"Pardon, Father, you're from St. Leonard's? I am Mr. McCormack's manager; perhaps I can help you out." When he heard that ninety seats were wanted, he almost collapsed, "But your boys are little chaps, aren't they, Father, from nine to fifteen? Lads of that age don't take up much room. How would you like to have them seated on the stage?"
"Why, that's capital," exclaimed Father Boone.
"Well, I can manage that. We'll give them the first row on either side. That will put them right close to McCormack while he's singing. I know how kids like to be near to what's going on."
So it was all arranged, and Father Boone returned home very happy. He had received that very morning a letter from one of the parishioners who always gave him something for the Club at Christmas. This time it was a check for $150.00. The tickets cost him $90.00. "With the rest," he mused, "I shall be able to give them a good time."
(II)
That evening the boys were rather subdued. Bill Daly's death had affected them greatly. To be playing with a lad on Monday, and to know he is dead on Friday, is a terrible shock to boys.
As Father Boone entered the Club he observed how serious they were. It was natural, he reflected, and best to let it work itself out. He would not mention the McCormack treat just now.
The boys gathered around him, and asked all sorts of questions about Bill's last moments. Even to these lads it meant something consoling that he had died a beautiful Catholic death. They told Father Boone that they had gone to Mass in a body that morning, and had received Holy Communion for Bill's soul.
"I offered up the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass for William this morning," said the priest, "and I suggest that on the day of the funeral you all go to Communion again in a body for the repose of his soul."
"We had already decided on that, Father," said Dick.