simply had to fight. I kept thinking of it all last night and what Father Boone'd say. Not that he minds a fight. You remember on the outing last month, two fellows had a scrap. He just said, 'It's better to let the bad blood out than to keep it in.' He didn't even ask who they were. And he never wants any tattling either. That is why I feel this affair so much, and also because Daly is concerned. Father Boone is so terribly decent with us that I just hate to think he will be disappointed in any of us, and that I couldn't take Daly's slurs and laugh them off."

"You big boob," put in Dick after listening gravely to all. "You'd be just what he called you if you did that."

"I know, I know," repeated Frank, "but I feel terribly sore about the whole thing."

"Take my advice, Frank, go direct to Father Boone when he comes in, and tell him the whole thing from A to Z. He'll understand. Besides, I'll bet a hat he knows it already."

"I hope he does," added Frank.

They went down to the crowd which was now all together. The fellows did not expect to see Daly, but some of them thought that he might show up to brave it out. When Father Boone came in, smiling as usual, a word for this lad, and that, a tap for Jack and a handshake for Tommy and Willie and John, no one would ever have suspected that he knew anything out of the ordinary.

Generally on entering, after greeting the boys, he went to his office and straightened out the details of the preceding day. After that he would circulate among the boys, asking one if his father got the job he recommended him to, another how his mother was, a third what his marks were for the last school month, and so on. He knew them all, and all about them. He was their big brother. In his presence there was no restraint. He knew them so well, and they understood him so well, that he was like one of them. If a dispute were on, and he came in, it went on just the same. He knew boys and loved them, and they realized it.

He was wise enough to know that boys are boys. That was the secret of his success. The result was that he could do anything with them. A word from him and they would leave off what most pleased them. A suggestion from him and they would do what was hardest and ordinarily most disagreeable. Very kind he was, also firm as a rock. And they knew it. He never went back on his word, as they knew by experience. The consequence was that with very few words, he accomplished what he wanted done.

This evening he looked around at the crowd. There was something the matter. That was evident. He knew he could find out by asking but he never did that. He began now to observe. There was a restraint evident among the boys. That was unusual. Not so much hilarity. He ran his eye over the crowd. He could see at a glance, just who was and who was not present. Daly was always conspicuous, because he was so noisy, but Daly was not among those present tonight. Usually the boys were scattered, some in one room, some in another. Not so tonight. They were all in the same room. Generally they were interested in the games. Tonight they seemed to be interested in him. Putting things together, he concluded that the crowd as a crowd was in the mix-up, and that the boys were on the lookout for something to happen. Frank sat off in a corner looking pensive. That was not his way.

Poor Frank was in torture. He was hoping that Father Boone would go upstairs so that he could follow him and explain matters.

And Father Boone was hurt because no one volunteered an explanation. Surely Frank would say a word. But no, no one at all made any reference to the wreckage of the night before.

"Why don't they speak up? They're all concerned in it. It isn't a case of being an informer. They know I don't want tattlers around. But this is different. This is a serious matter. Damage was done. It is a question of justice. And they know my mind on that. And that secretary owes me a report. He is an official. I've told them often enough that when an official reports matters pertaining to his office, it is not 'squealing,' but duty. They all understand that; Frank especially. Well, I'll wait here fifteen minutes longer, and if they don't explain, I'll take action."

Father Boone went upstairs and after fifteen minutes left, in a very sober mood.

It was some minutes later that Frank, thinking the director was upstairs, went up to open his heart to him. But Father Boone was not in his office. Frank descended to the "gym," stayed awhile and then went home. He had a bad headache. The night before he had not slept. He could not eat. When he got home, however, he decided to get the thing off his mind before going to bed, and tired as he was, he started back to the Club, hoping to find Father Boone. But the priest had not returned. Hesitating a moment, he finally decided to go to the rectory and have it all over with. But at the rectory they told him that Father Boone was out on a sick call and might not be back for a couple of hours.

"Well, I've done my part," said Frank, and back home he went, somewhat relieved.

Next night, Father Boone came into the Club not looking as pleasant as usual. He came late, too; not his wont. He greeted few, and his face showed firm. The boys whispered one to another, "He's on."

Frank now felt that he was a culprit. Something told him that Father Boone knew the whole matter and that he was cut up because Daly was concerned. It was too late now to go to him and make a clean breast of it. What must Father Boone think of him for driving Daly out of the Club. Forgetting all his efforts to do the right thing, Frank saw only that Father Boone was offended. He blamed himself as the cause of it and gloomily admitted that he had not been man enough to inform the director. That hurt him. Once more, when the priest went up to his office after a few minutes stay with the boys, Frank was determined to go to him and take the consequence.

Meanwhile, Father Boone had come to a decision. There had been some rowdyism in the Club. Furniture was broken, serious damage was done. It certainly was the work of more than one or two. By their very attitude, the boys showed their guilt. Yet no one, not even the secretary, had explained. Taking down a large sheet of paper, the director wrote on it in big letters,

Pressing a button, he summoned Frank. As Frank heard the bell, a lump formed in his throat. He felt sure that every fellow in the room could see how his knees shook. But he was glad, in a way, that matters were coming to a head. He expected that Father Boone would give him a good scolding and that that would settle it. He was all prepared for the interview, but was not admitting, even to himself, how near the tears were to flowing.

As Frank approached the desk, Father Boone was writing. Frank hoped he would not look up, and as he stood there for a second, it seemed an hour. Then, without pausing or turning toward Frank, Father Boone said in a low, measured voice: "Take that notice, Mulvy, and put it up on the board below." That was all. Frank stood perfectly still for a moment, clutching the jamb of the door while Father Boone went on writing. If the director had turned but a little, he would have seen agony and anguish in Frank's face, and he would have understood. But he kept on writing and Frank remained standing, unable to move a step.

Then a hard feeling crept into the boy's heart. He felt that he was being dealt with unjustly, that he was condemned unheard.