While they were still grasping hands, he began, pausing after each sentence and speaking with an effort:

"Mulvy, I'm a cur ... don't stop me ... I'm worse ... Let me go on ... please ... I've got to get this off my mind or bust ... I'm bad, clean through, but from now on, never again ... You've got a good home.... You don't know what mine was ... drunkenness, fights and the like ... I've lived in the streets ... nothing but roughnecks ... became the worst of the lot ... My Dad was sent to jail ... Ma and me were in a bad way ... no money for rent or food ... Somehow Father Boone turned up ... helped us out ... Then he got me a job ... After that he put me in the Club ... I didn't fit there ... You know that ... Something you don't know ... I hated the bunch because they were decent ... picked a fight with you ... You licked me ... yes you did ... I had to clear out ... But I was yellow and a thug ... I fought underhand against you all ... I did the meanest thing out."

At this point Frank tried to remonstrate with him, but at the same time he was keenly interested in what was coming.

"I hated the whole bunch and Father Boone and everybody. So when the crowd left, I sneaked back and broke a lot of chairs, overturned tables, tore down pictures, threw over the victrola, spilled ink on the floor. I knew it'd queer the crowd with Father Boone and spoil the McCormack treat. I got square ... but ... well, someone else has got square too. There are different kinds of pain, and my worst now is not my injuries."

There was a moment's silence. Frank was too much amazed to say a word. Bill continued: "I'm taking my medicine. If I'm not the right sort the rest of my life, I hope to be cut and quartered. Look at Father Boone right afterwards helping my Dad ... He'n' I had a terrible scrap. We'd have killed each other only for mother. Then she got Father Boone to come over. I don't know what he did—but—well, it was all different when I got back. Dad put out his hand to me. We knelt down. Said the 'Hail Holy Queen.' Father took the pledge. I felt like a whipped cur, all next day. I saw I'd have to square myself at any cost. That's why I came to the Club. You know the rest."

Here he paused, heaved a sigh, and exclaimed, "O God, what a relief."

Frank's feelings can be imagined. Here was the key to the mystery, and Father Boone justified. Apparently he had known all about the wreck—and it was natural to suppose that it was the work of a crowd. What a surprise to the director to see that damaged room! And worse—no explanation. It was all clear to Frank now. The fog was lifted. The missing parts of the picture fitted into place. But what of Father Boone?

After a brief silence, which seemed to both a very long while, Frank gave an extra squeeze to Daly's hand and said, "It's all right, Bill, we'll stand together. You can count on me to the limit."

The look of gratitude in Daly's face told Frank that there was now a special bond between them.

"You have told me so much, old man," he said, "that I suppose you won't mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"All you want," replied Daly.

"Well, first of all, does Father Boone know anything about the affair?"

"Not as far as I know. I was intending to tell him that night of the fire, but you saw how it turned out. First I was going to tell the fellows, and then see Father Boone and squeal on myself to him."

"Daly—that was a dirty job ... but it's past and done. You're no longer yellow. Only one in a million would come back as you're doing. We're chums, Bill Daly, through thick and thin."

"I like you for that, Mulvy, and I hope you'll never regret it. Here's something," he continued, timidly showing the crucifix in his other hand. "I've promised Him, never a crooked thing again,—and a promise to Him means no going back." They joined hands—and hearts. They were comrades now. With a look which showed that the past was buried, Frank tenderly said,

"How's the pain, old man?"

"Well, since I've told you so much, I'll tell you a little more. It's something awful. I'm not doing any baby stunts,—but—just the same I've got an awful dose. While on the broad of my back, thinking, and in pain, I remembered that martyr boy the Sister told us about, who held the burning coals in his hands, and I said to myself, 'Bill Daly, that kid didn't have your score, but see what he endured for God.' And that's when I promised. I just told Him I deserved it all, I'd take it for penance, and I promised to cut out the cry-baby stuff."

"Daly, you're a brick."

To which Bill rejoined, "And Mulvy, you're all gold—twenty-two carat."

"You'll get over that, Daly," replied Frank. "I must be going now. Mum is the word. What you've told me, is the same as not said. I'll not breathe it to a living soul."

A tempest raged in Frank's soul. His was a magnanimous character, and it pained him to think that circumstances should have framed for Father Boone, such a strong case against him. The director had placed absolute confidence in him. No wonder he showed such indignation. "And wasn't it just like Father Boone—to turn in a half dozen men and fix things up at once, and then wait for developments as if nothing had happened!"

Frank made his way toward the Club. "If I can get hold of the janitor," he thought, "I can find out all I want to know." He turned off to the street where the janitor lived, and soon found his man.

"Good evening, Mr. Dunn," he began.

"Good evening, sir."

In an apparently indifferent manner, Frank led up to his objective. But old Dunn suspected something right from the start. It is true that Father Boone had not imposed silence in regard to the mischief at the Club, but the janitor was a sensible and loyal man, and he judged that if Father Boone wanted anything to be said about the affair, he would say it himself. The indifference that Dunn displayed whenever Frank tried to lead up to the point, was amazing. The boy finally gave up the flank attack and tried the front.

"Mr. Dunn, that was quite a bit of damage we had over there the other day, wasn't it?"

"Quite a bit," said Dunn, "but I guess Daly was not hurt as badly as we thought at first."

"Oh, I don't refer to the fire, but to the Club," observed Frank.

"There was no fire at the Club, as far as I know," remarked Dunn.

"No, but there was a whole lot of breakage over there, and you know all about it. Now, how in the name of Sam Hill did they fix things up by the time we got there in the evening?"

"Young man, if you want to know anything about the Club, I think you'll find Father Boone in his office at his usual hours. And now good night!"

"By gum," muttered Frank, "the old snoozer's no fool. I'll bet if he had an education, he'd be on top somewhere."

Meanwhile, Father Boone was in the Club office attending to the little matters that came up daily. He was poring over a letter which had come in the afternoon mail. It was written on exceptionally fine paper, and was signed "James Roberts." The director indulged in a moment's speculation. "Roberts, Roberts," he reflected. "New name to me. I wonder what he wants. I hope it's not a complaint," he sighed, as he turned back to the first page.

"Reverend Sir:

I trust you will pardon my addressing you without knowing your name. I am sending this letter to the head of the Boys' Club, as that is as definite as I can be for the moment. Later, I hope to call on you personally.

I have just returned from Cuba and found my family in the Hotel Plaza instead of at their home, where I left them. They have informed me of what you already know better than myself. It was my house that was on fire, and my wife and daughter attribute the saving of their lives to a boy of your Club, who hitched up the detached ladder, and in doing so, met with such a dreadful accident.

I've been home for only an hour, but my first duty, I consider, is to convey to you my gratitude and to inquire what I can do for the boy. If you will let me know where he is, I shall have a trained nurse sent to care for him, and I shall consider it my privilege to do anything else that is possible.

I await your reply.