After a brief silence, which seemed to both a very long while, Frank gave an extra squeeze to Daly's hand and said, "It's all right, Bill, we'll stand together. You can count on me to the limit."
The look of gratitude in Daly's face told Frank that there was now a special bond between them.
"You have told me so much, old man," he said, "that I suppose you won't mind if I ask you a few questions?"
"All you want," replied Daly.
"Well, first of all, does Father Boone know anything about the affair?"
"Not as far as I know. I was intending to tell him that night of the fire, but you saw how it turned out. First I was going to tell the fellows, and then see Father Boone and squeal on myself to him."
"Daly—that was a dirty job . . . but it's past and done. You're no longer yellow. Only one in a million would come back as you're doing. We're chums, Bill Daly, through thick and thin."
"I like you for that, Mulvy, and I hope you'll never regret it. Here's something," he continued, timidly showing the crucifix in his other hand. "I've promised Him, never a crooked thing again,—and a promise to Him means no going back." They joined hands—and hearts. They were comrades now. With a look which showed that the past was buried, Frank tenderly said,
"How's the pain, old man?"
"Well, since I've told you so much, I'll tell you a little more. It's something awful. I'm not doing any baby stunts,—but—just the same I've got an awful dose. While on the broad of my back, thinking, and in pain, I remembered that martyr boy the Sister told us about, who held the burning coals in his hands, and I said to myself, 'Bill Daly, that kid didn't have your score, but see what he endured for God.' And that's when I promised. I just told Him I deserved it all, I'd take it for penance, and I promised to cut out the cry-baby stuff."