The day after the funeral of Bill Daly, Frank was on his way down to school when he met Dick and Ned.

"I say, Frank," began Dick, "don't you think you better do something about that Club row?"

"There's nothing to be done, as far as I can see, Dick."

"That's because you're not hearing what we hear. But it won't be long before you get it, too. It's just got to us, because they know we're friends of yours."

"Well, in the name of Sam Hill, what is it you hear?" asked Frank.

"Want it straight?" asked Ned. "The word's round that the Club is going to be disbanded, and that you're the cause of it. I almost got into a fight with the first guy that told me."

"Yes," added Dick, "and they say that the best fellows are getting out on account of you."

"Where did you get that?" asked Frank.

"Some one saw three or four of the fellows' mothers coming from the rectory the last few days, and one of them asked Joe Rooney if his mother was going to let him stay in the Club. You know Joe's father keeps a store on 42nd Street and is somebody. Well, Joe is true blue even if he is a dude, and he said, 'Why shouldn't I stay in the Club?' She said, 'Oh, I thought all the decent boys had left. I can't have my boy ever put his foot in that place again, with that pack of rowdies.'"

This was news for Frank, but to their surprise he showed little concern.

"Don't you see, Hank," said Dick, "that you are getting in bad. If a lot of mud is thrown, some will stick. It's easy to give a fellow a bad name, but it's hard to get rid of it. Why don't you do something? I am sure Father Boone also will get a lot of annoyance from it, unless you clear yourself."

But Frank did not seem to mind. It was so unlike him that Ned said, "If we didn't know you so well, Frank, we'd think you were mixed up in it ourselves."

"Yes," declared Dick, "to one on the outside it looks bad for you. That Dunn kid told everybody that you were over to see his father and then someone else blabbed what happened in the Club, that you owned up to knowing all about it. Putting two and two together, they have built up an ugly story, and it's spread like fire."

"That's all right, fellows," replied Frank nonchalantly, as they parted at the school. But just the same Frank was doing a lot of thinking. "Suppose the decent fellows should leave the Club! Suppose it got a rowdy name!

"But," he went on, "Father Boone knows how things are, and he'll straighten them out. But can he? What he knows, he does not know, for all intents and purposes. He can't use what he got in confession, and that's all he got. He may know that I am right. That settles something. But how about my mother, and the others?"

These reflections came to Frank as he was going upstairs to his class room. It was a relief to know that his teacher had some confidence in him. Some of the boys gave him sly looks and one or two made insinuations. At recess, however, he met his real ordeal. First one, then two, and at length a dozen or more had gathered around him.

"Well, fellows, you are getting a good show, I hope," laughed Frank, with a forced grin. As they kept on staring he added, in a tone trying to be pleasant, "Movies free today."

Outside the circle someone called, "What's up over there?"

The reply cut him through and through. "That's the goody-good kid that got caught in the roughneck stuff over at the Club."

If a thrust were made designedly in order to inflict exquisite pain, it could not have served the purpose better. Frank moved off with hot iron in his very flesh. He knew that the last word in contempt among boys was that same "goody-good." It implied everything that he detested. With the boys it meant a girlish goodness, a sort of "softy." That hurt him. Of course, in a school where there were nearly a thousand boys, he was known only to his own set. He was not thinking of them, but of the great crowd who knew him but slightly, and who would credit what they heard. And out over the whole yard had rung those words, "goody-good!" And on the top of that, to be called a "roughneck!"

In class the next hour, the recess and its every incident occupied Frank's whole mind. Every word and look was rehearsed over and over again. He was called on for recitation, but his name had to be repeated before he responded. When he did reply, he appeared like one just out of a trance. The hour of class seemed very long.

At noon, he delayed going out in order not to face the crowd. When he thought that most of the boys had gone, he went out into the street. His face was burning. He fancied everyone he met was looking at him. He could almost hear passersby say "goody-good" and "roughneck."

If Frank had been "just any boy," the experience of the recess hour would not have caused him such exquisite anguish. But a boy of high honor resents with all his soul the insinuation that he appears one thing, while in reality he is another. "But why," he reflected, almost aloud, "why should I carry a load that is not mine? I did not ask Daly's confidence. Why should I suffer for it?" He knew the answer, at once. Honor demanded it, and honor's price at times comes high. That is what makes its value. But the thing kept coming back. It would not let him alone. When apparently settled, it came again in a new form.

"Daly is gone," he reflected. "He hasn't got to face a crowd and bear their jeers and insults. I kept this secret as long as it could possibly hurt him any. Now, what's the harm in clearing myself?"

This thought clung to him like a wet garment. It looked right, but his fine sense of honor detected the wrong that lurked in it.

"Yes," he said, "Daly is gone, but his father and mother are here. What a blow it would be to them!"

But back again came the temptation, were his own father and mother not to be considered also? Did he not owe more to them than to Bill Daly's parents? And so he went on, balancing duty with duty. Yes, it certainly was right for him to clear himself. This conclusion, however, did not satisfy him either.

"Two things are against it," he mused. "First, any crook can accuse the silent dead. I am free of guilt, but I must not establish my innocence by making the dead guilty. Moreover, who would believe me? They'd all say that a fellow mean enough to wreck a club room, would be mean enough to lie. It wouldn't do me any good to speak out.

"And then—Bill Daly's death made a profound impression on everybody. Father Boone's sermon at the funeral was as good as a mission. All that would be undone if I let out on Daly. I can live this thing down, he can't. Should I, even because of the pain of this thing to myself and my father and mother, break up all that? No. Not even if I was sure it would help my case. I know I am right with God. That counts most. If I am doing something for Him, I must do it right. No whining, nor complaining, nor getting amazed that I am ill-treated. All that goes with the sacrifice."

He entered the church and went to the altar of the Sacred Heart. "O my God, for the love of Thee, I do this. I offer Thee a bleeding heart. It costs me much, but I am glad to give Thee what does cost so much. And, my dear Lord, grant me the grace to give cheerfully what I give. Amen."

He arose and went out, strong and buoyant, like the martyrs who went to the lions rejoicing. "A soldier fights for the flag," he thought, "and does so with enthusiasm, although he may meet with wounds, capture and death. I must fight under the standard of the Cross, and be a brave soldier of Christ, a Knight of the Cross."

There was no school that afternoon and so he took his time getting home. On his way, he was met by Mrs. Joyce, mother of one of the Club members.

"Aren't you that Mulvy boy?" she asked.

"Yes, Mrs. Joyce," he replied.

"I thought so," she continued. "Well, you've been found out at last."

That was all. It was a terrible lot for Frank's sensitive soul, but he said in his heart, "For Thee, Jesus," and went bravely on. At home, a new trial was awaiting him. His mother had been stopped on the street several times this morning, and had received very pointed inquiries about her boy. The last woman who addressed her had virtually insulted her.

"Well, Mrs. Mulvy, it's too bad. Who would have thought that your boy, Frank, would turn out so bad!"

Mrs. Mulvy had to make an effort to smile and not reply. But when she got home, she found that she had bit her lips even to blood.

When Frank came in, doubly dear to her now, she almost lost control of herself. She sank with a groan into the large arm chair. Frank was at her side in a second, smothering her with kisses, and breathing out terms of endearment to her. In a moment, she was herself again.

"Excuse me, Frank," she said, "I was all undone. But tell mother, dear, what in the world have you done?"

Frank was brave for himself. But where his mother was concerned, it was different. He knew now that what he had promised at the altar was going to cost him much dearer even than he had calculated. He was strongly tempted to make an exception in his mother's case, and to tell her all. But he remembered his promise at the altar and how Bill himself had said, "There's no going back on a promise to Him."

"A soldier does not quit when he gets a blow, neither will I," he reflected. "This blow is worse because it strikes me through my mother, but I will trust God, and do what I have promised Him. Moreover, if mother could not trust me now, when I tell her I am blameless, would it do any good to tell her the dime-novel truth of the matter?"

Looking deep into her eyes, he said, "Mother, you never knew me to deceive you. You must trust me now more than ever. But I will tell you more than I shall say to any other human being. Mother, there is a mistake. Everything points to me, I know. I'm under this cloud because I would not be untrue to a confidence. I've just left the church, where I promised God to carry this cross for Him. I was thinking of you when I made that offering. Now, Mother, won't you be good and not worry any more?"

For an answer she embraced him, and taking him by the hand, she led the way to the little oratory. They knelt down before the Sacred Heart, and still holding his hand in hers, she said, "Dear Sacred Heart, I add my offering to my boy's. Do thou keep him ever in Thy love and Thy Grace. Amen."

"It's all right now, mother. The cross has lost its weight."

"Yes, dear," she answered, "we won't mind anything now. I'll tell your father that I know things are all right, so he won't be embarrassed by any gossip he hears."

"Mother, I'd rather you wouldn't say anything to father. He has enough to worry him without our cares."

"Yes, dear, things don't always run smoothly with him, yet he spares us his worries. I'll do as you say, unless something makes me see it's best to tell him."

After lunch, Frank went out to the football field. There was to be heavy practice that afternoon for the big game of the year. On his way, he met Dick and Ned, headed in the same direction.

"O Frank," exclaimed Ned, "you're being terribly 'roasted' all over the parish. Somehow the thing is getting bigger and bigger, and you're made out worse and worse."

"Can't help people talking, son," was Frank's reply.

"I know, Hank, but it's something awful. Why don't you do something?"

"I'm open to suggestions, wise one. What do you advise me to do?"

"Why, deny it!"

"I have."

"Well, tell them that you can prove you didn't do it. Show 'em that you were not around there when it happened."

"That's just it. Who knows when it happened?"

"Well, isn't there anything you can do? It's fierce to get the rep you're getting."

"Search me, kid. I don't know anything more that I can do."

As they approached the field, they found most of the players already on hand, in their uniforms. Subs were beginning to line up against the regulars, for the practice, but Frank noticed at a glance that John Derby, of the second team, was in a regular uniform.

"Oho," he thought, "that looks strange. And that uniform looks suspiciously like mine!" His heart sank.

Of all things that Frank liked, football came first. In the last game, with Grayson High, his playing had certainly counted big in winning the game for Regal. He was the only boy from his year on the team but no one could run and dodge as fast. His grit helped, too, for he would fight on, no matter how rough he was handled. In the early fall, he had been carried off the field protesting, although he was terribly bruised. Considering all this, it seemed impossible that Derby had been promoted to his uniform on the eve of their biggest game. Tomorrow they were to play Stanley High for the Interscholastic championship.

However, he hurried, with as much coolness as possible, to the dressing room. He found his locker empty. Standing nearby was the captain of the team, Robert Fitzpatrick.

"What does this mean, Bob?" said Frank, quietly.

"Didn't they tell you, Mulvy?"

"Tell me what?"

"That you're off."

"Why, no. This is the first notion I've had of it. I came out for practice."

"Well, I'd rather someone else told you, Mulvy. I just want to say we had a hot row over you. I stood up for you, but four of the players said they'd resign unless you were dropped. So I had to give in, or 'bust' the team."

"What's the charge against me, Bob?"

"Don't you know?"

"No, I don't."

"Well, you ought to."

"I know the report that's around," said Frank, "but you fellows certainly don't want to go on record for condemning a man before he's heard?"

"Why, they said you admitted it."

"That's not so. I said I knew about it. I did not need to say that. I had my knowledge as a confidence, and I could have denied all knowledge of it. But because I had the spunk to speak out as I did, you fellows brand me. It's all right. I'll take my medicine."

"It wasn't easy for us to drop you, Mulvy. Tomorrow is the big game, and we need our best team. I put that before them strong. But I was out-voted."

"Well, Bob, I want to thank you for what you did. But tell me one thing. You know how the fellows move heaven and earth to get a strong team. You know how, when a fellow got into a scrape, or was behind in studies, or even if he was bounced, all the others stood by him and fought to retain him. Now, I know I'm a boob, but nevertheless, I know my worth to the team, and so do you. Tell me, then, why this action in my regard?"

"Well, I'll be frank with you, Mulvy. They look upon this matter differently. From all accounts, it was a thug affair, and it's gotten all over the parish. The fellows won't stand for it, not even if it hurts our chances for tomorrow's game."

"Thank you, Bob, for being so frank. Now, another question. It's my last, don't be afraid to be candid. Do you think the same as the others?" For a moment there was no reply.

"O, excuse me," said Frank, "I did not mean to embarrass you. Please don't answer."

Turning, he saw five or six of the team standing about. They had all heard the conversation. Not one had come forward to befriend him.

"It's all right, fellows, I have no kick. I'm in bad. But I hope you'll find out some day that I'm misrepresented."

So saying, he walked away, down-hearted, but full of exultation. He was paying a high price for that offering to the Sacred Heart. It hurt. But he was glad that he was doing something worth while for God.

He left the field. He could not bear to stay and look on. He had not gone far when Dick and Ned overtook him. "Say, fellows, don't mind me," he said to them. "Go back and take in the sport."

"Not without you," said Dick.

At the same time, Ned put his hand in his, but said nothing.

Frank's eyes filled. Here was trust. Here was devotion. They walked along for five minutes, not a word being spoken. Rather, many words were uttered, but they were the silent language of the heart.

"I think I'll see Father Boone," Frank said eventually. "I want to get his advice on something. Good-bye fellows. I'll never forget how true you were to me." And he headed off in the direction of the Club, hoping to find the priest in his office there.

Father Boone was in and he was very serious, as it was easy to see from his face and manner. For he had just heard how his boy, Frank, was being treated.

"Of course," he meditated, "my lips are sealed. All that I know is confessional. But I must think out some way of coming to Frank's rescue. What a chivalrous lad he is! What a fine sense of honor! He'll see it through, no matter what the cost. I trust that most of my boys would suffer anything rather than lie or do wrong. But this is heroic. It shows fine mettle. His religion is his strength.

"But can I allow him to be a victim of injustice? Daly knew the secrecy of the confessional but, at the same time, I told him that I could not give him absolution unless he repaired the wrong he did, as far as lay in his power. The only thing in his power then, was to give me permission to use what he told me. I told him plainly that someone else was under suspicion of the deed. I pointed out that in case that one were in danger of incurring the guilt and punishment, it was a matter of justice on his part to assume the responsibility of the act.

"Of course he gave me the authorization to declare that he and he alone was the author of the damage. He even begged me to do it, for his peace of soul and as penance for his sins. He showed he had the right disposition for absolution. But it's not all right for me. He was too weak to sign a paper and if I were to use the knowledge I have, what would prevent people from saying that I was violating the sacred seal? My word alone could be questioned by anyone. A slur on the confessional would result, and untold harm would be done.

"But here I am discussing the matter, as though it were open to discussion. No, I was just ruminating. My lips are sealed forever."

Just then there was a rap at the door, and in came Frank. The priest arising said, "God bless you, Frank." They stood and looked at each other for a moment. Father Boone extended his hand. Frank clasped it. They understood.

Then Frank unburdened himself to the priest. He told him all the snubs he got, and finally came to the football matter.

"That got me. You see, Father, they are a square set of fellows. To take such action right before the big game means that they have me down bad. I don't blame them. I told them I had no kick. But, gee whiz, it hurts!"

"Of course it hurts, boy, but don't you suppose it hurts when a soldier goes over the top and gets a bayonet in his breast? Or when he gets gassed, or bombed? Perhaps you think it's fun for an aviator to see his machine crippled four thousand feet above ground and to know he is dashing to death? They do all that for flag, for country, for glory. We ought to do our bit for God and our country above."

"Father, you've got a way of explaining everything. I think if I had you around, I could go through life as if it were a picnic."

"It's not much of a picnic, son; and I could tell you some things worse than going over the top."

"For instance?" suggested Frank.

"Well, wouldn't you like to know now, Frankie boy? But you won't. No, it is enough that God sees and knows. He who has Him for witness has enough."

"But what do you advise me to do about this football business, Father?"

"There's nothing to advise. All I can say is 'watchful waiting.' But I can tell you this. I have never yet known that a fellow who does what is right, loses out. He may appear for a time to have the worst of it, and he may suffer a lot, but if he does what is right to the end, he comes out on top. The trouble is that most people are willing to do right for a limited period, and then they give way. That always loses. If God is to be trusted, it is not for a day or a week, but always. I don't mean to say that every good man has been justified before men, but this I do say, that no good man has ever regretted his trust in God, nor the price he paid for it."

"I feel now that I can stand anything, Father."

"That's the way to talk. Just act the same way."

Frank went into the reading room and glanced over the magazines. He took down some books and looked them over. The Club rooms were practically empty and his mind was not on his reading. It was the matter of football practice and how the new player would do that chiefly recurred to him. After about an hour and a half, as it was getting dark, he put away his book and started for home.

At Gody's corner, there was usually a crowd of the Regal boys at this hour, and Frank hesitated whether he would pass along that way or go around the block. He had had enough troubles for one day, and did not court any more. To pass that crowd would mean trouble of some sort, he was afraid. But suddenly he wheeled around. "I'll go the way I would in case nothing was up. If I once give in to this thing, it will be my finish."

He accordingly walked towards the crowd. As they saw him coming, he caught their looks and nods in his direction. When he got alongside of them, George Mooney, an upper class boy, said sneeringly, "Why weren't you out to the practice, Mulvy?"

Frank took all the wind out of his sails by answering, "I was out there, but they fired me. They had no room on the team for a thug, they told me."

"Some sand, kid," said Fred Gaffney. "You don't look like a fellow who'd do a dirty trick."

"He has already done it, there's no question of what he would do," retorted Mooney.

"Come here, kid," said Gaffney. "I'm going to believe just what you say. Did you have anything to do with that damage over there?"

In a clear, straightforward manner, Frank said, "No." And he looked Gaffney right in the eye.

Gaffney, who was the biggest fellow in the crowd, turned to the others and said, "Fellows, I'm not looking for a fight, nor am I going to run away from one. I'm going to stand by this kid. Not that I think he needs anyone to brace him up. He is well able to take care of himself. But I'm going to stand by him because I think fair play demands it. What's got into you fellows. Doesn't a chap's record count for anything? Hasn't Mulvy's record always been good? If a fellow is white all along, is he going to turn yellow over night? Put on your thinking caps."

Frank's eyes were riveted on him, and they were moist. Gaffney saw it. "Put out your hand, kid. You're good enough for me," he said.

"And for me." "And for me," others echoed, for Gaffney was a leader.

"I thank you, fellows, and you particularly, Gaffney," said Frank, as he moved along. His steps seemed lighter. Gaffney, a real leader as well as cheer leader for the games, believed in him. Perhaps the thing would blow over. Some others might put on their thinking caps also. He hoped so.

When he got near his own street, he ran into Dick, who had just met some of the fellows who had been at the practice.

"I say, Hank," he began, "they had hot work up at the field. Bully practice. The new guy is going fine, they say."

"Were you up?"

"No, but I got it from Fitzpatrick and Redmond, who were there all the afternoon."

"I don't see how he could jump in on such short notice, and fill the place. But if he does, so much the better."

"Will you be out at the game tomorrow?" asked Dick.

"No, I don't see how I could stand it," replied Frank.

It broke clear and bracing next morning. It was football weather made to order. Everybody was discussing the game. Stanley High and Regal had even scores for the season. They were tied for the championship, and this game was to decide it. In the morning, the boys got together at the school to rehearse their cheers and songs. Gaffney was cheer leader. By the time they had finished they were worked up to a high pitch of excitement.

Louis Holten walked up to Gaffney at the close and said, "We've got 'em licked, surely, Gaff."

"Not so fast, boy. Stanley has something to say about that."

"Yep, Stanley's record is first class all right, but you should have seen our bunch at it yesterday. Nothing can stop them!"

"I hope so, Holten, but I'd feel better if Mulvy were on the job."

"Mulvy! Why the fellow that takes his place has him beaten a mile. Besides, the fellows wouldn't play with that thug on the team."

"I wish there were more thugs like him, old man, that's my 'think.' And besides it's a big mistake to put a new man in at the last moment."

"Not if he's as good as this new man."

"O, I saw him yesterday, and I tell you Louie, Mulvy entirely outclasses him. Derby is big and strong, but Mulvy has head and grit. And that's what counts."

"Well, we'll see, old chap; we'll be there with the yells."

"So long, Louie!"

"So long, Gaff!"

The crowd began to arrive at the field at one o'clock. The game was scheduled for 2:30. It was to be in four periods of fifteen minutes each. There was to be an interval of one minute between the quarters and of twenty minutes between the halves. As many visitors were expected, some of whom would not know much about the teams or the game, the names of the teams and players were posted on a large board at one side of the field. Under the names were placed the scoring points, so that those unacquainted with the game would not have to show their ignorance.

The connoisseurs of the game explained to the uninitiated just what a "touchdown" was, and a "goal from the field." It was harder to make clear what a "safety" meant. The general description seemed to be that it was when a player was caught with the ball behind his own goal.

The crowd kept coming in faster and faster as the hour approached. By two o'clock every bit of desirable space was occupied. The field was marked off with new lines which shone clear and bright. Stanley was grouped on the right, Regal on the left, the side nearest the entrance. Automobiles fringed the outer crowd. All was expectancy.

Inside, the two teams were straining at the leash. The coaches had difficulty holding their men quiet.

"Don't waste your strength walking about and fretting," yelled Regal's coach. "You'll need all you've got out there." But the boys could not rest. They champed like horses at the post.

The cheers from outside came sailing in. That only increased their nervousness. A few minutes before time to go out, they almost needed to be tied. Every boy was chewing gum, or biting his nails, or kicking something. Finally the coach signalled attention.

"Now boys, go at them hard. This is no tea party. Scare them from the start. It's grit that wins. No quitter, no quarter. You're off."

With a yell, they bounded out of the dressing room and on to the field. They came out on a trot, looking steady and confident. They were greeted with "Regal, Regal! Rah, Rah, Regal," from thousands of throats. "Give them another," yelled Gaffney. "Regal, Regal! Rah, Rah, Re—gal" soared across the field.

An instant later, Stanley came out. They got their welcome, "Stanley, Rah! Stanley, Rah!... Rah! Rah! Stanley!"

The spectators were about equally divided. Both sides were on fire with enthusiasm. Those who knew the players pointed them out to those who did not. The strong and weak points of the respective teams were adverted to and discussed.

Below, on the gridiron, the players were limbering up. Some tossed the ball around, others made short sprints, while a few kicked the pig-skin, not far but accurately. The warning whistle sounded. Off came the heavy sweaters. Both sides ranged up in battle formation. The ball was propelled by a mighty kick far into Stanley's territory, and the fight was on.

The battle surged to and fro. Neither side showed any distinct superiority over the other. The ball was pushed now down to Stanley's goal, now down to Regal's. Either side, held for downs within the shadows of its own goal posts, invariably punted the ball back into hostile territory. Time and again an onward march was stopped by clever work and the ball changed hands. The game went on in this way for about ten minutes.

Suddenly from scrimmage, the ball was passed to Mulvy's substitute for a run forward. The chance was good for a score. A little clever dodging here and there would mean a touchdown and six points for Regal. The spectators rose to their feet, they stood on tip toe, they craned their necks to see the first score. All of a sudden, when within fifteen feet of goal, the runner was tackled, toppled, and the ball rolled into Stanley's possession. A groan came from Regal as Stanley picked up the ball, and carried it down the field, whence it was gradually worked over the line for a touchdown. They failed, however, to kick goal, and the score stood 6 to 0 in favor of Stanley.

No time was lost in renewing the battle, and soon it was on as fiercely as before. The Regal's coach was storming and stamping.

"I told them not to drop Mulvy," he bawled. "This is no dude's game. That sub has got no grit. Look at him now! He's got cold feet, he is only half playing. Here, Green, tighten up your belt. I'm going to put you in the next quarter."

The cheer leader was frantically appealing for encouragement from his yelling hordes. They gave cheer after cheer, louder and longer. The encouragement was telling. Again Regal pushed the ball up the field. Again, a fine opening presented itself and Derby got the ball, and a good open track to the enemy goal. Deafening cheers gave him wings. Again a hostile player crossed his path and brought him down like a bag of oats. A hiss resounded over the field. The coach could hardly wait for the quarter to be up. Gaffney ran over from his cheering place to the bench, and whispered to him.

"I know it," growled the coach, "I told the bunch after yesterday's practice. He looked good to them, but I knew he wouldn't do. We're presenting the game to Stanley. It's theirs without half trying. I'll put Green in the next quarter."

"Green is not your man either. There's just one way to save this game, and that's to get Mulvy."

"Is he here?" fairly yelled the coach.

"No, but there are lots of machines. We could run up to his place in five minutes. He could dress in the car and be here for the next half."

"It's no use, Gaff. He wouldn't come. Don't talk to me. I know boys. After the deal he got yesterday, you couldn't get him here for a million dollars."

"I guess you're right, old man," assented Gaffney.

The first quarter was up with the ball close to Regal's line. The whistle saved further scoring. During the minute's rest it was clear that the Regal team were not dejected, but desperate. For a few seconds they simply looked at one another. The sub handicap was simply too much for them. They knew it was their own doing, and against the coach's advice.

"Here, Green, get in there now, and show the crowd that at least one fellow has grit."

The whistle sounded, the line-up was formed, and again the battle was on. They certainly played football. But they were up against a crowd who also played. The attack and defense continued as before. If Regal could not gain a point, neither could Stanley. On three or four occasions Regal might have scored, with Mulvy playing. They were afraid to risk anything with Green. They played safe. But that never wins. It may stop the enemy, but it will not bring victory. If the enemy could hold what it had, the game was lost to Regal. The coach saw this. He also saw the solution.

"O, if I only had Mulvy," he roared. He stormed and stamped and said a lot beside his prayers. Gaffney was working like a Trojan. But it was no use. The battle was see-saw. Now Regal, now Stanley. Neither could break through. Again Gaffney came up to the coach. He was exhausted from cheering and from swinging his arms.

"I say, boss, it's all over, unless we get Mulvy."

"Don't talk to me or I'll eat you," snapped the coach. "What's the use of saying Mulvy when we haven't got Mulvy, and can't get him."

"Will you put him in if I get him?"

Just then a yell went up from the Stanley side. A long run brought the ball to within a few feet of Regal's goal, and a score looked certain. The coach was a sight. The veins in his forehead stood out. His eyes were bulging. All of a sudden, the Stanley player dropped the ball, and the Regal captain seized it. That saved that situation. The coach relaxed, but still looked like a house on fire.

Again Gaffney said, "If I get Mulvy will you put him in?"

"Ask me a foolish question, will you? Put him in! I'll shove him in, and poke him down the throats of that gang of quitters out there."

Gaffney went over to his crowd. "We've got to get Mulvy here, fellows," he shouted, "Unless we do, it's good night."

"Well, it's good night, then," remarked Tom Ruggeri, one of the upper class boys. Then he added, "You don't suppose any one would jump into the game after the dose he got yesterday, do you?"

"Not any one, but some one, and I believe Mulvy is just that some one," retorted Gaffney.

"Well, go ahead and get him then," was the rejoinder.

"You fellows don't know that boy. You have him down as a thug. I'm going to show you you're wrong."

He found Dick with Ned and Tommy. "Hey, Dick, you're a friend of Mulvy's. We want you to help us to get him here for the second half. Will you do it?"

"No, I will not," answered Dick. "He has been humiliated enough already. To ask him now to play with a crowd that kicked him out yesterday is an insult."

"So, you won't come with me, kid?"

"No."

Gaffney went back to his crowd. "It's all up, I guess. Let's work like blazes cheering, that may start something."

Regal had the ball, but was pushed back to its own goal. In a mix-up, a Regal player ran back of his own goal line, and was grabbed for a "safety," which added two points to Stanley's score. There was dejection among the Regal players and consternation among their supporters.

Only three minutes of play remained before the end of the first half. The teams struggled doggedly. Regal was really playing splendidly, but the handicap of a sub player was too much. It seemed that Stanley just worked that one weak spot. That was good generalship on their part, but very trying on Regal. With but one minute more of play, Stanley got the ball and ran with it to within seven yards of Regal's goal. They lined up to push it through by sheer force. Regal made stout defense, and held the enemy wonderfully. While the goal was still in imminent danger, the whistle blew, and the first half was over. Score, Stanley 8, Regal 0.

When Regal got to its quarters off the side line, the coach pitched into his men. "You bunch of babies, you ought to be playing croquet, not football! Where's your 'sand'? Haven't you got any spine?"

He was worked up to a terrible pitch. But it was all lost on the team. They were dazed. They had invited their friends to come out and see them win. And here they were pushed up and down the field, the score 8 to 0, and likely to be 28 to 0 before the end.

The captain was the first to speak. "If I'd had my way, it would now be 8 to 0 in our favor. I told you not to drop Mulvy. I told you not to believe that charge against him. But you had your way, and now you see what it's done."

"Do you suppose we could get him for the second half, Bob?" asked one of the team.

"What, after what we did to him? No."

Here Gaffney stepped up. "I say, fellows, it was a dirty, mean trick the way you fellows turned on Mulvy. Bob is the only fellow that stood out for him."

"That's right, Gaff."

"Now I tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to show you that you're wrong on Mulvy. I'm going to get him. I'll go for him myself." He was off on the instant.

"If Mulvy comes here after our treatment of him yesterday, I'll take my hat off to him," declared Bob to his dejected team.

"If he comes," declared Bill Cronin, "I'll knock the head off the first fellow that ever dares hint again that he was in that thug affair."

That meant a good deal, for Cronin was the strongest man on the team.

"I guess we made a mistake, boys," said Joe Dalton. "As I look back now, I never knew Mulvy to be anything but straight."

"We believed that report too readily," observed Fred Donohue. "I'm mighty sorry for my part in it."

And so it went on. It stood out clearly now, that they had little or no ground for their action against Mulvy. But all felt that there was no question of his coming back.

Out on the field, the Stanley contingent was jubilant. Songs and cheers rocked the stands. The Regal supporters tried to look hopeful, but not with any great success. There were many inquiries about Mulvy. Some gave one reason, some another, for his absence. Those in the parish gave the Club story. But the High School drew students from all over town, and the parish affairs were not known outside. The Stanley players were asking where Mulvy was, for they knew him and his record. They thought he was on the crippled list. Their chief concern was joy over the score, and the prospect of final victory, and the Interscholastic Championship.

Gaffney, meanwhile, had got a closed auto and had put into it a reserve uniform. It seemed the traffic cops took him for an ambulance—for he reached Frank's in five minutes. He rushed upstairs, rang the bell, breathing hard as he waited for the door to open.

Frank was with his mother and Father Boone within. The priest knew that Frank would feel it keenly that he was ostracized from the team, and being sure also that he would not go to the game, he had dropped in, casually, as it were, to see Mrs. Mulvy. Frank was really glad to see him.

"Do you know, Father," he said, after the casual remarks had all been made, "I've been building castles in the air. I was imagining that the game was hard fought, and that our fellows were getting the worst of it. Then I fancied they wished they had me with them, and that they sent for me. I scorned them and had my revenge!"

"That's quite a romance, Frank," said the priest. "But I guess the boys are winning. You know they said that that sub played splendidly yesterday."

"I hope they are winning, Father. I was just day-dreaming."

"But, Frank, suppose now that they did actually send for you, would you scorn them; would you refuse to go?"

"Well, Father, except for one thing. In church this morning, I offered this injustice to God as a sacrifice. If I should act resentfully, it would spoil the sacrifice."

"Now, you are talking as a Christian, as a Christian Knight. I'm proud of you. You see, in a case like this, you would not be obliged to go back to them. They ejected you. You are free to go back or not. But to go back, not being obliged to, and to do so for the love of God, is virtue of a high order."

"You know, Father, Achilles went through something like this, and he scorned the pleading Greeks. But that was before Christ came."

"Precisely. And look at the nuns and priests of France. Banished from their country by an infidel government. Yet, when their country was in need of them they came back from all quarters of the globe to suffer and, if need be, die for her. That is the effect of Christ in the world."

"Yes, Father, and do you remember how differently Coriolanus acted? When he was driven out of Rome, although he was naturally a very noble man, he led an army against his countrymen for revenge."

"Why, you are quite a historian and philosopher, Frank."

At this point, the door bell rang and it was followed at once by excited knocking. Frank ran to the door and Gaffney rushed into the room, all out of breath. Without stopping to see who was there, he poured out his words in such haste and with such excitement, that he seemed almost beside himself.

"Mulvy, we're licked....the game is lost....almost lost....They want you....They want you....Mulvy, they want you!"

Frank looked in amazement at Father Boone. The priest was a picture of astonishment.

"I've got a machine outside...the uniform in it...come along...the second half...."

Before he got any further, Frank looked understandingly at Father Boone, jumped to his feet, and was down stairs like a shot. Into the machine he rushed, then into the uniform. The car fairly flew along the avenue. By the time he had his uniform on and his shoes tied, the car was at the field. Only two minutes remained before the second half.

Bob saw Gaffney running towards the Regal squad, waving his hands, and shouting, "I've got him, I've got him."

And behind Gaffney, all in playing gear, was Mulvy. Bob let out a yell that was heard all over the field. Before he had time to tell the cause of his excitement and jubilation, Gaffney and Mulvy were in the midst of the squad.

The awkward situation lasted but a second. "You're a brick, Mulvy," cried Bob, seizing his hand.

The signal rang for the second half. The coach rushed upon him. The boys jumped to their feet and made for the field, full of new life and courage. Each managed to fling him a greeting that told better than words that they knew they had been wrong and that they were sorry for what they had done.

"You're all right, old man."

"You're a whole crowd, Mulvy."

"You're a brick!"

Why the expression, "You're a brick," carries so much weight with boys, no one can analyze. But among any crowd of real boys, it is the limit of hero worship.

Frank had nothing to say and no time to say it. His presence there, fresh and eager for the fight, showed that the incident was passed and forgotten. The coach patted him on the back, and whispered, "You've got to save the day, kid, you can do it." And to them all it was, to compare little things with great, what the Yankees meant to Foch.

The squad on the field looked a different aggregation. And it was different. The wonderful thing "spirit" had permeated them. It echoed in the rousing cheers which the Regal supporters gave them.

"Great Guns!" gasped Dick, just as Gaffney in front of the stand shouted through the megaphone, "A Rah, Rah for Regal." From thousands of throats came the inspiring, "Regal, Regal! Rah, Rah, Re—gal!"

"Now, fellows, a big Rah Rah for Mulvy!" Most of the spectators had supposed that Mulvy was crippled and that he was pressed into service as a last resort. Realizing that an injured gladiator who fights on is a hero, the response that came from the crowd was tremendous.

"Mulvy, Mulvy, Rah, Rah, Mul. . .vy!"

"Give him another," yelled Gaffney.

Again, louder and more intensely, rang out over the field, "Mulvy, Mulvy! Rah, Rah, Mul . . . vy!"

The Stanley crowd shot back their yell, "Stanley, Rah! Stanley, Rah! Rah! Rah! Stan....ley!"

The Stanley squad noticed Mulvy, but most of them thought he was crippled and would not last long. None guessed the real reason of his absence in the first half.

Again the whistle blew, the teams took their formation, and with a mighty kick by Stanley the ball was in play. For a few moments there was no apparent difference in Regal's play. But soon it was noticed that they were going like a well-oiled machine. Stanley, too, seemed to be playing a better game. It was good football all around. They were well matched. It was to and fro again, but now there was no looseness on Regal's side. Any gain that was made against them was due to good work by Stanley, not to poor play by Regal.

Frank was playing well to the rear. All of a sudden Stanley got the ball, passed it to the fleetest runner, made an opening for him and gave him a clear field to Regal's line. Only Mulvy stood between him and a touchdown. The runner was tall and fast, fifteen pounds heavier than Frank, a big margin where a boy is concerned. He came tearing down the field with the ball. Frank rushed right across his path, stood his ground with a tigerish gleam and posture, and when his man approached, tackled him low, sending him sprawling to earth, the ball rolling away to one side. The coach leaped into the air, gave the bench a bang with his hand that drew blood, and exclaimed between his teeth, "Grit."

The Regal crowd fairly went wild. Gaffney swung his arms like a wind mill, and worked his megaphone like a factory whistle, but it was all lost. Unmarshalled cheers shook the stand. Yells, shouts, slaps on the back, frenzy. It was Regal's first chance to let loose. The nervous tension was at the breaking point. It needed just this play to act as a safety valve. When Gaffney at last could get a hearing, he yelled—"A Rah Rah for Mulvy." With an enthusiasm that inspired the team on the field, they yelled:

"Mulvy, Mulvy! Rah, Rah, Mul . . . vy!"

"Another," shouted Gaffney.

"Mulvy, Mulvy! Rah, Rah, Mul . . . vy!"

"Now one for Regal, whoop it up, boys."

"Regal, Regal, Rah, Rah, Regal!"

The ball was snapped back to Bob, who gave it a kick that sent it right over the goal for three points. Again pandemonium. Again cheers. Stanley followers were beginning to get nervous. 8 to 3 was not dangerous, but it was the way Regal was going at it. "What a difference one man makes," was heard on all sides.

The teams lined up again. Both were playing at top speed. They swayed to and fro. There were no slips, no mistakes. It was give and take, with the results about even. It kept on that way until the whistle blew and the third quarter was over.

The Regal crowd occupied the short interval cheering its team uninterruptedly. Stanley did the same.

The whistle blew again, and the battle was renewed. If Stanley could hold the score as it was, the victory was hers. Out from her side of the stands came the concerted yell,

"Stanley, hold! Stanley, hold! Stanley, hold!"

And that was their game. They held well. Eight minutes of the quarter had passed, and it began to look as if nothing could get through Stanley. It looked like her game. Then something happened.

The ball was passed to Mulvy. With the grace and speed of a hound, he made for the enemy line. Hardly had he started when a big Stanley player got right in front of him. By clever dodging Frank got by him. He had just struck his stride when another opponent dashed across his path ready to spring at him. Frank came on full tilt, and just as a plunge was made for him, he stopped short, turned aside and the tackler went digging into the ground.

The crowd was wild now. Only one man stood between Mulvy and a touchdown, and victory. The coach was pulling his hat to pieces. The Regal followers were frantic with anticipation.

But Stanley's best tackle was waiting for Mulvy. He had seen how the other two were fooled, and was ready for every emergency. He was a cool, active big chap with lots of football instinct. Frank knew him. He had seen him play often. But on he ran like a deer, his hair blown back by the wind, his nostrils distended and his eyes aglow and determined. As he got near the barrier, he made as if he were going to keep right on. He came at top speed to within a foot of the tackle; then just as the tackle crouched low and sprang at him, Frank fell sidewise to the ground, rolled over, and before the tackle could rise, jumped to his feet, ran at full speed and crossed the line!

Lunacy was the word to describe what followed. Madness seized the crowd. Hats in the air, good hats. Fellows thumped one another, jumped up and down, yelled and bawled and screamed and cried. Hysteria was let loose. Regal knew that the game was won. The score now stood 9 to 8. As the teams were playing, Stanley could not score again. Regal took the ball and brought it down the field to try for a goal. Bob kicked it, and it went sailing just outside the mark. But no one minded. The fellows rushed to position for the continuation of the game. All the way down to their formation, it was nothing but "Bully Boy, Mulvy." "You saved the day, Mulvy." "You're a brick, Mulvy."

And from the crowd it was, "Mulvy, Mulvy! Rah, Rah, Mul....vy!" now from one section of the Regal stand, now from another.

The whistle blew, the fight was on again. Stanley made desperate efforts to regain the lead. Once or twice they almost succeeded in breaking through. The yell from their followers now took another form. "Stanley, gain! Stanley, gain! Stanley, gain!" They tried hard. They kept on trying to the very end. The whistle blew, the game was over, Regal was Interscholastic Champion!

The noise that now broke out made all the previous demonstration seem mild in comparison. The Regal section of the stands was one mass of frenzied humanity. Men, women and boys yelled and slapped and thumped. Anything that could make a noise was commandeered and set in operation. It was temporary lunacy. The tense strain of nearly two hours let itself off in hysterically jubilant celebration.

But the real frenzy was on the field. The coach was fit to be caged. He yelled and bawled and danced. He pummelled everybody and everything within reach. All the reserve players were cheering and howling, boy fashion. The team itself was just one big satisfied smile. Their joy was too great for expression. They hugged one another. All of them tried to hug Frank at once.

"O let up," he yelled. "This is worse than the game." He tore himself loose. But not for long. He was blocked everywhere. The team surrounded him again, pitched him on the shoulders of the stoutest two, spite of his opposition, and marched off to the dressing room.

"What's the matter with Mulvy? He's all right! Who's all right? Mul....vy!" They repeated that over and over again. As they got near the stand, the crowd took it up, Gaffney leading. "What's the matter with Mulvy? He's all right! Who's all right? Mulvy!"

About a hundred Regal boys with Gaffney at their head marched to Frank's home yelling, "What's the matter with Mulvy? He's all right! Who's all right? Mul....vy! Regal! Rah, Rah, Regal!—Mul. . . .vy!"

They passed the rectory on their way to Frank's house. Gaffney yelled out, "Here, fellows, let's give a good one for Regal and Mulvy." The cheer rang out,

"Regal! Regal! Rah, Rah, Regal. What's the matter with Mulvy? He's all right! Who's all right? Mul....vy! Regal! Regal! Rah, Rah, Regal! Mulvy!"

Father Boone heard the yell and went to his window. It was the first news he had of the game. That yelling told him of victory, even before he heard what they were shouting. A defeated team goes home quietly. Not so the victors. He was glad beyond expression. Four of the boys on the team were graduates of the Club. It was a great victory. But what touched him particularly was that other yell he heard. Regal was music to his ears, but Regal and Mulvy! That meant that Frank had done his share—more than his share. As he got to the window, the crowd was moving on. Every now and then he caught the refrain, "What's the matter with Mulvy? He's all right."

"Yes, he is all right, thank God," he said to himself.

All through Parkville the crowd marched. They were killing time until Frank should show up. Then they had their plans. After going to the High School, and giving the Regal Rah, and the Mulvy Rah, they paraded up and down the Avenue and over the cross streets until everyone knew that Mulvy was "all right." They waited and waited for Frank. But no Frank showed up.

Finally Gaffney said, "I know that kid. He has given us the slip. It's getting dark, fellows, let's go up to his house and give him a good yell and then scatter." So on they marched to Frank's home. It was bedlam as soon as they got there. They yelled and yelled until the whole neighborhood was out. That was what they wanted.

Mr. Mulvy had just got home from his office. Mr. and Mrs. Mulvy and Frank's two elder brothers and his sisters came to the windows to see what was up. They had not heard of the result of the game. Mrs. Mulvy had just finished telling how they sent for Frank. What was their astonishment then to hear the yell,

"Regal! Regal! Rah, Rah, Regal! Mul. . . .vy! What's the matter with Mulvy? He's all right! Who's all right? Mul. . . .vy!"

Mr. Mulvy looked suddenly at Mrs. Mulvy. The big tears were rolling down her cheeks.

"Why, what's the matter, dear, you should be proud and happy?"

"I am. But you don't understand."

About ten minutes later, when the crowd had dispersed, Frank came quietly along the Avenue and over the street to his home. To his surprise the rooms were all lighted. He opened the door and received such a warm welcome that it took his breath away. All rushed at him to shake him by the hand and pat him on the back and kiss him. All but his mother. His eyes ran over the room in search of her. He saw her in the big arm chair, her apron to her eyes, wiping away tears which only he understood. He ran into her arms. Neither said a word. They just embraced. Then she kissed him on the forehead. "You are all right, Frank," was all she said.

Of course, he told them all about the game. But it was not until Dick and Ned and Tommie came in to congratulate him that they heard his part in it. Dick was a word painter, and he drew such a picture of the game and of a "certain player" in it that a certain player blushed. But the father and mother and the sisters and brothers of a "certain player" started in all over again to maul him, and tell that player what they thought of him.

After dinner, with Tommy and Dick and Ned all present, Frank had to go down to the Club. He didn't want to—he knew how the fellows would maul him. But he did feel that Father Boone would expect him to be there.

The assembled fellows were hoping he would drop in. The boys who had resigned were there, too. Frank's noble conduct had refuted all charges against himself and the Club. The crowd, knowing his quiet ways, feared that he would not come. But when he arrived, it was the same old thing over again. Cheers, hand-shakes, howling, thumping, the way that boys have of saying what they most want to say.

After a while, he went upstairs. Father Boone was expecting him. He entered smiling. Father Boone was smiling too. But as they looked at each other in silence, the strong man and the brave boy saw tears in each other's eyes. They grasped hands. And they looked, as it were, each into the other's soul. For they understood.

For a long time they sat in silence, pensive, peaceful. At length Father Boone broke the silence. It was no word of congratulation, no reference to the game.

"Well, Frank, God's way is the best way."

Another spell of silence. This was broken by Frank.

"I remember, Father, that you said life was a mirage. I've been thinking of poor Bill, and how he misunderstood us, and of how you were mistaken in me, and how I misjudged you. We saw so much that really was not there at all."

"It's good to realize that so early in life, Frank. I've found from experience that most trouble comes from misunderstanding. Why God permits it, we do not know. I suppose it is to try us."

"You know so much about life, Father, why don't you write a book on it?"

"I may some day, Frank, and if I do I shall put you in it and call it 'Mirage.'"