A Boy Knight

by Martin J. Scott

"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 there is Mulvy,—straight and open as he usually is,—and he hasn't offered a word of explanation. He had his chance, when I sent for him to post that notice but—not a word. And he surely saw I was indignant. It's not like him. What can it be? Is he afraid of the crowd? Hardly. But I can't get away from that wholesale disorder and breakage—the work of a mob. Those boys seem to care for me—but—they know how this kind of thing affects me. They've had two days to reflect. Not one boy to say a word! It is not the thing in itself that I care about. There's a big bill for damages, but I don't give a fig for that. It's the principle back of it all. Here—all these years, I've been holding up high standards to them and they fall down just when they should stand erect. I hated to call off that McCormack treat, but—what could I do? Well, I'll have to see it through now." And at that he set his jaws, and it was easy to realize that he would see it through.

He had hardly finished his musings when the rectory door-man came to his room and said that a young man was below to see him. He went down and found Dick Brian awaiting him. It was not Father Boone's nature to be at odds with any one, and so when he came upon Dick thus unexpectedly, forgetting for the instant that war was on between him and the club boys, he saluted the lad wholeheartedly. The next instant, recollecting that there was a hostile camp to deal with, he quickly tightened up and said, "Well, my boy, what is it?"

Dick, though ordinarily very self-possessed, was not quite composed under the circumstances. He summoned as much calm as he could and said, "I have come, Father, to say that there must be some mistake. The boys would not do anything to displease you. It's not the McCormack treat that they are thinking about. It's you. Of course, they feel sore that it is off, but they can stand that, but we don't want you to feel that we are not grateful."

It was quite a speech even for Dick, but he got it out and every word rang true. The director realized it, which only increased the mystery. "If the boys were so considerate of him," he reflected, "why did they not explain? They should know that he would do what was right in the matter. If there were any allowances to be made, they ought to know that he would make them. It was not as if it were an individual affair. The whole Club was in question. A riot had occurred. And just because the boys knew he never went about prying into things he had a right to expect a full explanation. But Dick's speech didn't explain."