“The priest stepped clear of the door-jamb, moved under the single gas-jet, drew out his crucifix, and held it up.
“The drunkard stood staring.
“The priest advanced step by step. The brute cowered, staggered back, and fell in a heap on the floor.”
“Magnificent,” broke out Lockwood. “Superb! And well told. You would make a great actor, Murford.”
“Perhaps,” answered Silas with a reproving look, “but don't forget that it HAPPENED.”
“I haven't a doubt of it,” exclaimed Felix quietly, “but please go on, Mr. Murford. To me your story has only begun. What happened next?”
Silas's eyes glistened. Lockwood's criticism had gone over his head; he was accustomed to that sort of thing. What pleased him was the interest O'Day had shown in his pet subject—the sufferings of the poor being one of his lifelong topics of thought and conversation.
“The confessional happened next,” replied Silas. “Then a sober husband, a sober wife, and a girl at work—and they are still at it—for I got the man a job as night-watchman in the custom-house, at Father Cruse's request.”
Felix started forward. “You surely don't mean Father Cruse of St. Barnabas's?” he exclaimed eagerly.
“Exactly.”