The next morning Father Boone, in his office, at the Club, sent for Thomas Dunn. When the janitor came, the priest said, "It is several days now since that room was upset. I expected the boys to report it at once. But not even the officials have said a word to me yet. I know I could find out about it if I wished to quiz them, but I don't want to do that. It may have been some sort of a mix-up in which the fellows all feel that to say a word about it would be mean. They may not take the serious view of it that I do. So now I am going to start in, in my own way, to get at the bottom of it. And I begin with you. Have you observed anything that would give me a clue?"

"Well no, I can't say that I have," replied Dunn. "The lads have been unusually well behaved since that night."

"Very well, but if you should come across anything that will throw light on the mystery, let me know."

Dunn turned to go, but suddenly recollected something. "I don't know whether it's much of a clue, Father, or if it's worth while mentioning, but one of the boys was over to my house last night seeming to want me to talk on the matter."

"Why, that's a straw that shows how the wind blows. Who was the boy?"

"Well, you know, Father, I don't know the boys much by name. But as he was going out I called my boy Harry and I says to him, 'Harry, who is that chap, do you know'?

"'Yes, Pa,' he says, and he gave me his name, but I forget it. I'll have to ask Harry, if you like, and let you know this evening."

"Very well, Thomas, do so."

Dunn left, and was half way downstairs when he turned back again. "Pardon me, Father, but I think I've got the name or near it. Harry said the boy was Murray, but I'm not quite sure, but it was Murray, or Murphy, or Mulvy or some such name."

At the name Mulvy, an electric spark seemed to pass through the director. Dunn did not notice it, as he went out at once. He caught the words "Thank you, Thomas," as he was leaving the room, and that was all.

But Father Boone! This was adding insult to injury! So Mulvy did know something about it! And instead of coming to the director, he had gone over to the janitor! A nice way for a trusted and honorable boy to act!

Father Boone had been trying all along to convince himself that somehow Mulvy would come out of it clear and clean. He had thought of a thousand excuses for the delay—questions of divided allegiance or some point or other of honor and so on. But Mulvy's going to the janitor to get information looked like an underhand mission, certainly. What for?—To find out what the director knew, or how he had taken it—or to arrange some explanation?

All these questions shot through his mind with the rapidity of lightning. None of them carried its own answer. All of them seemed out of harmony with what he knew of Mulvy. And yet, there were the facts.

The parochial school was around the corner from the church and club and it was at this very hour that the department of which young Harry Dunn was a member had been turned loose in the play yard for recess. A game of tag was soon on, and Dunn, dodging in and out, ran right into Ned Mullen. The collision sent Dunn sprawling to the ground. He was two years younger than Ned, but very stocky. It was nobody's fault that he got the bump; but nevertheless as soon as he rose to his feet, he rushed at Ned and gave him a kick in the shins. Ned's first impulse was to box his ears, but as the boy was so small, he merely took hold of him and gave him a good shaking.

Dunn began to blubber. In a thrice a crowd gathered, and Dunn, seeing that he was being teased, got ugly. Turning to Ned, who was about to back off with Tommy, he cried out: "Yes, you belong to the crowd that smashed up things! Father Boone will fix you!"

The threat didn't mean much to Tommy and Ned and they walked away.

Harry Dunn, however, had heard just enough from his father about the Club damage to think he could best get even by telling his teacher about it. So, when the boys got into their school rooms again, he tried to tell the Sister that two fellows had thrown him down in the yard. She paid no attention to him. After class, he went to her again, and said that the boys who broke things at the Club were trying to pick on him. "Mind your own business, Harry," she said, "and nobody will pick on you, you little tattletale." As the boys say, he got "his."

That afternoon Father Boone, passing through the school after class, stopped to talk to the Sister in the vestibule. Just then along came young Dunn.

"Here's a young gentleman who is talking about a row at the Club," she said to the priest, as she held the lad by her eye. She thought the boy had made a mountain out of a mole hill, and that the director's shrug or laugh would show the youngster where he stood. Instead, Father Boone grew instantly serious. The Sister saw she had made a mistake, but before she could change the subject, he said, disregarding the boy:

"It was bad business, Sister. I feel ashamed and hurt about it. I did not think my boys would act so."

Then he continued, "But how did you know about it, Sister?"

"O, a little bird told me."

"Indeed, and may I ask what the little bird told you?"

"Really, Father, it's not worth while referring to. I shouldn't have recalled it but for that young lad who passed us this moment. You know him, don't you?"

"I can't say that I do."

"He is Harry Dunn, Father, the son of your janitor."

"O, that's interesting, Sister; so it seems that I know less—"

At this moment he was interrupted by a messenger who told him that he was wanted for a sick call. He hurried to the rectory. A woman in the parlor was waiting to give him the name and address of a sick person. "Why, that," he exclaimed, "is the house where the Dalys live."

"Yes, Father."

"How old is this boy you say is so ill?"

"About twelve, Father."

"Do you know whether he is seriously ill; has the doctor been there?"

"O yes, Father, and he said the boy had typhoid. There is another case in the house also, and the Board of Health has been around."

He promised to go at once to administer the consolations of religion to the sick boy. "I am glad the Board of Health is on the ground," he said to himself, as he was on his way over. "From what I saw of conditions there, it's a wonder they're not all down with typhoid. I suppose Willie would have had it, except that he is such a robust and active lad."

When the priest had finished his ministrations, he went up to the Daly flat. After his knock at the door, he heard quick movements inside and then a rather long silence. He rapped again. This time the door was opened and Mrs. Daly met him. The reason for the delay was evident. She had been crying and did not care to exhibit herself to a neighbor. But on seeing Father Boone she broke out afresh, at the same time showing him a telegram she had just received from the hospital. It read: "William Daly dangerously ill. You will be admitted any hour." It was signed by the superintendent.

Father Boone put two and two together, "Typhoid." He made up his mind at once just what to do. "You stay here until I send a cab for you; then come along." He himself hurried downstairs, walked quickly over to the trolley and in ten minutes was at the hospital. Not until he got there did he go to the phone and call up a taxi for Mrs. Daly. He had a good start now, and could pave the way for her.

Going immediately to the ward, he found the nurse at Daly's bedside. "Rather sudden," he remarked.

"Very," she replied.

"There were no signs last night, nurse, as far as I could see. What seems to be the matter?"

"Typhoid."

All this was in a whisper.

He continued, "I'll just see how he is and say a few words to him before his mother comes."

"He is delirious, Father."

"Maybe he'll know me," he said, and bent over the patient. He took his hand gently, saying, "Willie boy, you have not said 'hello' to me yet." No answer. "You know Father Boone, don't you, Willie?"

"Hello, Frank," was the response. "I wish I had your 'sand.' I say, Frank," he continued, "I'm starting right when this thing is over." He paused for a moment and then resumed. "I don't blame the fellows. I'm down on myself now." Another pause. "Frank, you tell Father Boone I'm sorry. I want to see him. You are a brick. I am ... O, I'll tell ... the whole thing if it ... chokes me." This last was said with an effort.

Father Boone attributed all he was saying to delirium. He realized that the patient's condition was serious, and prepared to give him the Last Sacraments. As he took out the Holy Oils, and was about to anoint him the boy's eyes looked calmly at him and he uttered the words: "Hello, Father."

The priest was very glad that the boy was conscious, and not knowing how long he would remain so, he started to hear his confession as quickly as possible. He began by receiving from him a general acknowledgment of his sins and contrition for them, intending, if time permitted, to hear his confession in detail. "You are sorry for all the sins of your life, my child?"

"Yes, Father."

"Say the Act of Contrition."

He began: "O my God, I am most heartily sorry for all my sins and I ... and I ... and ..."

When Father Boone saw that William was lapsing into unconsciousness, he took a crucifix and holding it to the boy's lips, said, "Kiss the crucifix, my child, and say, 'Jesus have mercy on me.'" As he gave him absolution, he heard him murmur, "Jesus ... have mer...." and off he fell again into delirium.

The priest was sorry that the confession had been cut short, but was very glad that he was able to give him absolution. Then he anointed him, for Daly's condition did not permit of his receiving Holy Viaticum. The priest had barely finished the administration of the last rites, when Mrs. Daly appeared. He quickly approached her and cautioned her sternly not to show emotion in the presence of the patient, as any excitement would only make his condition worse.

"O my Willie, my Willie," was her answer, and her body shook with emotion. "Willie was the good boy, he was the good boy to his mother. O blessed Mother, help me now in my hour."

The first burst of grief over, she really showed wonderful control and approached the bed quite calmly. Bill was now sleeping. The mother sat by his side with her hand on his. Seeing that the priest was waiting, she said, "Are you waiting to give him the Sacraments, Father?"

"No, I have already done that," he replied, "but, if you don't mind, I'll wait for you."

"No, no, Father dear," she said, "don't wait for me, for I am afraid it would be a long wait."

He considered for a moment, and decided to leave.

On his way home, Father Boone had time to review the occurrence at the school earlier in the day. It was the Dunn boy whom the Sister had pointed out, as she told him the little incident. He said the Club boys were "picking on him." It could be that they were retaliating for something connected with the Club affair. He did not like the set of things. But if he could have seen what was occurring in some other quarters, he might have liked the looks of things still less.

After school, Ned and Tommy sought Frank. The Regal High was but a short distance from the parochial school.

"Say, Frank," began Ned, "that Dunn kid is a fresh guy. Today, after bumping into Tommy and me, he got ugly and gave me a kick. I shook him up a bit, and he starts in and blabs about the fight with you and 'Bull.' Afterwards, he told the Sister about it, only he made it ten times worse than it was. To hear him talk you would think we had a free fight over there. He spoke of breaking things and a lot of stuff like that."

Of course Frank saw at once what had happened. Harry had heard his father mention the damaged room. He kept his surmises to himself, however, replying, "O, don't mind that fellow, he's only a kid."

"But, Frank," continued Ned, "if you heard how the thing has spread and how your name is mixed up in it, you'd mind."

Frank laughed off this observation, and tried to turn the talk to something else. But as they walked along, they were stopped by at least three different boys who asked what the row at the Club had been.

By that time Frank began to get anxious. The mix-up was bad enough to face when only the Club and Father Boone and his mother knew. How could the explanation ever catch up with the story—especially if young Dunn got to talking! Of course, in the end everything would come out all right. In due time, Father Boone would learn the truth from Daly himself, but meanwhile—

He knew his mother was as much upset about the misunderstanding as himself. And to have affairs still further complicated would be pretty bad. Father Boone must know a good deal, for the place could not have been set right without his knowledge. But he did not know who had done it, nor any of the details. That was evident from Daly's story, and so up to now, he was angry with Frank because he had not reported. It had all the evidences of a free row surely—and his indignation was justified—and especially against an official. But now suppose this talk should reach Father Boone and that it should associate him with the affair as one of its leaders!

The very thought made Frank shudder, until he recalled that Bill was not only willing, but anxious to make a clean breast of his spiteful deed. So in the end, all would turn out right. For the time being, he was under a cloud. There was nothing to do but wait for the wind to blow it away or the sun to dissipate it.

But even as he meditated, the cloud was getting thicker and blacker. He had hardly returned to school for the afternoon session, when his teacher asked him if the report were true, that he was deposed from his office as secretary. The inquiry gave him a distinct shock. He had the greatest respect and affection for his professor, and that Mr. Collins should entertain for a moment the thought that he had done anything to deserve the censure of Father Boone, was very painful to him.

"This is the first I have heard of it," Frank answered.

"I am so glad I was misinformed," was the reply.

That afternoon, Frank's thoughts could not be held in check. There was just the possibility that Father Boone had taken some further action. When his name was called for recitation in Caesar his mind was elsewhere. It was not like Frank to hesitate when called upon, but now he was at sea. The teacher saw his predicament, and having genuine regard for him said, "Don't you agree with the preceding translation? Smith, try that passage again." Smith repeated and Frank, now master of the situation, took up the portion assigned him. But his mind soon wandered away again. He began to reflect on the consideration his teacher had shown him, and to wonder if his absent-mindedness suggested the disquiet of a guilty conscience. It seemed as though every fellow in the class was watching him.

When school was out, he went to Mr. Collins to thank him. "I was all upset, sir, by what you said before class."

"I'm sorry, Frank, that I referred to the matter at all. I really was sure, knowing you as I do, that it was a false rumor."

"Thank you, Mr. Collins."

After school, Frank went straight to the Club to see if Father Boone were there, and to find out from him if there were anything back of the report. The priest was not in his office. Frank turned into the reading room and from force of habit went to look at the notice board where the items of interest to the Club were usually posted. To his amazement he read:

Frank's head was in a whirl. He began to get dizzy. Falling back into a chair, he repeated again and again: "The office of Secretary is hereby discontinued." "A direct slap!" he gasped. "Condemned unheard. It is not fair. That's no way to deal with a fellow. It's an outrage. I did not believe that Father Boone could do such a thing. Condemned, disgraced and the whole parish talking about it! It will cut my mother to the very heart. I've got to keep it from her—to put a stop to it right now. I'll go to the rectory and have it out with him. This is what I get for not taking a firm stand in the beginning."

He sat with his head on his arms on the table. His inclination was to give way to his feelings, but after a moment, he jumped up, stood erect and exclaimed, "I'll win out."

He started for the rectory, but on his way, he began to hesitate. "What grievance have I got anyway? When it comes down to 'kicking,' what 'kick' have I got coming? From Daly's own story, there was an awful job done. No one on earth could believe it the work of one or two. Father Boone naturally expected some word from me. And if old Dunn told him I was over there pumping him—? That was a bad move—puts me in deeper. Young Dunn was only repeating what he got from his father. It certainly looks bad. And if I start something, what can I say? I'd be cornered, no matter which way I'd turn. The only thing to do is to lie low for a while, and let things shape themselves. Daly'll tell the whole thing himself and then it will be my turn. And then Father Boone—gee—I'll feel sorry for him then!" So Frank put off his visit to the priest and went home.

If Frank had experienced a sense of relief in deciding not to see the priest, it was short-lived. He walked into his home, and faced Father Boone and his mother engaged in serious conversation. His heart leaped into his mouth. The worst had happened! The priest evidently considered this affair so serious that he had come to see his mother. And it would break her heart to have a priest complain of him! And especially Father Boone—that would be a dagger thrust! These and like thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant.

As a matter of fact, Frank's deductions were all wrong. Mrs. Mulvy was the President of the Parish Relief Association of which Father Boone had charge. Hence it was not unusual for him to call on Mrs. Mulvy to give her a list of poor to be visited and helped. He was on such an errand now.

Father Boone's method of directing a club found no place for carrying information to parents. He preferred to settle matters with the boys themselves, and in a manner that would be helpful to them, and that would leave no sting. In his mind, it would be an acknowledgment of defeat if he had to carry a case into the home. He had never done it yet.

After his instant of hesitation, and convinced that he knew the subject of conversation, Frank assumed an indifferent air and stepped forward to greet the priest. Father Boone continued to talk. Frank waited a moment, bewildered, and then said, "Good afternoon, Father."

"Good afternoon, sir," was the response.

Frank stiffened, every muscle of his body became like steel. He could not look at his mother. If he did, he might break down and he did not want to give the director that satisfaction. So he stood facing the priest.

All three were embarrassed. Mrs. Mulvy knew the significance of that sir. Frank, sure now of his suspicions, made a desperate plunge.

"I am sorry, Father, that you felt obliged to carry this matter to my mother, but I suppose you know best."

Father Boone literally gasped. For a moment he looked at Mrs. Mulvy, then he turned back to Frank. Realizing that the matter had come to an issue, and without his doing, he said, in a deliberate, penetrating tone,

"Frank Mulvy, do you, or do you not, know anything about that shameful destruction at the Club?" Already Frank saw his folly. He was in just the corner he had foreseen. Acknowledgment would mean the betrayal of a sacred confidence. Every moment of silence was agony to his mother. Denial he could not make, for he had never in his whole life made a conscious mis-statement. Silence was fatal. Denial was impossible. Acknowledgment was betrayal of Bill's confidence. What could he do?

Again the priest said slowly and solemnly: "Do ... you ... or ... do you ... not ... know ... about that act of destruction?"

"Speak up, Frank," his mother said, imploringly.

At the sound of that voice and the look of that face, he collapsed. His pent up emotions of the past days burst out in sobs, his body shook convulsively. Both priest and mother tried to soothe him. That only made it worse. Father Boone turned away and stood at the window, looking out. Then with only a quiet and casual good-bye, he took up his hat and left.

Hardly had the door closed behind him when Frank threw his arms about his mother, and burst into renewed sobs. Mrs. Mulvy was puzzled and distressed but she had full faith in her boy. She let him have his cry out, and then said gently: "Don't mind, dear, you are mother's best boy; she knows this will come out all right."

"O mother, if you feel that way, and will trust me, without asking me a single question, I promise you it will come out more than all right."

"Very well, darling," she replied, "I'll say nothing again on the matter except you yourself bring it up."

"O, I'm so glad, mother, because now I can see it through. I don't mind what others say or think as long as it is all right with you."

"But I feel so sorry for Father Boone," she sighed. "He is apparently all at sea. He thinks the world of you, Frank, and that is what hurts him."

"I know, mother, and that is what hurts me, too, but there is no help for it at present. He's got to get all the facts first—and I can't—" He broke off and then added, shyly, "You know, mother, I think we are a good deal the same. Only, of course, his will is so strong, he won't show what he feels. The other day there were tears in his eyes, but he didn't know I was seeing him."

"Mother is proud of her boy to hear him talk that way. I'm so glad that you're not angry with poor Father Boone—it is hard on him."

"Maybe I would be, mother, if I did not know him so well."

A great load was off Frank's mind and the tension was gone. Nothing could matter now. He could face anything and everything. He realized that, at most, only a few days would intervene before Bill Daly would clear up the mystery.

When Father Boone left Mrs. Mulvy and Frank, he had indeed troublesome thoughts for companion. The conviction that Frank knew a good deal about the matter was now absolutely sure. Evidently, also, the boy was in some way implicated in a conspiracy of silence. His whole appearance showed that he was holding back something and that he was doing so reluctantly. His complete collapse indicated a great interior struggle. It also showed that the boy was naturally high-minded and noble. For otherwise, he never would have broken down, as he did.

But what was holding him back? Why should he fear to trust the director? He found no answer to free him from his quandary. He would gladly settle the whole matter, and regard the affair closed, if he considered only his own feelings. But his duty to the boys must not be shirked because it caused present pain to himself or others. "Better to have a tooth pulled," he said, "than to have it the source of future trouble."

When Father Boone entered his room, he found several letters on his desk. They were mostly Church matters. But one was different. It was on better quality of stationery than the ordinary. The envelope and the paper bore a monogram. Opening it, he found these lines:

John Harkins resigned from the Club!... Anyone who knew Father Boone's ideas about the Club would have understood at once what this resignation meant to him. Mrs. Harkins' letter didn't explain why it was "impossible for John to attend the Club" but it was clearly written between the lines. John Harkins was a boy enjoying exceptional home advantages and his refinement, manliness and social standards made him just the type to give "tone" to the Club.

Mrs. Harkins was rightly very careful of the associations her son formed, and Father Boone had been her guarantee that in the Club John would mingle with perhaps poor, but good and manly boys. Evidently rumors of the affair had reached her.

"The Club is discredited! The director has been asleep. Cockle in the field. And here I am sitting and allowing the weeds to grow and the wheat to be choked. I will get to the bottom of this at once. With the Club's name in question, I am certainly justified in drastic action—in probing the matter directly. I will send for Mulvy right away. I should have done it long ago."

In answer to his summons, Frank was on hand a half hour ahead of time that evening, but not ahead of Father Boone. He went straight to the director's office and found him engaged at his desk.

"Sit down, Frank," the priest began, as he stopped work. "I am going to get right down to business. I am speaking to you as an official of the Club. The Club is being discredited. The parish is filled with reports and rumors. I am being discredited. Look at that letter. Things have gone too far. Heretofore, I have not asked you any questions on this matter because your duty was plain. I wanted you to perform it like a man, unsolicited. You have not done it, I regret to say, and now I must question you like the others. The welfare of the Club is at stake, and its fitness for carrying on its work, imperiled. Decent parents won't want their boys to belong. It is abroad in the parish that rowdyism is rampant here. I want to nail the nasty rumor, and place it where it belongs. There is an explanation, and I want you to help me get it. Frank Mulvy, did you have a hand in the wreckage wrought in the Club the other night? Answer me yes or no."

"No, Father."

"Do you know anything about it?"

"That I cannot answer, Father."

"You cannot answer! You cannot answer! Do you mean to say that you refuse to do your duty? Cannot! What do you mean, sir?"

In an agitated voice, Frank replied, "Father, I cannot say any more, except to add that I am doing what you yourself have always inculcated."

"Neglect of duty! Explain yourself, sir."

"Not neglect of duty, Father, but regard for honor. You have always held that up to us, along with our religion, and it is honor now that makes me decline to say more. I will answer any questions about myself or anything that I can answer by official knowledge, and take the consequences. More I cannot say."

"And more I do not want you to do, Frank. But tell me, why did you not at least inform me of the wreckage; that was official?"

"Father, I did not know of that until recently."

"What, do you mean to say that all that terrible row occurred, and that it's out all over the parish, and you, the chief official of the Club at the time, did not know of it?"

"Father," declared Frank, in trembling tones, "I know it all looks bad, all the appearances are against me, I have only my word and character to stand by me."

"It is your character that has stood by you till now, sir. Were you not Mulvy, I had acted differently. But it is because you are Mulvy that I have trusted, until the Club and its director are discredited. But what's the matter, boy?"

For of a sudden, Frank had turned white. He swayed a moment, but Father Boone caught him in his arms, laid him gently on the floor. It took but a dash of cold water to fully restore him, and for a moment he just stared into the face of the priest. Then Father Boone noticed how his color rushed back and his jaws set and he realized that the boy was suffering keen mental anguish. It came to him that there was something most unusual and extraordinary about the whole thing.

After a bit Frank said in a voice choked with emotion, "I know you have suffered, Father, and that has hurt me." He could say no more but after a little, he began again. "At first, I did not know anything about the matter, and when I did know, I could not speak. I wish I could clear the matter up, but I cannot do so honorably, and I know you don't want me to do it dishonorably."

The priest patted him on the back and told him to do what was right and not to think of consequences. "And as you consider silence the right thing now, I do not wish you to do otherwise than as you are doing."

"Thank you, Father," replied Frank. "But please—I am true to you."

"Yes, I know," answered the priest, "but it's all a mystery, nevertheless, and it must be solved, and," he added vigorously, "it shall be solved."

Frank went below. The priest closed the door, and fell into a brown study. "What am I to do?" he reflected. "This thing must be nailed. But how?"

He was not looking for boys to punish, but for the solution of the problem, and the clearing of the good name of the Club. Taking out a large sheet of paper, he wrote in big letters for the notice board in the library reading room:

This is an appeal to the boys who have the good name of the Club, and their own at heart. I want no boy to tell on another. But I do request that the perpetrators of that act of wanton destruction declare themselves to me at once. You know my ways, and that I am the first to make every allowance and to see fair play. I await in the office a response to this notice this very night.