“Yes, Father,” said Dan, somewhat bewildered at the friendly tone in which this sentence was delivered. “I’d like to see Mr. Raymond and Mr. Shipman before I go, and thank them for all they’ve done for me; and Father Roach and Father Walsh and all of them; and to say I’m sorry I made any trouble.”
“Good gracious,” laughed Father Regan, “one would think you were on your dying bed, boy!”
“I—I feel like it,” blurted out Dan, no longer able to choke down the lump in his throat. “I’d rather die, a good deal.”
“Rather die!” exclaimed Father Regan,—“rather die than go to Killykinick!”
“Killykinick!” echoed Dan, breathlessly. “You’re not—not sending me to a Reform, Father?”
“Reform!” repeated the priest.
“For I won’t go,” said Dan, desperately. “You haven’t any right to put me there. I’m not wild and bad enough for that. I’ll keep honest and respectable. I’ll go to work. I can get a job at Pete Patterson’s sausage shop to-morrow.”
“Reform! Sausage shop! What are you talking about, you foolish boy, when I am only sending you all off for a summer holiday at the seashore?”
“A summer holiday at the seashore!” echoed Dan in bewilderment.
“Yes, at Freddy’s place—Killykinick. I have just heard from his uncle, and he thinks it would be a fine thing to send Freddy up there to shake off his malaria. There’s a queer old house that his great-uncle left him, and an old sailor who still lives there to look out for things; and all the boating, bathing, swimming, fishing a set of lively young fellows can want; so I am going to ship you all off there to-morrow morning with Brother Bart. It’s plain you can’t stand six weeks of vacation here, especially when there will be a general retreat for the Fathers next month. You see, I simply have to send you away.”