title="[28]"/> Every bit of his pride came to the top and the boy who, a few seconds before, was ready to blame himself for Father Boone's disappointment, now would not have yielded an inch. Father Boone was Frank's ideal. He thought more of him than of anyone outside his own family. But suddenly he saw the priest as a hard-hearted and unjust man. For the moment he was glad to find that he was in an out-and-out struggle. "No explanations now," he reflected, "time for all that is past." The director had not given him a chance to do the right thing and now he, too, would show his mettle.

There was an air of defiance about Frank as he walked down the stairs and posted the notice on the board.

The crowd gathered quickly. As they read the brief lines on the notice-board, the wave of disappointment that passed over them could almost be felt in the air.

Of course the boys had told their parents of the McCormack treat and now it was off. That meant explanations. They usually kept the Club's affairs entirely to themselves, but the McCormack affair was altogether different—good news to those at home. How could they explain why it was off? Everybody knew that Father Boone never made promises without fulfilling them. Now every mother and sister and—yes—every father would want to know why this treat was cancelled. These and other things ran through the boys' minds. But, above all, the sentiment most keenly felt was regret that Father Boone had had to take such action. They knew he was even more delighted to do them a kindness than they were to receive one. Dick Brian expressed the feeling of the crowd when he said: "Gee, it's tough on us, but it's worse on Father Boone."

Frank heard the comments with a cynical smile. He said not a word, but was rather pale. One of the lads inquired of him, "How did Father Boone find it out?"

"Search me!" Frank replied.

"I say," whispered another, "I'll bet 'Bull' squealed to get square with the crowd."

Tommy Hefnan edged up to Dick. "What's up, anyway? Father Boone never did anything before if the fellows scrapped. He usually let them have it out and appeared not to know about it. What's up now that he is soaking the whole crowd for this scrap?"

"Search me!" answered Dick. "The only line I can get on it is there's something else that we don't know. We've got to take our medicine, of course, and you can be sure Father Boone knows what he's doing. If there is anything wrong, it's somewhere else."

"That's what I say," echoed Tommy as he sauntered off.

Frank and Dick lived near each other and generally went home together. That night, Frank tried hard to assume indifference, but wise Dick saw through the disguise and finally asked him point blank, if he did not feel cut up over the affair.

"No, I don't," Frank almost yelled, in reply. "It's not a square deal. If Father Boone has anything against us, why doesn't he come out with it, and not hit blindly and in the dark?"

"Well, I get what you're aiming at," answered Dick, "but you know, Frank, that Father Boone is the squarest man going. He knows what he's doing, and there's a reason. I'll stand by him, no matter what happens."

This cut Frank like a knife. He knew Dick was manly and wise. He also realized that every word he said was true. Nevertheless, he felt like punching him for saying it.

The rest of the way, they walked on in silence, until they came to parting, when Frank abruptly put out his hand and said, "You're all right, Dick." Then, as the younger boy turned the corner, Frank reflected:

"Yes, he's all right. The kid has more balance than I have."

At the door of the Mulvy apartment, Frank met his mother. She saw at once that whatever was troubling her boy, was even worse tonight than it had been before. Then she had said nothing but tonight she was truly alarmed at Frank's pallor.

"Why, what on earth is the matter, dear?" she exclaimed, as he entered the room. "You are as white as a sheet and trembling all over." As she spoke she put her arms around him and gave him that silent sympathy which only a mother can impart. That was the one thing Frank could not resist. He could fight anything but kindness. At his mother's gentle pressure, his eyes filled and for a moment he could not answer. His words were all choked back by strange sounds in his throat, but his mother waited and presently, when he was sufficiently composed, the whole story came tumbling out. He told his mother all that had happened. He omitted nothing. For a while she made no comment. Then with the tenderness of a mother who knows her boy, she said,

"Frank, you've done nothing to be ashamed of. There's more to that affair, I'm sure. And above all, Father Boone does not act rashly. Remember now, mother says so."

Frank felt a weight lifted from his heart. He went to his room, knelt down at his bedside, under the crucifix hanging from the wall, and making an act of contrition for his faults of the day, asked God to give him the grace to do right always. Then turning to a little shrine at the head of the bed, where a large picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus was hung, he said, "O Heart wounded for me, give me strength to bear this hurt for love of Thee."

He arose, feeling that he had offered something to our Lord. That brought peace to his soul and a few minutes later he was fast asleep.

By the time Frank was ready for breakfast next morning, Mrs. Mulvy had made up her mind to see Father Boone and find out what the trouble was. She was certain that there was something back of it all. She knew Father Boone, and she knew Frank, and further, she knew how they esteemed each other. Father Boone had often stopped her in the street to tell her what a fine boy Frank was. And Frank was never tired talking about Father Boone, admiring him for this and for that, but mainly for himself.

Nothing was said by mother or son on the important topic until Frank was leaving the house to go to school. Then, as he kissed her, he said, "Mother, I want you to promise me something."

"Very well, dear."

"Remember now, it's a promise."

"Certainly, Frank."

"Well, mother, I want you to promise that you won't say anything about what I've told you and that you will not let Father Boone know I told you. Even if you should meet him accidentally," he said slyly, "you are not to let on."

She hesitated a moment.

"You promised, Mother. It's too late now to consider," he urged.

"Well, just as you say, dear," she answered. And she felt that perhaps it was better to let the matter adjust itself, after all. "True love never runs smoothly," she mused, "and I am sure Father Boone and Frank are very fond of each other."

When Frank got back to school and mingled with the boys, the peace of the night before and his mother's assurances all seemed to vanish. He could not see any justice in the way Father Boone had acted.

"It was entirely unfair," he kept thinking. "The whole thing was out of measure with the fault. After all, a scrap is a scrap. Lots of fellows fight and make up and it's all over. I made up with Daly, or at least I tried to. Why should the crowd be punished for one or two? I know what I'll do. I'll go straight to Father Boone this evening and tell him the whole thing. Then if he wants to, he can punish me, not the whole crowd."

Meanwhile, in his room at the rectory, Father Boone too was considering the same subject. "Boys are not ingrates, as a rule," he reflected. "True, they may be thoughtless and impulsive, but I have generally found them appreciative. But