A Boy Knight

by Martin J. Scott

"That's all right," said the priest. "The best way to thank me will be to let me hear a good report of you."

The priest's next thought was, "I must run down to the hospital, and see Willie. But he does not worry me so much just now as Frank does. I can't make out his conduct in regard to this Club mix-up. He is certainly an honorable boy and most considerate, and yet he has left me in the dark all this time. He knows that 'committees' are not my way of doing business. After last night, I'd like to drop the whole matter. But it is not an affair of sentiment. I must see it through for his sake, and for the sake of the rest also. If nothing develops before tomorrow night, I'll take the initiative myself. I hate that, and I'd much rather they'd do the right thing of their own accord. But,—" he shut down his desk, put on his hat and coat, and started for the hospital.

Frank, at the same time, was on his way from Dunn's to the Club. Once more he was going straight to the director,—to tell him now, that there must be a misunderstanding, and that he was sorry to see him grieved. He saw the director's point of view—of course he couldn't explain—but perhaps Father Boone would understand that he wasn't really slipping so badly.

He was walking pretty fast, with his head down, his chin buried in his coat collar, and his hands deep in his pockets. Buried in his thoughts, he did not see Father Boone approaching on his way to the hospital. The priest was almost on top of him before he was aware of his presence. Looking up suddenly he tipped his hat and stammered—"Good evening, Father."

"Good evening, sir," answered the priest and hurried on.

Frank stopped. He was dumfounded. "Good evening, sir! Sir, is it? So it's 'sir' now? Good evening, sir." He kept on repeating the phrase, indignation following his astonishment. He knew where the priest was going, and realized that the interview with him could not be held that evening. Another day of torture stood before him. He was about to give free rein to his feeling of injustice when he recollected again that the priest with the data he possessed was perfectly right in his attitude. So, instead of going to the Club, he turned aside and went into the church. It was always open from five in the morning until ten at night. Going up to the altar of the Sacred Heart, he knelt down and prayed.

Long and earnestly he poured out his soul to God, ending with the words, "Accept, O Sacred Heart of Jesus, my sad heart as a sacrifice and bless my father and mother and Bill Daly and Father Boone."

So saying, he arose light-hearted and made his way into the street. He actually began to whistle, and when a boy whistles, he is all right with the world. He did not mind now how misunderstood he might be. It was no longer a load of lead that weighed him down. Rather, his sorrow had turned to gold. It was something that God esteemed. He had been able to give God something acceptable to Him, because it had cost him a good deal. That made him happy.

Father Boone was on his way to the hospital when he had met Frank so abruptly. For an instant he too had held his breath. Then as he hurried on, he could not but wonder whether Frank's chin in collar, hands deep in pockets attitude, had meant that he was trying to slink past. Certainly his greeting had been sudden and disturbed. "Well," declared the priest to himself, "I'll settle this whole thing tomorrow. It's gone on long enough."

Father Boone entered the hospital and ascending the stairway leading to the office, found himself before the Bureau of Information.