J* 3-ol 
 
 Jjt>6r
 
 ftlNW. OF GALIF. LRARY. LOS ANGELAS
 
 "Don't move," he cried. "I've got you." Page 204.
 
 HIS 
 LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCIS J. FINN, S.J. 
 
 Author of "Pe?cy Wynn," "Tom Playfair,' 
 "Harry Dee," etc. 
 
 { BENZK3ER BROTHERS 
 
 NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO 
 
 BENZIGER BROTHERS
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY BENZIGEK BROTHERS 
 
 Printed in the United States of America.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Showing how Bob Ryan in trying to be kind is, in 
 effect, looking for trouble 8 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Bob, bearding the lion in his den, and in dire danger, 
 invokes the dove of peace with startling results ... 23 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Into the home of the Corcorans Bob Ryan brings the 
 dove of peace 35 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Bob and Albert become friends, and, united, put an end 
 to an ancient feud 44 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 The Flower Section is organized, and begins its prom- 
 ising career with a case which still involves a mystery 58 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 The strange conduct of Mr. Corcoran, and the mys- 
 teries attendant upon his giving up work forever . . 66 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 In which Bob starts something really worth while . . 77 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 In which the author takes pleasure in introducing the 
 Xaverian Acolytes engaged in secret service .... 86 
 
 5 
 
 2129624
 
 6 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Narrating how Bob became prefect, the mystery of the 
 Lady in Black, and the wonderful oration of Johnny 
 O'Brien ............... 104 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 In which the mystery concerning the late Mr. Corcoran 
 is cleared, and Mrs. Corcoran learns much from Bob 
 Ryan ................ 123 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Bob at the circus. A mysterious visitor. The Lady in 
 Black once more ............ 145 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 So near and yet so far! The first meeting .... 159 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 IB which charity interferes with study, Bob is await- 
 ing surprising news, and the great examination day la 
 at hand . . 1M 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Bob's failure, the comments of Mr. Lawton thereon, 
 and the unhappy results .......... 172 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 In which Bob has his picture taken, with, as the sequel 
 will show, extraordinary results ........ 190 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Bob's picture produces effects which, as the sequel will 
 show, more than atone for his failure. Bob falls asleep, 
 to be awakened by a delightful surprise . ... . . 08
 
 CONTENTS 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Showing how brides and grooms should act when chil- 
 dren greet them. A last look at the Flower of Pioneer 
 Street. Bob's farewell. Alice and Elizabeth meet the 
 Lady in Black 216 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Tom Temple turns back time in his flight. Old faces 
 and old friends once more 229 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 In which one surprise follows upon another . . . 240 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 la which the mystery of Bob's childhood is cleared up, 
 he enters upon a new life 248
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 A SEQUEL TO "LUCKY BOB" 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Showing how Bob Ryan in trying to be 
 kind is,, in effect, looking for trouble. 
 
 ON the last Saturday of September, as the 
 bells of St. Xavier announced the morn- 
 ing hour of ten, a chubby youth, faultlessly 
 dressed and looking the picture of joy and 
 health, emerged from a house on Pioneer 
 Street, Cincinnati, glanced up and down, and 
 then turned briskly eastward. The boy car- 
 ried under his right arm a rather large pack- 
 age. It looked as though the contents were 
 oranges; and that they were oranges beyond 
 all doubt any one with a sense of smell could 
 have certainly attested. 
 
 It was a bright, crisp morning, with a touch 
 of autumn in the air. It was good to be out 
 on such a day. Certainly the rosy youth 
 seemed to think so; for he threw out his chest 
 and took several deep breaths, stepping for- 
 ward briskly as he did so. Pioneer Street, 
 apparently, was deserted. It is the easy cus- 
 tom of the school children residing on that 
 
 9
 
 10 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 famous though short thoroughfare to lie abed 
 late on Saturdays. The Saturday late sleep, 
 in fact, has become a tradition. Ten o'clock on 
 that particular day of the week is the hour of 
 rising. The boy therefore who, it should be 
 said, was an alien on the street, having resided 
 there only a few weeks did not expect to 
 meet or greet any of his new friends. But he 
 was agreeably disappointed. 
 
 Miss Alice O'Shea, residing in the neat two- 
 story frame house which faces and blocks Pike 
 Street, casting a chance look out of her win- 
 dow as she was engaged in the completion of 
 her simple Saturday-morning toilet much 
 simpler, of course, than on the days when 
 school was held caught sight of the ruddy 
 stranger. Alice, aged eleven, good-natured 
 almost to a fault, liked the new boy. He was 
 good-natured, too. Had he not presented her 
 with an apple a few days ago, apropos of noth- 
 ing? Had he not always greeted her with a 
 smile? When she got up her birthday party 
 she had settled that among her guests Bob 
 Ryan should be the Abou Ben Adhem of the 
 list, and lead all the rest. 
 
 Some children there are who bask in smiles. 
 They love the cheery face. Alice was just that 
 sort of girl. There was nothing sentimental 
 about this blue-eyed, fair-complexioned, and,
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 11 
 
 under her mother's dextrous fingers, curly- 
 haired girl. She was matter-of-fact, and loved 
 the smile of welcome or of farewell as she 
 loved the sunshine and the caressing airs of 
 springtime. On perceiving the youth, there- 
 fore, advancing down the other side of the 
 street, Alice gathered up her hair in one com- 
 prehensive sweep of her two hands, massed it 
 into a ball, and with a hasty hairpin or two, 
 with a resultant effect not altogether lovely, 
 pinned it into stability ; and taking a perfunc- 
 tory glance into the mirror, rushed to the front 
 door, darted out, and tripped across the street, 
 just in time to catch her quarry as he was 
 about to turn into Pike. 
 
 Alice's industry did not go unrewarded: 
 the stalwart lad, who looked full sixteen, 
 though he was not yet fourteen, turned an eye 
 of welcome upon the gingham-gowned, bare- 
 footed apparition, and smiled beamingly. 
 
 "Good morning, Alice!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Good morning, Bob Ryan," returned Alice 
 with a smile little inferior to the boy's. 
 
 Alice allowed her gaze to wander from 
 Bob's face to the bundle under his arm. Curi- 
 osity got the better of this lineal descendent 
 of Mother Eve. She sniffed the air, and said, 
 with a question mark in her intonation : 
 
 "Oranges?"
 
 12 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "Yes," returned Bob Ryan. "You know 
 Albert Corcoran?" 
 
 "The eighth-grade boy who's down with 
 typhoid?" 
 
 "Yes ; but he's not exactly down now. He's 
 convalescent, you know." 
 
 "Oh, dear!" cried Alice, "do you think he'll 
 die?" 
 
 "Dye what?" broke in a strange voice, "his 
 whiskers? He ain't got any yet, and you'll 
 be peroxidizing your hair a long time before 
 he'll find it worth while buying a razor." 
 
 Alice turned a severe eye toward a window 
 whence issued these words. Master Johnny 
 O'Brien, their utterer, stood grinning there. 
 It had never occurred to Johnny O'Brien, aged 
 twelve, in the course of his natural life that 
 any conversation held on Pioneer Street was 
 confidential or not intended for his ears. He 
 was always putting in his oar. 
 
 "You easy-dropper!" she flung out. 
 
 "I ain't," protested Johnny, appalled by the 
 unaccustomed word, and wondering what it 
 meant. 
 
 "You go on upstairs and wash your face," 
 continued Alice. "This conversation is private 
 you hear?" 
 
 Bob chuckled. John looked contrite. 
 
 "I didn't intend to butt in," he protested.
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 13 
 
 "Well, you did," insisted Alice. 
 
 "John you John," came a rich alto voice 
 from above, "you come right up and get your 
 neck washed, or not a step out of this house 
 will you stir to-day." 
 
 At which dire threat John incontinently de- 
 parted. Had he heard the conversation that 
 followed, Bob Ryan might have been saved 
 considerable trouble on that particular morn- 
 ing. 
 
 "I was saying," Bob resumed, "that Albert 
 is convalescent, which means he's well but 
 weak. All he needs is to get his strength 
 again." 
 
 "That's what I thought," said Alice bravely. 
 "But you're not going to his house, are you?" 
 
 "Of course I am." 
 
 "But don't you know, Bob, that he lives on 
 EUen Street?" 
 
 "I've got his number, all right." 
 
 "Did you ever see an Ellen Street boy on 
 Pioneer Street, Bob?" 
 
 Bob paused and knotted his fair brow. 
 
 "I can't say I have," he presently answered. 
 
 "There ain't been an Ellen Street boy or a 
 Kilgour Street boy on Pioneer since last 
 June," continued Alice. "And there ain't been 
 a Pioneer Street boy on those streets since last 
 June."
 
 14 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "Is that so?" asked Bob. 
 
 "No," continued the girl, giving her some- 
 what rebellious hair two or three pats, "and 
 the reason is they had a ball game which ended 
 in a norful row." 
 
 "You don't say!" cried the boy. 
 
 "Yes. There was four dollars and eighty 
 cents up on the game, and our street won," 
 went on the youthful chronicler. "And," she 
 continued, "our boys got the money, all right." 
 
 "Well, why should there be a row, Alice?" 
 
 "It was this way," responded the child. "In 
 the ninth inning our side was at the bat, and 
 their team had already had their inning. They 
 were two ahead of us. My brother Fred was 
 our catcher, and he's told us about it at the 
 table so often that I know it by heart. My 
 brother went to bat first in that last half- 
 inning, and he went out on a long fly. The 
 next batter got his baste and stole second ; the 
 next batter got his baste on an error; and the 
 next batter struck out; and then that easy- 
 dropper, Johnny O'Brien he's always lis- 
 tening to what folks are saying came up and 
 knocked a fly that should have been caught, 
 but was muffed by the central fielder." 
 
 "The what?" cried the shocked Bob. 
 
 "The central fielder," returned Alice calmly 
 and distinctly.
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 15 
 
 "Oh!" said Bob. 
 
 "Then my brother got busy. He wanted 
 some of that money, and he wanted to beat that 
 gang up on Ellen Street; and so, while Johnny 
 O'Brien was running to first, and while the 
 other two boys on the bastes were running in, 
 he went up to the empire, who lives on Ludlow 
 Street, and gave him a norful thump in the 
 ribs. The empire has a bad temper ; and that's 
 what my brother was betting on. He turned 
 round to see who struck him, and he started 
 for Fred, and Freddie began backing away 
 and sticking out his tongue at him. And while 
 this was going on, Johnny O'Brien was run- 
 ning from first over to third. You see, he 
 skipped second." 
 
 "But that wasn't fair," protested Bob. 
 
 "Wasn't it?" inquired Alice in a tone which 
 indicated that no answer was expected. "Well, 
 the other crowd just went wild: their catcher 
 and pitcher ran in and caught that empire and 
 turned him round, just as Johnny O'Brien 
 came running in from third. My brother said 
 that the ball was thrown in from the field in 
 time to catch Johnny, but the catcher was too 
 rattled to touch him in time. He only touched 
 him as Johnny slid over the plate. Then my 
 brother and the rest of the nine came at the 
 empire before the other fellows knew what to
 
 16 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR' 
 
 say, and yelled, 'How is it?' and the empire 
 said, 'Safe.' ' 
 
 "Caesar!" ejaculated Bob. 
 
 "And while the catcher and pitcher of the 
 other team were punching the empire, my 
 brother went over to the scorer and collected 
 the four dollars and eighty cents." 
 
 "But that wasn't fair," protested Bob once 
 more. 
 
 "My brother Fred," answered Alice, "says 
 that they do it in professional games. He 
 says that any player will cut the bastes if the 
 empire isn't looking." 
 
 "That may be all right for professionals," 
 said Bob, "but it's not real sport. Well, that 
 was the reason for the row, was it?" 
 
 "Just part," responded the dear child. 
 
 "Did anything else happen?" 
 
 "Yes; while Fred was getting the money, 
 the Kilgour Street shortstop grabbed our base- 
 ball mast." 
 
 "Mast?" 
 
 "Yes; you know what a mast is, don't you? 
 The thing like a bird-cage that the catcher 
 sticks his face into." 
 
 "I understand," said Bob gravely. 
 
 "And one of their other players got our ball, 
 and the bat-carrier of their side got our new 
 wagon-tongue bat. You wouldn't," continued
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR IT 
 
 Alice, putting on an air of judicial severity, 
 "think that Catholic boys, going to a Catholic 
 school, would act like that, would you?" 
 
 "I I don't know," returned Bob. 
 
 "You don't? Why, that's stealing. All the 
 boys on our street say so. They say that the 
 Kilgour and Ellen Street crowd are nothing 
 but out-and-out burgers." 
 
 "Burgers?" 
 
 "Yes, burgers. And they are burgers. I 
 used to know most of them." 
 
 "Don't you know them yet?" 
 
 "When I meet them," answered the candid 
 child, "I stick out my tongue at 'em." 
 
 "What do they do?" 
 
 Alice pouted. 
 
 "They say things about my hair." 
 
 "Like Johnny O'Brien?" 
 
 "Yes; they say it's pill-oxidized, whatever 
 that means. And they mean it, while Johnny 
 O'Brien doesn't. And it ain't. It just curls 
 naturally." Here Alice paused, gave a gulp 
 and added, "Almost." 
 
 "But what's all this got to do with me?" Bob 
 asked. 
 
 "Just this: they've got our mast and ball 
 and bat, and they won't give them up, and as 
 long as they've got them no boy of their gang 
 is safe on this street. We've got that four
 
 18 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 dollars and eighty cents, which we won fair 
 and square, and as long as we've got it none of 
 our boys dast go on their streets." 
 
 "But what have I got to do with it? I 
 wasn't in that game." 
 
 "It's for everybody on the street. If you 
 live on Pioneer Street it's enough." 
 
 "I don't see that at all," said Bob, "and so 
 I'm going to see Albert Corcoran." 
 
 "Bob Ryan! Don't you do it. You'll get 
 pounded. Suppose they give you a swollen 
 lip : you wouldn't be able to smile 1" 
 
 "I'll chance it," returned Bob. 
 
 Visions of an unsmiling and swollen-faced 
 Bob flashed before the inner eye of the infan- 
 tile blonde. She caught Bob's arm in a gesture 
 of entreaty, whereupon the bundle slipped and 
 fell to the sidewalk. Four oranges rolled in 
 various directions. Bob and Alice were quick 
 to gather them. 
 
 "One of these," remarked the girl as she 
 brought two oranges to Bob, "looks kind of 
 funny. Part of it is too soft." 
 
 "I wonder how I came to buy that!" queried 
 the boy. "It's no good." 
 
 "I'll tell you what, Bob: I'll take it my- 
 self if you really don't want it." 
 
 The child was young, frank, and without 
 breakfast.
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 19 
 
 "Give it here," said Bob. 
 
 He took it, placed it on the top of the others, 
 and presented his fair admirer with the biggest 
 orange he had. 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Bob! Say, you're coming 
 to my birthday party, aren't you?" 
 
 So occupied was Alice with the contempla- 
 tion and the skinning of the welcome gift that 
 when she raised her eyes again Bob was turn- 
 ing from Pike into Fifth. 
 
 "Oh," she said to herself, "he's gone and 
 done it. They'll paradise him," she went on, 
 misquoting one of her brother's favorite ex- 
 pressions. 
 
 Be it said to the credit of the infantile belle 
 of Pioneer Street that she discontinued at 
 once her operations on the orange and pat- 
 tered back to her home, where she immediately 
 took possession of the telephone, with the re- 
 sult that within five minutes every boy and 
 every girl on Pioneer Street knew that the 
 genial Bob Ryan was on his way to beard the 
 lion in his den. 
 
 There were some rapid toilet performances 
 that morning on the street, and before Bob 
 had gone as far as Lock Street there was a 
 gathering of the clans. Every member of the 
 baseball team was there and about fifteen other 
 boys. They assembled where Pike meets Pio-
 
 20 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 neer, and with grave faces entered into a coun- 
 cil of war. A number of girls, looking too 
 innocent to be trusted, hovered on the out- 
 skirts, taking no apparent interest in the pro- 
 ceedings, but with sharp ears intent to catch 
 every word. 
 
 Bob meantime went briskly and blithely on. 
 Turning south on Lock, he reached that won- 
 drous up-hill thing called by courtesy "Little 
 Fourth." The street was barely fifty feet 
 long, but what it lacked in length it atoned for 
 in steepness. It served as a thoroughfare to 
 the pedestrian and only the pedestrian into 
 Ellen Street. 
 
 Bob smiled as he began the ascent. The 
 coast was clear. Very quickly, and breathing 
 easily, he reached Ellen Street. It, too, as he 
 thought, was deserted. Nevertheless, he was 
 not unobserved. A young lady of twelve, 
 Miss Mary Fitzgerald, her two stiff pigtails 
 tied for the day, saw him from her room, and 
 forthwith gave a gasp of dismay. 
 
 She knew Bob Ryan. Only a week ago she 
 had dropped her books and stationery on Fifth 
 Street, near the school, and Bob had sprung 
 to her rescue. She still remembered his smile. 
 She was a tomboy ; Bob Ryan she regarded as 
 a good fellow. And here he was, unsuspecting 
 youth, walking into the jaws of destruction*
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 21 
 
 "Why did those Pioneer people let him 
 come?" she murmured. "Oh!" she added in 
 dismay. 
 
 For just then out of the next house stepped 
 jauntily William Devine, the catcher of the 
 Ellen Street Ball Club, the best fighter of his 
 age in the neighborhood, and the very boy who 
 had thrashed the umpire, his senior by two 
 years, on the memorable June day, some of 
 the events of which have been so faithfully 
 narrated by Alice O'Shea. It is only fair to 
 say of Mary Fitzgerald that if it had been any 
 other Pioneer Street boy she would have been 
 the first to sound the alarm, the first, if need 
 be, to lead the charge. But Bob Ryan had won 
 her. 
 
 With bated breath she watched as William 
 Devine issued from his gate and, turning, 
 came face to face with Bob. 
 
 "Good morning," said Bob. 
 
 The face of William Devine went red as 
 the comb of a turkey cock. He drew a long 
 breath, stared, recovered himself, and said: 
 
 "You turn right round and beat it. I'll 
 count three, and you start. If I catch you I'll 
 pound you till your best friends won't know 
 you." 
 
 "I'm not doing any running this morning," 
 returned Bob pleasantly.
 
 22 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 Waiting to hear no more, and forgetting to 
 put on a shoe, the eager Mary Fitzgerald 
 dashed through the house, and by some devious 
 way known only to herself reached Lock 
 Street and set off at top speed for Fifth. 
 
 There was a vision of flying pigtails and of 
 imperfectly clad feet presently, which brought 
 people to a standstill, while more than one 
 uttered words to the effect that "that freckled- 
 faced limb of Satan, Mary Fitzgerald, had 
 broken out in a new place."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Bob, bearding the lion in Ms den, and in dire 
 danger, invokes the dove of peace with start- 
 ling results. 
 
 "1PVROP that bundle, and put up your 
 
 * hands," ordered William Devine. 
 
 Bob was still smiling. 
 
 "I am not fighting to-day, either," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 There was nothing left for William but to 
 give Master Bob Ryan the thrashing of his 
 life. It was worth while doing too. William, 
 though nearly fifteen, was a pupil of the 
 seventh grade. He was, in the language of 
 the school physician, "retarded." His devel- 
 opment reflected more credit upon his body 
 than upon his intellect. In all manner of 
 athletic sports he stood second to none. Wil- 
 liam was well built, a trifle lighter than Bob, 
 and unusually agile. He was far from being 
 a bully, yet it is only fair to state that many 
 and many a time he had "drunk delight of bat- 
 tle." As for the present adversary, there were 
 rumors from the eighth-grade class that Bob 
 Ryan was the strongest boy in the school. It 
 was said that Bob was a good boxer and a 
 
 23
 
 24 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 wonderful wrestler, and that, in spite of all 
 this, he did not care about fighting. These 
 rumors had been a source of annoyance to 
 William Devine. They bade fair to rob him 
 of a hard-earned prestige. Up to the time of 
 Bob's arrival he had been recognized as the 
 head of the school. Well, the occasion had 
 happily arrived when the matter would for 
 once and for all be settled. 
 
 William was firmly persuaded that when 
 one fights one must be sure to get in the first 
 blow. Bob had scarcely finished his sentence, 
 when William struck out with all his force at 
 the still smiling face. Up went both of Bob's 
 hands -in the left the package of oranges. 
 That was the end of the package. Eleven 
 oranges fell to the pavement and rolled their 
 several ways. While they were rolling, some- 
 thing happened to William Devine which he 
 has often wondered about since, trying vainly 
 to account for it. His arms were pressed to 
 his sides and kept there by another pair of 
 arms; he was in the same second bent back- 
 ward till he thought his bones would crack, 
 and then Master William Devine, the hero of 
 many a bout, found that he was flat on the 
 sidewalk, with a hearty and heavy youth sit- 
 ting astride him ; so seated that William could 
 with difficulty move hand or foot.
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 25 
 
 It was a surprising discovery; it was all so 
 sudden. William, lying face up to the sky, 
 gave a shrill whistle. It was the call of the 
 gang. Even as he whistled he looked into Bob 
 Ryan's face with a glance which plainly 
 showed admiration. Bob had conquered him 
 in more senses than one. 
 
 There was a quick answer to the shrill call. 
 Had there been an echo on Ellen Street it 
 would not have died away before, baseball bat 
 in hand, Master Edward Bolan issued forth 
 from his house, some hundred-and-odd feet 
 from the scene of the encounter. Edward was 
 quick to take in the state of affairs. Uttering 
 a warlike yell, he caught the bat in both hands 
 and, with his gaze fixed on Bob, came for- 
 ward at a dead run. 
 
 Bob's eyes ran over the oranges within his 
 reach. There were three close at hand, and 
 one was the very orange which the fair Alice 
 had critized. Thanks to the strong fist of 
 William Devine, it was pulpier than ever. He 
 readjusted himself upon the prostrate body of 
 his foe in such wise as to free his right hand, 
 picked up the discredited orange, and, as 
 young Bolan came within a few yards of him, 
 let it fly with considerable force. It struck 
 the eager and open-mouthed aggressor right
 
 26 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 between the eyes, and brought him to a ludi- 
 crous halt. 
 
 Somehow, nevertheless, the sense of humor 
 of the boys on Ellen Street was not aroused. 
 Many of them, as they came thronging from 
 their happy homes, viewed the orange-faced 
 youth unsmilingly. In fact, they wasted no 
 time in gazing upon the blinded victim, who 
 looked and acted as though he had been struck 
 by a bomb. With quickened feet they ad- 
 vanced and threw themselves upon Bob. In 
 a few moments, not, however, before three of 
 them had bitten the dust, Bob was a prisoner, 
 held to the ground by six of the heaviest boys 
 of the street, two for his legs, two for his arms, 
 and two seated upon his person. William De- 
 vine had taken no part in this scrimmage. He 
 was stretching his arms and legs, and exam- 
 ining these extremities as though to assure 
 himself that they were all there. 
 
 "Somebody get ropes," cried the lad who 
 was holding on for dear life to Bob's right 
 arm. 
 
 The smaller boys, meantime, who were too 
 tender in years to give more than their moral 
 support to the battle, had indulged in a wild 
 scramble for the oranges. Ten of these 
 youngsters were successful. Those who were 
 empty-handed, having nothing else to do,
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 27 
 
 started off in various directions in quest of 
 ropes. 
 
 By this time Edward Bolan was gazing once 
 more with furious eyes upon a somewhat dark- 
 ened world. Rushing forward, crying at the 
 same time, "Let me at him," he was about to 
 throw himself upon Bob. In his hand, instead 
 of the discarded baseball bat, were the remains 
 of the orange. With a fine sense of justice, 
 Master Bolan's amiable intention was to give 
 Bob a taste of his own medicine. 
 
 Between Bolan and his intended prey 
 stepped quickly and resolutely William De- 
 vine. 
 
 "No you don't, Ed Bolan," he said, catch- 
 ing that youth by the shoulders. "You don't 
 hit no feller when he's down." 
 
 Just as Bolan opened his mouth to express 
 indignation and other strong emotions, a very 
 small boy, barefooted, hatless, and extremely 
 out of breath, came running round the corner 
 from Little Fourth Street. 
 
 "Cheese it! Cheese it!" he cried. He evi- 
 dently had more to say, but his breath forsook 
 him, and he paused, panting. 
 
 "Is it a cop?" asked Devine anxiously. 
 
 "No," gasped the runner. "It's the Pioneer 
 Street bunch. They're coming." 
 
 There was a moment of silence and inde-
 
 28 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 cision. Upon that silence broke the sound of 
 many feet beating upon the stony irregulari- 
 ties of Little Fourth. 
 
 "If we let you free," asked Devine of the 
 prostrate prisoner, "will you promise to keep 
 out of this?" Devine needed the six captors 
 for immediate service. 
 
 "I'll not fight, if that's what you mean," 
 returned Bob Ryan. There was a slight abra- 
 sion under the husky youth's eye. The keeper 
 of Bob's right arm had found it necessary to 
 use a free-elbow. 
 
 "Loose him, fellers," commanded Devine, 
 "and get ready for the Pioneer bunch." 
 
 Bob arose, stretched himself, dusted his 
 clothes, and then all of a sudden broke into a 
 smile. An idea had just come to him. The 
 smile was still on his face when round from 
 Little Fourth came the flower of the Pioneer 
 Street youth, twenty strong, their first-line 
 men, with Freddy O'Shea at their head. Bob 
 was standing on the sidewalk alone. The 
 Ellen Street youth of fighting age were 
 massed in the middle of the street, awaiting 
 the orders of their leader. Back of Bob stood 
 ten youngsters of tender years, each grasping 
 firmly an orange. Mixed with these were five 
 others, each carrying his mother's clothesline. 
 The remaining youth of the street were scurry-
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 29 
 
 ing hotfoot up to Kilgour to secure help for 
 the royal battle now imminent. 
 
 On seeing their enemy a loud yell of hostile 
 import arose from the flower of Pioneer Street. 
 The flower then paused and formed into some 
 sort of line. Evidently they were about to 
 charge. 
 
 Then forth between the two massed fronts 
 sprang Bob Ryan, and held up a hand that 
 somehow seemed to be clothed in authority. 
 
 "One minute, boys," he called out in a 
 strong, clear voice. "You fellows all belong 
 to the Sodality, don't you?" 
 
 At least forty faces reflected forty varieties 
 of disgust. To think of a fellow hauling in 
 the Sodality on such an occasion and the new 
 Sodality at that! Only two weeks ago the 
 working boys had been separated from those 
 who attended school; worst of all, in the two 
 groups thus questioned by Bob were at least 
 twelve new officers. With a sinking heart 
 William Devine reflected that he was sacristan. 
 Before his mind's eye flashed two distinct pic- 
 tures; one, of his lighting the candles as the 
 boys filed in to the weekly meetings at St. 
 Thomas' Church; the other, of his using his 
 good right fist in darkening the vision of hia 
 old enemy Freddy O'Shea. Each picture in 
 itself was most comforting to his soul. But
 
 30 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 closely associated, viewed thus together, they 
 harrowed his whole being. 
 
 The reflections of Master Fred O'Shea, 
 medal-bearer-elect of St. Aloysius Sodality, 
 were strikingly similar. Both of these boys 
 besides were agreed on this, that Bob Ryan 
 had no sense of propriety. 
 
 Bob Ryan, looking upon the disgusted faces 
 of friend and foe, realized for a few biting sec- 
 onds the first experience of the kind in his 
 life what it was to be unpopular. 
 
 "Of course, you're members," he went on, 
 not without faltering. "Well, I'm the Sick 
 Committee !" 
 
 "Johnny, Johnny," called a distant matron's 
 voice, with the accent on the second syllable, 
 prolonged and fully an octave higher than the 
 first, "you come right home!" 
 
 Johnny showed no sign of having heard. 
 
 "The Sick Committee!" cried a host of in- 
 quiring voices. 
 
 "Yes. Last night Father Reardon, our 
 Director, sent for me, and appointed me the 
 Sick Committee, and told me to pay Albert 
 Corcoran a visit. So I bought a dozen of 
 oranges to bring him and " 
 
 Bob's speech was here interrupted, as ten 
 small boys, with an alacrity no less creditable 
 to their hearts than to their feet, crowded
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 31 
 
 about him, and pressed upon him as many 
 oranges, which, strange as it may seem, were 
 still intact. 
 
 "Why didn't you say so at first?" remon- 
 strated William Devine. "We aren't angels 
 upon this here street; but " here William 
 glared savagely upon his awe-struck followers 
 "I'd like to see any kid around here inter- 
 fere with any officer of our Sodality when he's 
 doing when he's been er er ' 
 
 "In the discharge of his duty," suggested 
 Edward Bolan, who, one of the leaders of the 
 eighth grade, happened to be the new Secre- 
 tary. 
 
 "That's it," assented the virtuous William, 
 "in the discharge of his duty. You just go 
 ahead, Mr. Sick Committee, to see Corcoran; 
 and if any kid on this street bats an eye at you 
 I'll knock him silly." 
 
 "I'll bet he bought them oranges out of his 
 own money," said Fred O'Shea. "That's the 
 kind of a boy he is." 
 
 The faces so darkened by disgust a moment 
 ago brightened into favoring glances upon 
 the "Sick Committee" now going rapidly upon 
 his errand of mercy. 
 
 Soon, however, there followed awkward mo- 
 ments. Visions of Sodality meetings clashed 
 with prospects of a good fight, a settling of
 
 82 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 ancient grudges. "Johnny" was now pleased 
 to hear his mother's voice, and departed 
 gladly homewards. Other youths heard 
 similar voices: the Ellen Street crowd was 
 melting away all but the flower of the street, 
 the first-line regulars. They really did not 
 know what to do. Facing them, trying at once 
 to remember that they were hostiles and So- 
 dalists, stood the equally irresolute Pioneer 
 Street warriors. What were they to do? Turn 
 tail and run? That was against all their tradi- 
 tions. "Don't run till you know you're 
 whipped," was their leading tenet. Were ever 
 two groups of boys in quandary so sad? 
 
 The tension, just as Bob disappeared into 
 the house where young Corcoran resided, was 
 relieved by the appearance, at the head of 
 Little Fourth Street, of the two young ladies, 
 Alice O'Shea and Mary Fitzgerald. 
 
 "Good gracious!" ejaculated Freddy, "if 
 my sister and Tomboy Mary aren't walking 
 arm in arm like long-lost sisters." 
 
 What Freddy expressed everybody felt. 
 The two girls had not been on speaking terms 
 since an entertainment six months before, on 
 which festive occasion Alice had sung a solo 
 and Tomboy Mary had done the Buck-and- 
 Wing. The singer had been encored once ; the 
 dancer three times. On the following day, at
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 33 
 
 school recess, Mary had called Alice's atten- 
 tion to the difference in the number of en- 
 cores in undiplomatic language. Alice had 
 answered back to the effect that if she had 
 brought all her friends there the way Mary 
 had done she would have gone on getting en- 
 cores till the cows came home. From this the 
 two dear children had proceeded to give their 
 frank and unvarnished opinions, one of the 
 other; after which they spoke no more. But 
 now, as they appeared on Ellen Street, their 
 vows of eternal friendship had been once more 
 uttered. It was their common sympathy for 
 Bob which had brought them together. Alice, 
 a few minutes before, had managed to be on 
 Fifth and Pike as the Pioneer Street boys had 
 set out to Bob's rescue. She had seen the "did- 
 dle-diddle-dumpling" girl, one shoe off and one 
 shoe on, come flying up the street; she had 
 heard Mary adjure the boys to hasten to Bob's 
 rescue; and as they broke into a run, she had 
 crossed over to the panting Mary and given 
 her half of the orange a half she had reserved 
 for the first moment of leisure. 
 
 Before the vacillating armies could recover 
 from their surprise at this vision of peace Alice 
 called out: 
 
 "Look out, boys! Father Carney's coining 
 up the street!"
 
 84 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 That settled it. Lust of battle was com- 
 pletely dissipated. Everybody tried to look 
 benevolent. The little hatless lad who had 
 sounded the alarm heralding the advent of the 
 "Pioneer Street bunch," called up to his sis- 
 ter on the second floor: 
 
 "M'rie, M'rie! trow down me hat quick!" 
 
 She complied with comprehending sym- 
 pathy. The youth put it on, and, as Father 
 Carney passed, raised it with all the grace of 
 a Spanish cavalier. He had no further use 
 for the hat that day. It had served his pur- 
 pose. 
 
 And as the Ellen Street boys followed the 
 example of the quick-thinking youngster, the 
 Pioneer Street force, not ungracefully, dis- 
 appeared down Little Fourth Street. 
 
 "Good morning, boys," said Father Carney. 
 "You look like a Sunday-school class." 
 
 "And that," muttered Master William De- 
 vine, as he smiled at Father Carney, "is what 
 I feel like. Confound itl"
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Into the home of the Corcorans Bob Ryan 
 brings the dove of peace. 
 
 A s Father Carney passed on serene and smil- 
 **- ing William Devine remarked: 
 
 "It's funny Father Carney didn't get on to 
 us just now. He seems to think we were 
 practising hymns or something." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" said Alice with a far-away look 
 in her china-blue eyes. 
 
 "That's so," added Mary. 
 
 And then the two young ladies exchanged a 
 flash of understanding, too telepathic in its 
 nature for the cruder sensibilities of a mere 
 male like William. As a matter of fact, it was 
 they who, meeting Father Carney on Lock 
 Street, had told the priest of the impending 
 trouble. They say that women can not keep 
 secrets. Nevertheless, they have the masonry 
 of their sex, and it begins in tender years. 
 
 Bob Ryan was admitted into the Corcoran 
 residence by the lady of the house, a short, 
 stout, cheerful-faced woman, brisk in every 
 movement, and with the clear olive complexion 
 
 of the Italian. 
 
 35
 
 36 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "Good morning, boy." 
 
 "Good morning, ma'am," returned Bob with 
 his smile unimpaired, "I'm the Sick Commit- 
 tee." 
 
 "Ah! glad to meet you. Shake hands, Mr. 
 Sick Committee"; and Mrs. Corcoran gave 
 Bob a cordial hand-clasp. "Is that your whole 
 name?" 
 
 "It's my office, ma'am. My name is Bob 
 Ryan." 
 
 "Oh," cried Mrs. Corcoran, in a voice that 
 loudly proclaimed gladness and joy. "So it's 
 you, is it, Bob Ryan? I've heard of you. 
 Some of Albert's classmates have been here, 
 and they like you, Bob." 
 
 "I'm mighty glad to hear that," returned 
 the boy. 
 
 "Here, give me your hat. What in the 
 world's the matter with your pockets? You're 
 bulging as though you had the mumps all over 
 you . Oh oranges !' ' 
 
 "Yes, ma'am! I've come to see Albert, and, 
 as he was sick, I thought he'd like a few 
 oranges." 
 
 "I see," said the brisk lady, who, in the mat- 
 ter of smiles, was scarcely inferior to Bob. 
 "And you're the Sick Committee for the boys' 
 Sodality. I hope you'll like Albert." 
 
 "I'm sure I will," said Bob. "And if he's
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 37 
 
 anything like his mother I hope he'll like me. 
 He'd be a friend worth having." 
 
 Loud and clear rang out Mrs. Corcoran's 
 laugh. 
 
 "They told me you had kissed the Blarney 
 Stone," she said. "I didn't believe them; but 
 now I know it's true. Hey, Albert, here's 
 Bob Ryan coming up to see you. This 
 way, Bob; follow me. Watch out for these 
 steps. There's a sharp turn." 
 
 Bob followed the light-footed, light-hearted 
 mother up the stairs, and was ushered pres- 
 ently into the front room, spacious, well 
 lighted, exquisitely neat, and made cheery 
 with a riot of colors in the way of pictures and 
 ornaments. The room was gypsy-like in rich- 
 ness of tone, Catholic in painting and statuary, 
 and touched with rich Italian taste. To Bob's 
 unsophisticated eyes it was lavishly furnished. 
 And so it appeared to be; only a trained eye 
 could perceive that it was a clear case of 
 poverty in disguise. 
 
 Seated in bed was a boy of fourteen, dark- 
 haired, dark-eyed, olive complexioned. Six 
 weeks of fever had hollowed his cheeks, but 
 had not not robbed him of his Italian beauty. 
 His face was keenly intellectual. One who 
 knew Italians would be inclined, on gazing 
 upon him, to prophesy that one day he would
 
 38 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 win distinction as painter or poet or meta- 
 physician. 
 
 "Halloa!" cried Albert, extending toward 
 Bob a wasted little hand. The greeting was 
 simple; but the gesture, the eyes, the smile 
 which accompanied the greeting clothed that 
 poor word with the riches of the heart. 
 
 "Halloa!" returned Bob. "Why, you don't 
 look sick at all." 
 
 "I'm not," answered Albert, taking Bob's 
 measure with unconcealed appreciation. "I've 
 heard the boys talking of you, and I was 
 hoping you'd come." 
 
 "And I've heard them talking of you," said 
 Bob; "and I've been just wanting to come the 
 worst way. You were the leader of the seventh 
 grade, they tell me; and all the fellows like 
 you." 
 
 "Is that so?" snapped the mother. "It's a 
 wonder they don't show it, then, by coming to 
 see him. The only ones that have come near 
 him are one or two boys on this street." 
 
 "It's this way, ma'am," Bob explained. 
 "Boys are awfully fond of each other; but 
 when one of 'em gets sick, they don't know 
 what to do. Most of them can't sit down in a 
 strange house and talk. But they mean all 
 right." 
 
 "I remember," put in Albert, "when Olive
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 39 
 
 O'Rourke, who lives on Lock Street, got her 
 foot smashed at the school-girls' party, when 
 the radiator she was sitting on fell, that every 
 boy and girl on Lock Street, and most of 
 them on this street, called to see her the next 
 day." 
 
 "Oh, that's different," said Bob. "She 
 wasn't sick she had a smashed foot. They 
 all wanted to see that." 
 
 "And besides," added Mrs. Corcoran, "she 
 had a five-pound box of candy, a sort of con- 
 solation prize. Jerry, the janitor, got Father 
 Carney to give her that. But I believe you're 
 right, Bob; a broken limb seems to have a spe- 
 cial attraction for boys, and a corpse for girls." 
 
 "I'd be glad to have a little more company," 
 said Albert, whose face was as radiant as his 
 mother's, "but I don't care about breaking a 
 leg for it." 
 
 Bob, a shade more radiant-faced than even 
 mother and son, broke into a roar, in the which 
 he was effectively joined by Mrs. Corcoran. 
 Albert, out of sheer sympathy, followed with 
 his own silvery laughter. 
 
 "You've brought sunshine into this room, 
 Mr. Sick Committee," she said. 
 
 "It's coming in at the windows, ma'am." 
 
 "Not the sort of sunshine you carry with
 
 40 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 you. With you here, I think of Italian skies 
 and the smile of God." 
 
 "Well, anyhow," continued the blushing 
 Bob, "I've brought something." And out 
 from his pockets and onto the table came the 
 ten oranges. 
 
 "Oh, thank you. I'm very fond of oranges," 
 said the convalescent. 
 
 "Do you like Albert?" queried the mother. 
 
 "Like him ! Why, he's up to everything the 
 boys have said of him, and more," answered 
 Bob enthusiastically. 
 
 "So are you, Bob. And you are welcome 
 in this house at any time ; and for that matter, 
 to anything in it. Now I'm going to work 
 five children and one husband keep a body 
 hustling. By the way," the brisk woman went 
 on, as she paused at the door, "you didn't have 
 any trouble getting here, did you?" 
 
 "Nothing worth talking about, ma'am." 
 
 Mrs. Corcoran fastened her eyes sharply on 
 Bob's disfigured cheek, and drew her own con- 
 clusions. 
 
 "Well, have a good talk ; and the longer you 
 stay, the more welcome you'll be. Good-by," 
 and Mrs. Corcoran tripped down the stairs. 
 
 She did not, however, start to work at once. 
 Opening the front door, she surveyed the 
 street. All was quiet. But the street was not
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 41 
 
 deserted. Within a few feet of the Corcoran 
 residence stood a group of boys, prominent 
 among them Edward Bolan and William De- 
 vine. They were speaking in hushed yet evi- 
 dently earnest tones. 
 
 "That confounded feud!" muttered the 
 quick-eyed woman. "I suppose they're wait- 
 ing for Bob Ryan the little heathens!" 
 
 As though to confirm her suspicions, the 
 group, on seeing her, became plainly agitated, 
 particularly Edward, who slipped something 
 at once with furtive haste into his pocket. 
 
 "Here, you boys, come this way. Quick," 
 cried the Italian woman in incisive tones. 
 
 They shuffled forward, like culprits about 
 to receive sentence. 
 
 "Look here," she continued. "Did you boys 
 ever see me use a broom?" 
 
 "Oh, yes!" said the chorus. 
 
 "You did? Well, I know another way of 
 using it ; and if you boys dare to raise a hand 
 on Bob Ryan when he leaves this house I'll 
 show you the other way on your backs." 
 
 There was an awkward silence. The group 
 looked pleadingly at William Devine, their 
 leader. 
 
 "Please, ma'am," said William, speaking 
 with no little difficulty, "I won't touch Bob 
 Ryan. He's the Sick Committee."
 
 42 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "Oh!" said the lady with rising inflection. 
 
 "And he can lick me." 
 
 "Well!" gasped the lady. 
 
 "And he wouldn't when he could," continued 
 the leader. 
 
 "Upon my word!" said the lady, in her tone 
 an invitation for William to continue. 
 
 "And if anybody in these diggings lifts his 
 hand against Bob Ryan," continued William, 
 growing at once eloquent and free of speech, 
 "I'll have it out with him myself." 
 
 "Then what are you boys waiting outside 
 here for?" 
 
 Then up spake Edward Bolan. 
 
 "Please, ma'am, Bob Ryan spoiled an orange 
 on me; and that orange was for Albert. I've 
 got another one," he went on, dipping into his 
 pocket, "and here it is." 
 
 Mrs. Corcoran managed to keep a straight 
 face. 
 
 "Suppose you bring it up," she suggested. 
 
 "Go on, Ed."- -"That's the ticket."- 
 "Yes, Ed; she's right." Thus did the crowd 
 advise. 
 
 Looking like a doomed man on the way to 
 the electric chair, Edward, orange in hand, 
 shambled up the steps. 
 
 "Come along, Ed," said Mrs. Corcoran en- 
 couragingly, as she turned and led the way.
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 43 
 
 Then Edward did a strange thing. Slip- 
 ping the orange under the good woman's arm, 
 he turned and fled. He was seen no more that 
 morning. Example is contagious. When 
 Mrs. Corcoran turned to give some expres- 
 sion to a few of her feelings, she saw nothing 
 but flying legs, and was presently gazing with 
 a smile upon an utterly deserted street.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Bob and Albert become friends, and, 
 united, put an end to an ancient feud. 
 
 So you like Brother Cyril, Bob?" 
 "Like him! That's not the word for 
 it. Why, all of us like him. He's had us for 
 three weeks now, and we all swear by him. 
 And work! I should say we do all except 
 five or six. How can we help it, when he 
 works so hard for us? There are twenty-four 
 of us in the class of thirty-six who have made 
 up our minds to try for a scholarship at St. 
 Xavier College in the contest next June, open 
 to all the eighth-grade classes of the city." 
 
 "Do they count me in?" asked Albert. 
 
 "Of course. Brother Cyril said he knew 
 you were going to work for it, and he has 
 talked up that contest till he's got us almost 
 as interested as he is." 
 
 "It's too bad," commented Albert, "that 
 our school can get only one winner. Last year 
 Brother Cyril had three of his boys in the first 
 five places. He got the first scholarship; but 
 the second went to the cathedral, and the third, 
 which should have gone to one of our boys, 
 went to St. Edward's; the fourth to Coving- 
 
 44
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 45 
 
 ton, and the fifth, which should have been ours, 
 too, to the Assumption Parish." 
 
 "Well, it's worth trying for whether a fel- 
 low wins or not. Every day after school most 
 of us stay after class for an hour or more, and 
 Brother Cyril keeps us busy. Then we've got 
 our home tasks to do at night; and so we're 
 kept going all the time." 
 
 "Don't some of the boys kick?" asked Al- 
 bert. 
 
 "Not so that you can notice it. Why, it's 
 all volunteer work ; and the boys are interested. 
 And they're jolly and good-natured. The 
 only person who objected was a guardian of 
 two of the boys. He was afraid his little 
 charges would injure their health." 
 
 "That man ought to have been a woman," 
 said Albert. 
 
 "I say, Albert," resumed Bob, after adjust- 
 ing the pillows under the convalescent's head, 
 "if you don't mind, I'll come over here every 
 night and do my lessons with you." 
 
 "Why, that will be great!" cried Albert, 
 sitting upright, and forgetting that he was still 
 very weak. 
 
 "It will be for me," returned Bob. "Only 
 I'm bound to say I won't be able to help you 
 much in arithmetic. I'm pretty weak in that." 
 
 "So much the better," said Albert, as Bob
 
 46 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 firmly pushed him back upon the pillows. "I'm 
 strong in arithmetic, and can help you in that, 
 and if I don't win the scholarship I hope you 
 will." 
 
 "Then it's a bargain," said Bob, "and I'll 
 be here to-morrow night. And when we get 
 through our lessons I'll read to you. By the 
 way, Albert, how is it that a boy with an 
 Italian face like yours happens to have the 
 name of Corcoran?" 
 
 "That is my father's name; but his face 
 doesn't look like his name either: he's half 
 Italian. My father is head bookkeeper in a 
 big commission house, and he's got a mighty 
 good salary; but when it comes to providing 
 for a family of seven, the money seems to melt 
 like butter at a picnic. My father is a won- 
 der at figures. He's always calculating at 
 something or other, even when he's home. 
 He's mighty smart. And my mother can 
 make a dollar go from here to San Francisco. 
 Don't you like her, Bob?" 
 
 "I should say. She's quick as a flash, and 
 jolly, and her smile is a real smile." 
 
 "She goes to five-o'clock Mass and com- 
 munion every morning, Bob; and she's back 
 in time to get us all up, and serve breakfast. 
 She doesn't make any one else suffer on ac- 
 count of her piety. And I've a big brother of
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 47 
 
 seventeen who finished the St. Xavier business 
 class last June. He's got a position at seven 
 dollars and a half now; and it's a great relief 
 to my mother. She doesn't have to scrape so 
 much. His name is Angelo. He's working 
 hard and expects to get a raise, and he's tak- 
 ing lessons from a private tutor four nights 
 a week. Mother thinks he's working too hard; 
 but he's very ambitious. Sometimes I'm 
 afraid he'll break down. He's getting to look 
 as thin as I am. But he's mighty good." 
 "And what about the rest of your family?" 
 "The rest? Oh, there's my three sisters, 
 Josephine, Vera, and Rose. Josephine is in 
 the first year of business at St. Xavier's : she's 
 fifteen. Vera's in the sixth grade, and Rosie 
 in the third. All three of them, when the 
 weather is fine, go to six-o'clock Mass and 
 communion. They're mighty nice sisters; but 
 my mother has no end of trouble in keeping 
 them nicely dressed. She can do as much with 
 a needle as any woman in the parish ; but she's 
 always short of money ; or rather, I should say, 
 she used to be. My father gets one hundred 
 and forty dollars a month; but somehow it 
 never gets around. I can't make it out. Any- 
 way, I am sure it's not his fault. He's always 
 figuring and working at home. But now that 
 my brother brings her his salary every week,
 
 48 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 mother hasn't any trouble to speak of at all." 
 
 "I think," said Bob, "that I ought to tell 
 you something about myself. So far as I 
 know I have neither brother nor sister; I have 
 no remembrance of my mother, who died when 
 I was a baby, and my father disappeared over 
 two months ago." 
 
 "That's pretty hard," murmured Albert 
 sympathetically. 
 
 "Well, anyhow, I've lots of friends; and, 
 what's more, I believe I'm getting another 
 good one to-day." And Bob looked Albert 
 straight in the eyes. 
 
 "I believe you are," answered Albert, catch- 
 ing Bob's hand. 
 
 "I suppose," continued Bob, "you've heard 
 about our Sodality." 
 
 "Why, yes, Bob. They tell me that I'm 
 librarian." 
 
 "Yes, you are; but you needn't worry about 
 your work, because we haven't a library yet. 
 I think it was a good move to make the old 
 Sodality into two one the St. Stanislaus for 
 the working boys, and one the St. Aloysius for 
 the school boys. There are one hundred and 
 twenty in our Sodality now, and thirty of them 
 are officers. Father Reardon says we're pio- 
 neers, and if we make a good start the Sodality 
 will keep on going for years."
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 49 
 
 "How about your being the Sick Commit- 
 tee, Bob? I never heard anything of that till 
 you came in." 
 
 "I'll tell you about that, Albert. Last week, 
 at our meeting, Father Reardon said he'd like 
 to get suggestions from any member with re- 
 gard to Sodality work. It occurred to me that 
 we ought to have a sick committee, and I told 
 him; and so last night he sent for me, said it 
 was a great idea, and appointed me." 
 
 "It is a fine idea," exclaimed Albert. 
 
 "And when he appointed me Sick Commit- 
 tee, he gave me your address. So I started out 
 this morning ; and it was the Sodality that got 
 me here safely. When the boys here had cap- 
 tured me, and the Pioneer Street kids came 
 rushing to my help, I just settled everything 
 by saying I was the Sick Committee. That 
 settled it." 1 
 
 "They're still fighting about that ball game, 
 are they?" 
 
 "Yes; sort of foolish, isn't it?" 
 
 "And I understand that near half of the offi- 
 cers belong to this street and Pioneer. They 
 have to sit together at the meetings. There's 
 something wrong about it." 
 
 "Say, Albert, can't we settle that feud?" 
 
 "You can, Bob, I believe." 
 
 "How?"
 
 50 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 There was a long conference between the 
 two ; then Devine and Bolan were sent for and 
 interviewed. Those two leaders departed wear- 
 ing broad grins. 
 
 On leaving Albert, Bob found three raven- 
 haired daughters of Italy, all ribbons and 
 smiles, awaiting him downstairs. They were 
 really nice children, these sisters of Albert's, 
 bright and beautiful, and typically Italian. 
 Bob became their friend on sight. 
 
 To the astonishment of some one-hundred- 
 and-twenty-odd families living on the streets 
 from Ellen to Pioneer, Bob Ryan walked all 
 the way arm in arm with Bolan and Devine. 
 The dove of peace seemed to be hovering over 
 the happy trio. 
 
 It was Alice and her dearest friend in the 
 world since the day before, Elizabeth Reno, 
 who, espying them from afar, gave notice of 
 their coming. 
 
 At Fifth and Pike neutral territory the 
 group was broken. Leaving the protagonists 
 of Ellen Street there, Bob proceeded to Pio- 
 neer Street. Presently he was in heated con- 
 troversy with Johnny O'Brien and Freddy 
 O'Shea. It took these earnest youths some 
 time to understand that the Pioneer boys had 
 not been good sports, that things might be 
 done in professional games which should not
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 51 
 
 be tolerated in amateur contests. Fred Q'Shea 
 grew angry; but Bob remained calm. 
 
 "Well, anyhow," said Johnny O'Brien, "we 
 want to be fair and square. Perhaps we 
 weren't." 
 
 "And we are fair and square," retorted 
 Fred. "The Ellen Street club didn't win. 
 Why should we give them that money?" 
 
 "And besides," added Johnny, veering once 
 more to his leader's opinion, "they stole our 
 masks and bat and ball." 
 
 "You're right, Fred," said Bob, "they didn't 
 Win." 
 
 "Well, then, what the dickens are you fuss- 
 ing about?" 
 
 "Why, just this," returned Bob. "They 
 didn't win, and neither did you." 
 
 "But we did." 
 
 "Yes, by a trick, if you call that winning. 
 But I don't think you've a right to take other 
 people's money on a trick like that." 
 
 "It's all very well for you to talk, Bob 
 Ryan ; you weren't in that game. It isn't any 
 of your funeral anyhow." 
 
 "In one way it isn't, Fred. But then you 
 see I'm thinking about the Sodality." 
 
 At the word "Sodality," the air of ferocity 
 on Fred's face disappeared with magical effect. 
 He saw himself in fleeting vision passing
 
 52 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 around the medals to the Sodality on the com- 
 ing Sunday, and his face became obsequious to 
 his thought. 
 
 "How," continued Bob, "are we officers to 
 work together, if we have to pretend being 
 friendly? It's not right. We'll not do things. 
 We'll never be the banner Sodality." 
 
 The word "banner" had an extraordinary 
 effect on Fred. If the Sodality had any life 
 in it, there would surely be a procession some 
 sweet day, and he as medal bearer would be 
 the privileged one to carry the banner. Waves 
 of piety passed over his face; he was looking 
 just then as he hoped to look when the great 
 occasion arrived. 
 
 "Well, Bob, what have you got to propose?" 
 
 By this time the three youths were sur- 
 rounded by the children of the street. There 
 were no laws of privacy in the bright lexicon 
 of Pioneer Street. 
 
 "Just this : we'll call the game a draw." 
 
 "Yes; and what then?" 
 
 "We'll give the Ellen Street people their 
 money back." 
 
 "What! All of it? Why, two dollars and 
 forty cents of it was ours." 
 
 "I said 'their money,' two dollars and forty 
 cents," continued Bob. "And they'll give us 
 back our mask and ball and bat."
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 53 
 
 ''That sounds fair," said Fred slowly. 
 
 "It'll make us good sports," added Johnny 
 O'Brien proudly. 
 
 "But hold on!" Fred continued. "Those 
 kids have had our ball and bat and mask, and 
 used them." 
 
 "Just so," put in an onlooker. "They ought 
 to allow us something for wear and tear." 
 
 "Suppose we take out one dollar," sug- 
 gested Fred. 
 
 "Not enough!" cried several. 
 
 "Too much!" said a few. 
 
 "Of course," said Bob, "we ought to be 
 allowed something for wear and tear; but I 
 don't think it's fair for us to be the judges." 
 
 "Right-o," assented Johnny O'Brien. "If 
 we're going to be sports, let's be good sports." 
 
 "Well," argued Fred, "you don't want 
 them to be the judges, do you?" 
 
 "No; that wouldn't be right either," ad- 
 mitted Bob. 
 
 "Suppose we put it up to the Chief of Po- 
 lice," suggested Johnny O'Brien's younger 
 brother. 
 
 "You go and chase yourself around the 
 block," cried Johnny. 
 
 Even the little girls cast eyes of disapproval 
 upon the youthful O'Brien, who very quickly
 
 54 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 departed to console himself with a penny's 
 worth of candy. 
 
 "How about Father Carney or Father 
 Reardon?" suggested another. 
 
 "But they don't know anything about our 
 row," said Fred. "And why should they? It 
 wouldn't interest them." 
 
 "Oh, no!" put in the fair Alice. "Father 
 Carney shouldn't know anything about it." 
 
 Miss Mary Fitzpatrick gazed with uncon- 
 cealed admiration upon the fair Alice, who at 
 that moment looked as though she were posing 
 for a picture of Innocence. 
 
 "I'll tell you what, boys," cried Freddy in 
 a burst of inspiration. "We'll put it up to the 
 Sporting Editor of the Enquirer." 
 
 Fred became for the moment the hero of the 
 street. 
 
 "The next thing," continued Fred, still 
 riding on the wave of popularity, "is to collect 
 some of that money that's been divided up 
 among the fellers. We'll sure need at least 
 one dollar and fifty cents." 
 
 Freddy's popularity, at least among the ball 
 players, dropped like a stick. Several of the 
 team, looking thoughtful, unostentatiously 
 disengaged themselves from the crowd and 
 went their various ways. 
 
 "I'll put in a quarter," continued Fred, who
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 55 
 
 a moment before had resolved to donate but 
 ten cents to the cause. 
 
 "Put me down for another," added Bob. 
 
 "And me for twenty cents," said Johnny 
 O'Brien. "Let's all be good sports." 
 
 It was the ambition of Tomboy Mary's life 
 to be a good sport. She gave over her only 
 nickle. Alice, too, had aspirations in the same 
 way, expressed in the sum of three cents. 
 
 Within five minutes the sum was collected. 
 
 On that same afternoon the Sporting Editor 
 of the Enquirer received with perfect gravity 
 a delegation of youths, nine in number, who, 
 with as little explanation as they could pos- 
 sibly give, wanted to get the valuation on the 
 wear and tear of a bat and ball and catcher's 
 mask. 
 
 It took half an hour to settle the matter at 
 eighty-five cents; and, as the Editor insisted 
 on paying that sum out of his own pocket, the 
 peace committee found itself with nearly one 
 dollar on its hands. 
 
 It was Johnny O'Brien who suggested a 
 celebration in the form of fireworks. Johnny, 
 now the dead-game sport of Pioneer Street, 
 carried his point. 
 
 On Sunday morning there were in the En- 
 quirer two articles concerning our young 
 friends. The first was in the sporting column,
 
 56 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 and announced that the St. Aloysius Ball 
 Team was already organized for the coming 
 spring, and was open to challenge from any 
 club of boys not over sixteen in Cincinnati or 
 vicinity. Frederick O'Shea was its captain, 
 William Devine its catcher, and Edward Bo- 
 Ian its shortstop. Its pitcher, the article went 
 on to declare, was the best twirler of his age in 
 the city, Master Robert Ryan, whose control 
 was almost perfect. 
 
 "Almost perfect," exclaimed Edward Bo- 
 Ian, as he read the article and passed his hand 
 over his eyes, "I should say it is." 
 
 The other article was among the locals, and 
 read as follows: 
 
 A Belated Fourth of July. 
 
 Johnny O'Brien Celebrates. 
 
 Doctor Says It's Not Serious. 
 
 "Last night Johnny O'Brien, aged 13, of 
 836 Pioneer Street, for the delectation of his 
 youthful friends and admirers, undertook to 
 shoot off a giant firecracker. Johnny held it 
 a moment too long. His hand was burned, 
 and he is now considering taking a week's va- 
 cation from school. Johnny looks forward 
 to his absence with fortitude. In justice to 
 him, he bore his pain without flinching, and his
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 57 
 
 friends on the street unanimously pronounce 
 him a sport." 
 
 Thus in one day died out forever an ancient 
 feud, from the ashes of which arose a live So- 
 dality with a ball team the like of which, tender 
 age considered, had never before flourished in 
 St. Xavier Parish.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 The Flower Section is organized, and be- 
 gins its promising career with a case which 
 still involves a mystery. 
 
 A FTER the events set down in the first four 
 * chapters of this chronicle there was no 
 further question of Bob Ryan's standing in 
 St. Xavier School. His feat in sitting upon 
 and holding down William Devine for nearly 
 five minutes settled the vexed question as to 
 his being the strongest boy in the eight grades ; 
 his triumph of marksmanship in bringing Ed- 
 ward Bolan, bat in hand, to a full stop by a 
 hand-grenade in the shape of a pulpy orange 
 led to his being tried out and selected as pitcher 
 for the great St. Aloysius ball team ; while his 
 tact and judicial poise in putting an end to 
 a feud of over three months* duration stamped 
 him in the eyes of parents and children as a 
 second Daniel come to judgment. Best of all, 
 his introduction of the Sodality as a factor into 
 questions of everyday life gave new vigor and 
 impetus to that promising organization. 
 
 The Sick Committee became a household 
 word. The Children of Mary, of which So- 
 dality both Miss Alice O'Shea and Miss Mary 
 
 58
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 59 
 
 Fitzgerald were shining ornaments, took up, 
 at the instance of Alice, the question of start- 
 ing a similar section. They called it The 
 Flower Section, and Alice with Elizabeth 
 Reno, the girl who just then happened to be 
 her bosom friend an intimacy that had lasted 
 unbroken for five days and a half were ap- 
 pointed the Flower Section Committee by 
 their Director, Father Carney, with the privi- 
 lege of choosing a third member. They at 
 once hit upon Mary Fitzgerald, in consequence 
 of which choice seven of their dearest friends 
 on Pioneer Street refused to speak to them 
 for fully a week. Those girls had local pride. 
 The appointment to office had a wondrous 
 effect on the tomboy of Ellen Street; she 
 walked, when conscious of her office and she 
 was conscious of it in most of her waking hours 
 with a certain attempt at dignity, and gave 
 up forever her artless habit of sticking out her 
 tongue at persons with whom she did not fully 
 agree. Her first act, on receiving news of her 
 appointment, was to buy a dozen oranges, 
 armed with which and dressed in her Sunday 
 best she came down upon Alice O'Shea in her 
 proper home, and inquired what girl in the 
 Children of Mary Sodality was ill. 
 
 Alice's blue eyes opened to their widest. 
 She shook her flaxen curls. Yes, flaxen curls!
 
 60 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 The readers of this simple tale were intro- 
 duced to the fair child in deshabille. They 
 saw her on Saturday morning. Little girls, 
 like their older sisters, are at their best, in 
 point of appearance, in the afternoon. And 
 on the particular afternoon when Mary no 
 longer the tomboy of Ellen Street, but a 
 flower-girl paid her a visit, Alice was gay, as 
 to her hair, with ribbons, and arrayed in stock- 
 ings fully as white as her conscience, with slip- 
 pers to match both, and a white dress set off 
 in all its immaculateness with a blue sash. A 
 shining bracelet on one wrist gave the child the 
 finishing touch. 
 
 "Why, Mary," returned Alice, "there is no 
 one sick that I know of." 
 
 "That's too bad," said Mary, with genuine 
 regret in her voice. "I bought these oranges 
 for her. You see, I had fifteen cents which 
 some lady gave me for going on an errand for 
 her; and I was afraid if I didn't buy the 
 oranges right away I might spend the money.'* 
 
 Alice stood for full three seconds in deep 
 reflection. 
 
 "I'll tell you what," she then said, "I'll call 
 up Elizabeth Reno. She's just as anxious as 
 we are to have a sick member. Maybe she's 
 found one." 
 
 Then Alice took up the receiver.
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 61 
 
 "Is that you, Elizabeth? Do you know who 
 this is? you don't? Well, you needn't get 
 sassy about it. Hey? What's that? Yes, 
 this is Alice, and I miss you so much the 
 same as you miss me. Say, come on over. 
 Yes, right away. Oho, I'm so glad you've got 
 your white slippers on. It's too bad your hair 
 is bobbed, because we could both have curls 
 if it weren't. Say, Mary Fitzgerald is here, 
 and she's brought along a bundle of oranges 
 for a sick girl; and we've just got to find a sick 
 girl before those oranges spoil or get eaten. 
 All right, Elizabeth, come right over." 
 
 When ihe eager Elizabeth arrived she was 
 greeted with fervent "halloas" from the other 
 two members of the Flower Section. 
 
 Together they went over the membership 
 list of the Children of Mary. It was a great 
 disappointment to them that every girl on the 
 roster could be accounted for as in daily at- 
 tendance at school. 
 
 "Why, just think," exclaimed Alice, "there's 
 that skinny, dough-faced Annie Morrison who 
 was sick more than half of last year with am- 
 monia and newrology ; and this year she hasn't 
 missed a day." 
 
 "It's a shame!" observed Elizabeth. 
 
 "I wished she'd put it off till this year," re- 
 marked the Flower of Ellen Street.
 
 62 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "Say," Alice went on, "maybe Father Car- 
 ney knows some girl who's sick. I think I'll 
 telephone him." 
 
 "Maybe he wouldn't like it," Elizabeth ob- 
 jected. 
 
 "But isn't it our duty?" answered Alice. 
 
 "And, besides, I don't want my oranges to 
 spoil," observed Mary. 
 
 At this point of the conversation Alice, hap- 
 pening to notice something in the attire of 
 Elizabeth which appealed to her aesthetic 
 sense, proceeded to remark upon it, whereupon 
 the three young ladies forgot for full ten min- 
 utes the affairs of the Sodality in the absorbing 
 question concerning what they were to wear 
 on the following Sunday. The conversation 
 became more than absorbing, when, in a happy 
 moment, Mary Fitzgerald, the regenerate, 
 suggested that the Flower Committee adopt 
 a uniform. The Red Cross nurse attire was 
 discussed, and finally rejected on the grounds 
 that the Children of Mary Sodality ought to 
 have something different. 
 
 They took up the question of hair-ribbons. 
 Elizabeth, somewhat dark of complexion, 
 came out strong for red ; fair-haired Alice, for 
 reasons clear to every girl, stood staunch for 
 blue. The conversation reached a point where 
 Elizabeth, risen to her feet and with eyes flash-
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 63 
 
 ing, was about to inform her dearest friend in 
 the world that she would never speak to her 
 again, when the telephone rang. 
 
 Alice took up the receiver: 
 
 "Halloa! Oh, is it you, Mrs. Reno? 
 What? Catherine has gone to bed!" 
 
 There was a pause; then 
 
 "All right; I'll tell Elizabeth at once. 
 Good-by." 
 
 Then Alice turned, all trace of the late vexa- 
 tion gone from her expressive features. 
 
 "Oh, Elizabeth, your sister Catherine has 
 took sick and has gone to bed with a side-split- 
 ting headache." 
 
 At the announcement Mary Fitzgerald 
 fairly beamed with joy. Elizabeth was 
 pleased, too, though her pleasure was some- 
 what alloyed, as shown by an air of perplexity 
 and a wrinkled brow. 
 
 "I'm glad," said Mary, "that our first sick 
 girl to be visited by this here committee is a 
 sister of one of the flowers, and a seventh- 
 grade girl at that." 
 
 Then as one man up rose the Flower Sec- 
 tion, and arm in arm fared forth into the 
 street. 
 
 "Who's sick?" called Johnny O'Brien, with 
 his usual intense interest in everybody else's 
 interest. His right hand was swathed in ban-
 
 64 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 dages to the size of a pillow; but John in face 
 was as serene as ever. 
 
 Before the three fragrant flowers, having 
 vouchsafed the desired information, had 
 crossed the street and progressed the fifty feet 
 or so which stood between the respective houses 
 of the O' Sheas and the Renos, everybody on 
 Pioneer Street, except old Mrs. Boylan, who 
 was stone deaf, were discussing the fact that 
 Catherine Reno was down with a "side-split- 
 ting" headache. 
 
 Mary Fitzpatrick, indeed, was alarmed. 
 Not so Elizabeth, for that fair flower distinctly 
 remembered that before leaving her home she 
 had informed her sister Catherine that the 
 Flower Section had a dozen oranges on hand, 
 and were going to get together to see whether 
 they could not find some sick child of Mary 
 upon whom to lavish them. 
 
 Their first visit of mercy was a success. 
 Catherine listened to their prattle with 
 patience, and accepted the oranges, after Mary 
 had overcome all her apparent objections. 
 During the visit it was also settled that the 
 three flowers should wear in their official work 
 any color of hair-ribbon they chose. 
 
 Hard upon their departure Master Johnny 
 O'Brien, with that whole-hearted interest he 
 took in everything connected with Pioneer
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 65 
 
 Street, engaged Elizabeth in friendly talk. Tt 
 was easy for Johnny to get out of the unsus- 
 pecting flower every detail that had led up to 
 Catherine's sudden illness. All this within 
 due time that is, within the next five minutes 
 Johnny faithfully retailed to his boy friends. 
 Their curiosity was aroused. 
 
 After supper Johnny visited the invalid and 
 talked to her for half an hour, during which 
 time he watched her closely. Then he bade 
 her a friendly adieu, expressing the hope that 
 she would be quite well in the morning ; a hope, 
 by the way, which was fully realized. 
 
 "Well," cried Fred, speaking in the name of 
 every boy on the street as Johnny came out^ 
 "is she really sick?" 
 
 All waited with undisguised interest for 
 Johnny's reply. 
 
 Johnny paused, raised his heroic hand, heroic 
 in size and in history, on high, and answered: 
 
 "You can search me!" 
 
 Whether the gifted young lady, who shared 
 her oranges with her sister, giving her one, was 
 really ill or not on this occasion is a mystery 
 which no one has as yet solved.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 The strange conduct of Mr. Corcoran, and 
 the mysteries attendant upon his giving up 
 work forever. 
 
 To do justice to the Flower Section, they 
 showed subsequently great zeal and did 
 really good work in their dealings with the 
 sick members of the Children of Mary. They 
 were lucky in having before their eyes an excel- 
 lent model, Master Bob Ryan. That young 
 gentleman had a genius for dealing with peo- 
 ple in sorrow and distress. In a few weeks he 
 was looked upon by the Corcoran family as 
 one of themselves. Every evening without 
 fail he visited Albert, and together they went 
 over the next day's lessons to their mutual 
 benefit. Bob was strong in English; Albert 
 in mathematics. 
 
 During these days Bob came to know Mr. 
 Corcoran and Angelo. Mr. Corcoran was a 
 puzzle to the boy. He was a dark man, with 
 very gentle, dreamy, black eyes, and a fierce 
 moustache, long, blue-black, and curled up- 
 ward at the ends. His face, in other words, 
 was a contradiction ferocious below, lamb- 
 like above. 
 
 66
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 67 
 
 Mr. Corcoran in his own household seldom 
 spoke. His thoughts seemed ever to be far 
 away. Sometimes Bob wondered whether he 
 really knew his own children by name. At 
 meals he occasionally broke into speech; and 
 ever he spoke of a day soon to come when the 
 family would leave Ellen Street and move to 
 Clifton. 
 
 "I've got my eye on a dwelling there," he 
 said one day in Bob's presence, "which is worth 
 one hundred thousand dollars, and it's going 
 begging for forty thousand. I'm going to buy 
 that." 
 
 Mrs. Corcoran smiled almost any remark 
 drew a smile from her but said nothing. The 
 children listened with sparkling eyes. They 
 had perfect faith in their father. They con- 
 sidered him to be one of the most wonderful 
 men alive. 
 
 "I say, pa," Albert objected, "how can you 
 pay forty thousand for a house on a salary of 
 one hundred and forty dollars a month?" 
 
 Mr. Corcoran's eyes put on a far-away look. 
 
 "Forty thousand dollars 1" he cried. "Ah, 
 bah ! that's nothing. You needn't worry about 
 money, children. In a short time you'll have 
 more than you'll know what to do with. And 
 my salary that's nothing. Very soon I shall 
 work for no man."
 
 68 HIS LUCKIEST TEAR 
 
 Then Mr. Corcoran, forgetting to take the 
 quarter of pie just handed him by his wife, 
 and leaving his cup of tea untouched, arose 
 and departed hastily for his "den" a little 
 cubby-hole on the second floor at the head of 
 the landing. 
 
 "I wonder," said Angelo, "what father's 
 got up his sleeve." 
 
 Mrs. Corcoran ceased smiling as she said, 
 not without a touch of sweetness in her tone 
 
 "Angelo, that doesn't sound very nice. You 
 are speaking of your father." 
 
 "Beg pardon, mother; we do get careless 
 the way we talk. What I should have said is : 
 'what plan my father has.' He certainly has 
 something on his mind. And I know he's 
 working on something." 
 
 Bob was looking earnestly at Mrs. Cor- 
 coran. That good woman bent her head low 
 for a moment, and it seemed to the sharp-eyed 
 boy that a spasm of pain passed over her face. 
 The next moment she raised her eyes and 
 smiled brightly. 
 
 "If I thought, children," she said, "that 
 wealth would make you better and happier, 
 I'd pray for it every day. But I don't, and 
 so I'm content to say just 'Give us this day 
 our daily bread.' ' 
 
 "I'd rather pray for cakes," said Rosie.
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 69 
 
 And the supper party then broke up in 
 riotous laughter. 
 
 As Bob helped the still weak Albert up the 
 stairs he could not help noticing Mr. Corcoran 
 seated before a table. The man was appar- 
 ently checking off numbers. Sheets of paper 
 were all about him, on all o j theni combina- 
 tions of numbers and letters. 
 
 Two hours later Bob, leaving for the night s 
 saw Mr. Corcoran once more. He was still 
 engrossed with his mysterious work. 
 
 So had it been every night. Mr. Corcoran 
 always worked with the door open; but into 
 that den no one but himself was supposed to 
 enter. From the time that he entered his den 
 there was perfect quiet in the house. Singing 
 or loud talking was absolutely forbidden. In- 
 deed, for the last four or five weeks Mrs. Cor- 
 coran had not been permitted to run her sew- 
 ing machine. No wonder that Bob Ryan was 
 puzzled. 
 
 Angelo was like his father in his gift for 
 quick figuring; like his mother in energy and 
 sprightliness. His salary had been raised 
 twice in a month. He was now getting ten 
 dollars a week, and there was promise of his 
 soon being promoted to the office of assistant 
 bookkeeper, with a substantial increase. And 
 Angelo was working for it. Every night he
 
 70 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 either studied at home or went to take instruct 
 tions from his private tutor. Seldom did he 
 retire until midnight; but always before his 
 father, who, intent on his mysterious occupa- 
 tion, burned the midnight oil not unfrequently 
 into the first flicker of the dawn. 
 
 To Bob's joy, the time soon came when Al- 
 bert was able to get about ; and for twelve days 
 before his return to school he transferred his 
 place of studies from his proper home to his 
 new friend's delightful room. 
 
 At ten o'clock, their lessons thoroughly pre- 
 pared, the two walked arm in arm as far as 
 Little Fourth Street. Arrived at that ascent, 
 it was Master Bob's custom to catch Albert 
 in his strong arms and to carry him up to the 
 level. 
 
 On the last night of October the two reached 
 the foot of the street that was steep. 
 
 "Well, Bob," said Albert, "you needn't 
 carry me to-night. I don't feel a bit tired; 
 and to-morrow I start to school." 
 
 "Fine," said Bob, taking his friend's arm. 
 "Come on, now, and don't be afraid to lean on 
 me. Oh, but the boys will be glad when you 
 get back. They all say that as soon as you 
 start in I won't be the leader any more. They 
 say you can beat me all hollow; and I believe 
 them."
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 71 
 
 "Well, I don't," returned Albert. "You've 
 got more English in your little finger than I 
 have in my whole head. Halloa ! What's the 
 matter? If that isn't my father standing on 
 the front steps! What's happened to him 
 and his den? I never knew him out of it at 
 this time of night in the last six months." 
 
 "Halloa, boys!" cried Mr. Corcoran, mo- 
 tioning for them to come near. 
 
 "Good evening, sir," said Bob. 
 
 "Well, boys, everything is fixed. I've left 
 my position." 
 
 Mr. Corcoran's eyes were shining. His 
 face was that of an ecstatic. The heavy lines 
 under his eyes, brought on by want of 
 sleep, had disappeared. He looked ten years 
 younger. 
 
 "I've been working," continued the man, 
 with an air of exaltation, "for nine months 
 without intermission. And I've got it!" 
 
 "Got what, pa?" 
 
 "To-morrow," continued the father, "I take 
 my first holiday and start my fortune." 
 
 "Are you going to be rich, pa?" 
 
 "I am rich." Here the man placed his hand 
 over his coat pocket. "There's over one hun- 
 dred thousand dollars in value here right now. 
 We'll move to Clifton by the first of next 
 week. On the day after to-morrow I buy the
 
 72 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 house there. And, Angelo" here Mr. Cor- 
 coran paused and looked at his large-eyed son 
 
 -"that is eh Albert, you'll never want 
 money as long as you live." 
 
 Saying this, Mr. Corcoran, holding his hand 
 tightly over his pocket, turned and walked 
 into the house. 
 
 "Good gracious, Bob, what do you make of 
 it?" cried Albert after a prolonged pause. 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know," answered Bob. 
 
 "Well, Bob, I don't either; but if I get lots 
 of money we're partners." 
 
 And the boys shook hands for the night. 
 
 It was nearing four o'clock on the afternoon 
 of the following day. St. Xavier School had 
 been dismissed. Only the chosen boys of the 
 eighth grade had remained. Brother Cyril 
 was explaining to these alert and ambitious 
 youths the thing they call in English the nom- 
 inative absolute. Very soon every one present 
 grasped the explanation. 
 
 The boys were a set worth studying. There 
 was perfect discipline in the room. And yet 
 many a man would have said that there was 
 none at all. For the young students were 
 cheerful to a striking degree, and free in their 
 remarks to the teacher and to one another. 
 There appeared to be no rule of silence. There 
 was, too, no little good-natured badinage.
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 73 
 
 And yet there was perfect discipline ; because 
 Brother Cyril could do with these boys what 
 he pleased. 
 
 While these merry youngsters were compos- 
 ing out of hand sentences rich in nominative 
 absolutes and hurling them into one another's 
 teeth, Brother Cyril raised his hand. 
 
 "Take out your paper," he said. 
 
 How quickly the execution followed upon 
 the command ! 
 
 "Now write seven sentences, each one with 
 a nominative absolute ; and let there be perfect 
 quiet." 
 
 For five minutes the scratching of pens was 
 the only sound ; and then there came a knock 
 at the door. 
 
 Brother Cyril opened it himself. A police- 
 man was standing outside. Of the twenty- 
 four boys present only three raised their eyes 
 and glimpsed the strange visitor. Brother 
 Cyril closed himself out, and for several min- 
 utes more the only sound in that classroom 
 continued to be the scratching of pens. 
 
 When Brother Cyril returned, his face was 
 quite pale; and a close observer would have 
 noticed a slight quivering of the lips. 
 
 "Albert Corcoran," he said quietly, "I want 
 to speak to you for a moment."
 
 74 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 The boy arose promptly and followed his 
 teacher outside the classroom. 
 
 "I'm awful sorry for you, my boy," said 
 the Brother as he closed the door, "but there's 
 bad news." 
 
 "Oh, has anything happened to my 
 mother?" 
 
 "No, she's as brave a woman as I've ever 
 met ; and the bad news has come to her as well 
 as to you. It's your father." 
 
 "Oh, Brother, he hasn't done anything 
 wrong, has he?" 
 
 The poor boy was thinking of his father's 
 strange conduct. In spite of himself his im- 
 agination at once grew alive with vague sus- 
 picions. 
 
 "No, my boy, there is nothing like that, 
 thank God. He was over in Kentucky this 
 afternoon and fell unconscious on a street in 
 Ludlow." 
 
 "And and is he dead, Brother?" 
 
 "He came to after a few minutes," continued 
 Brother Cyril, "and gave his name and ad- 
 dress. And then one of the priests over there 
 arrived and got his confession and anointed 
 him, when he became unconscious again. But 
 before he lost his senses he gave the priest a 
 message for your mother alone." 
 
 "I'm awful glad he got a priest," said the
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 75 
 
 boy. "You see, my father's been so busy work- 
 ing out something or another that he's been 
 careless. I'm sure he didn't mean to be. 
 We've all been praying for him Oh, you 
 needn't tell me, Brother; I know he's dead." 
 
 Here the boy broke down. 
 
 "You must be brave, Albert," continued the 
 Brother, "for the sake of your mother and 
 your sisters." 
 
 "I will I will," raising his head and stand- 
 ing erect. The next moment he collapsed. 
 
 "Bob," cried Brother Cyril, holding Albert 
 in one arm and opening the door of the eighth- 
 grade class a few inches, "come this way at 
 once." 
 
 Bob Ryan showed no surprise. He simply 
 took Albert in his sturdy arms, carried him to 
 the water faucet near at hand, threw a few 
 drops of water on the deathly pale face, and 
 with a caressing hand rubbed the brow. In 
 the meantime Brother Cyril related briefly the 
 story of Mr. Corcoran's sudden death. 
 
 "He died with the sacraments, Albert," 
 whispered Bob into the ear of Albert. 
 
 Albert opened his eyes. 
 
 "I'm sure," added Bob, "that he died a good 
 death." 
 
 "We've all been praying for six weeks that 
 he might," whispered Albert. "The girls have
 
 76 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 been going to communion every day, and 
 Angelo went when he could. My mother 
 asked us to. She told us she was alarmed 
 about him. I believe that our prayers have 
 been heard." 
 
 "Brother Cyril," said Bob, 'Til take Albert 
 home." 
 
 Two days later the funeral took place. Mrs. 
 Corcoran had contrived to keep up a small in- 
 surance policy on her husband's life, enough 
 to pay the expenses of the obsequies. She had 
 received the message to her from the priest. 
 But of that message she said nothing. Neither 
 did she tell any one that, although her husband 
 had received his full salary the day before his 
 death, not one cent of it ever reached her hands 
 or was ever accounted for in any way soever.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 In which Bob starts something really worth 
 while. 
 
 AY, Bob," said Albert, bursting into Bob's 
 room without the formality of knocking, 
 "I've got good news." 
 
 "Good! What is it?" 
 
 "Angelo's been promoted. He's simply a 
 wonder at figuring, like my poor father we 
 buried two weeks ago, and they've made him 
 assistant bookkeeper at sixty dollars a month." 
 
 "Just think!" exclaimed Bob, "and he fin- 
 ished from our business class only a little over 
 four months ago." 
 
 "Do you know what that means to us, Bob?" 
 continued Albert, throwing himself into a 
 chair. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Why, it means just this: My mother 
 doesn't have to worry about the rent or the 
 bills any more. Sixty dollars! Why, she 
 never had that much money each month since 
 I can remember. Sixty dollars will go as far 
 with her as a hundred with most women. She 
 wastes nothing. I've often wondered what 
 
 became of my father's salary." 
 
 77
 
 78 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "Do you know," said Bob, "that fathers are 
 queer propositions? At least, that's the way 
 it seems to me. Mine was funnier than yours." 
 
 "He was?" 
 
 "I should say. He wasn't very kind, and 
 he hardly ever spoke to me ; and, while he had 
 lots of money, he gave me very little, and last 
 summer he took me out into a woods, and told 
 me to clear out, and to change oh, I came 
 near forgetting! I'd like to tell you all about 
 him, Albert; but I don't think I've a right to. 
 Anyhow, I left him and he left me, and I 
 don't know what's become of him nor why he 
 acted the way he did; and the whole thing's a 
 mystery that's bothering me and a lot of my 
 friends." 
 
 "And you're worse off than I am, Bob 
 you have no mother." 
 
 Bob had the reticence of the normal Ameri- 
 can boy. But, had he spoken what he felt, he 
 would have told Albert that whenever he met 
 Mrs. Corcoran the pain of longing for a loving 
 mother, a mother like Albert's, almost brought 
 the tears to his eyes. 
 
 "Anyhow," he said, "I've no cause to whine. 
 I've got the best friends any boy could wish 
 to have, including your mother, Albert. I've 
 friends in our class, and friends on our street, 
 and friends scattered along the banks of the
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 79 
 
 Mississippi. A fellow can't expect to have 
 everything. And Tom Temple and the 
 Reades are on the lookout to find what's be- 
 come of my father and why he sent me adrift." 
 
 "We're awfully happy about our brother's 
 raise," Albert went on, "and we've been think- 
 ing, my mother and sisters and I, what we 
 ought to do." 
 
 "Well, did you settle it?" 
 
 "Not entirely, Bob. But one thing we ve 
 fixed on: we're going to receive communion 
 every day, in thanksgiving." 
 
 Suddenly Bob's eyes grew bright. 
 
 "By George, Albert," he exclaimed, "you've 
 given me an idea! You go to communion 
 every day; so do I, at the five-thirty Mass I 
 serve. Then there's a lot of the acolytes who 
 go daily, too. Why can't we get up a Com- 
 munion Section in our Sodality, the same as 
 the young ladies?" 
 
 "How do you mean, Bob?" 
 
 "Just this. Let's try to get every boy of the 
 Sodality in it. Of course we can't get all to 
 go daily ; but some can go twice a week, others 
 three times, and almost any boy can go at least 
 once. If they do that much they can be mem- 
 bers." 
 
 "That looks good to me," said Albert. 
 
 "It will stop a whole lot of sin," continued
 
 80 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 Bob. "A boy who receives once a week isn't 
 likely to go wrong. You put my name down, 
 and I'll get all the boys on this street to go in 
 on it, and I'll tell Brother Crellin, the sacris- 
 tan, to-morrow to get the altar boys inter- 
 ested." 
 
 "But why don't you get it up yourself, 
 Bob?" 
 
 "Who, me? That's your little offering of 
 gratitude. You can do it; and I know you'll 
 like to do it." 
 
 "Yes; but you'd like to do it, too." 
 
 "But I'm the Sick Committee. I've six 
 boys on hand now. And another's at the Betts 
 Street Hospital. They take up pretty much 
 all of my spare time." 
 
 "All right, Bob; it's a go. I'm sure, too, 
 that Father Reardon will like it." 
 
 "Of course he will," said Bob. "I heard him 
 talking the other day about our eighth-grade 
 boys. He said that most of them were just at 
 the dangerous age, when boys begin to get bad 
 habits if they're not mighty careful. And then 
 he said something I don't intend to forget." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 "He said that there were two things which 
 were dead sure to keep Sodality boys of four- 
 teen and fifteen out of mortal sin; and that 
 Brother Cyril had settled one of them for his
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 81 
 
 boys, and that he, the director of the Sodality, 
 ought to contrive to bring about the other." 
 
 "What two things, Bob?" 
 
 "One was to keep the boys busy keep 'em 
 playing and studying hard, with no time for 
 loafing. And Brother Cyril has attended to 
 that." 
 
 "He certainly has," said Albert. 
 
 "And the other things," went on Bob, with 
 an enthusiasm which showed on every feature, 
 "is frequent, and, if possible, daily communion. 
 And he said that if he could get the boys to do- 
 ing that he'd be perfectly happy." 
 
 "Say, Bob, let's surprise him. I'll tell you 
 what I'll do: I'll get after these boys myself 
 all but the bunch you said you'd attend to; 
 and I'll give every minute of my spare time to 
 seeing them; and when I've got the list made 
 out I'll bring it to Father Reardon." 
 
 "Fine," cried Bob. "It ought to be fixed 
 up inside of ten days." 
 
 "And we'll put one over on the Children 
 of Mary," added Albert boyishly. 
 
 I am afraid Albert reckoned without his 
 host. Johnny O'Brien got wind of the affair 
 early the next day. Hot with the news, he 
 reported it to Fred O'Shea, who at once de- 
 clared that he'd join and go to communion at 
 least three times a week which to Master
 
 82 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 Fred was a somewhat radical change. No 
 one appreciated this fact more than himself. 
 In fact, he began to put on airs; and boasted 
 at table of the great Communion Section. 
 
 Leaving her breakfast unfinished, the fair 
 and eager Alice telephoned her dearest friend 
 in the world, Elizabeth Reno, repeating her 
 brother's remarks almost verbatim. Not en- 
 tirely, however. Elizabeth had some trouble 
 in understanding that the St. Aloysius Sodal- 
 ity was getting up a "Eucalyptic" Section. 
 
 "And," added Alice, "I think we ought to 
 do something." 
 
 "Of course we ought," came Elizabeth's de- 
 cided tones through the receiver, "only we've 
 got to get another name. Eucalyptic Section 
 sounds funny; and the girls in the fifth grade 
 won't be able to pronounce it." 
 
 "Oh, I don't care what we call it," answered 
 Alice sweetly. "We ought to get another 
 name anyhow." 
 
 "Listen, Alice," came the voice of the dear- 
 est friend. "Just hold the phone for a second. 
 Catherine's here, and she won't let me talk to 
 you till I tell her all about it." 
 
 There was a silence for several minutes. 
 Then- 
 
 "Oh, Alice! My sister thinks it's lovely; 
 and she got just the beautifullest name; and
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 83 
 
 she's made it up out of her own head. She 
 says we ought to call it 'The Ladies of the 
 Blessed Sacrament.' ' 
 
 Alice whooped musically into the telephone. 
 
 "And, Alice, listen! She says she'll work it 
 up herself among the girls, the same as that 
 Albert Corcoran among the boys." 
 
 "I didn't think she'd be so pious," Alice re- 
 marked, with that frankness so often associated 
 with tender years. 
 
 "Neither did I," answered the dearest 
 friend; "and I really don't know what to make 
 of it." 
 
 The fact of the matter was that Miss Cath- 
 erine Reno had lost considerable prestige since 
 her late severe but short-lived headache. One 
 member of the class had asked her whether the 
 prospect of oranges could bring on a headache 
 and then cure it. Others had made equally 
 unfeeling remarks. But the boys on the street 
 Were worse. They were always asking her 
 about her precious health. And when doing 
 so they were far too elaborate in their manner. 
 Catherine, therefore, bearing these taunts 
 meekly, was eagerly desirous to rehabilitat" 
 herself. And now that the opportunity was 
 thrust upon her she embraced it. 
 
 Within ten days both promoters had fin- 
 ished their work; and both presented them-
 
 84 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 selves to their respective directors. The 
 Eucharistic Section and the Ladies of the 
 Blessed Sacrament were adopted with enthu- 
 siasm, and the two Sodalities became in con- 
 sequence more powerful for good than ever. 
 
 It must be confessed that there were few 
 daily communicants on Pioneer Street. Alice 
 and her dearest friend agreed to go six times 
 a week. But to get up early Saturday morn- 
 ing! That was asking too much. 
 
 To the admiration of all that knew her, 
 Catherine Reno was the shining exception. 
 She arose on Saturday at six o'clock. The 
 children of the square decided, in the language 
 of Alice O'Shea, that Catherine was "dread- 
 fully pious." Johnny O'Brien, however, had 
 his doubts. 
 
 "Is she doing penance for playing possum?" 
 he asked himself, "or is she really pious? Any- 
 how, it's a clear case of conversion." 
 
 But the model child, who, the tradition says, 
 devoured eleven oranges at one sitting, giving 
 the twelfth to her sister, kept her own counsel. 
 Even to this day wild horses can not drag from 
 her any further information concerning her 
 "side-splitting" headache.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 In which the author takes pleasure in intro- 
 ducing the Xaverian Acolytes engaged in se 
 cret service. 
 
 Y the way, Brother Crellin, did you hear 
 of the latest from the Children of 
 Mary?" asked Charles Bryan. 
 
 The two were in the acolytes' sacristy. Eve- 
 ning devotions for the first Friday in Decem- 
 ber were just over. The speaker, Charles 
 Bryan, was the oldest member of the Xaverian 
 Acolytes, a society lately organized by Brother 
 Crellin and in its first fervor. It was made 
 up of picked young men of St. Xavier Parish. 
 They were, all of them, breadwinners, the 
 youngest being eighteen years of age. It was 
 their delight, besides serving the regular 
 Masses when called upon, to take part in the 
 more solemn ecclesiastical services. Charles 
 Bryan, nearly thirty years of age, was one of 
 the model young men of the Sixth Street Hill. 
 Like Longfellow's blacksmith, he looked the 
 whole world in the face, for he feared not any 
 man. He was at once kind and brave. He 
 had no human respect ; and he was deeply reli- 
 gious. Every morning he served the half- 
 
 85
 
 86 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 past-five o'clock Mass at the main altar. There 
 were twenty-one members in the Junior Aco- 
 lythical ; and they were all clean-living, eager, 
 earnest young men. 
 
 "No. Have they started a new section?" 
 
 "They wanted to; but they've got Father 
 Carney so puzzled that he doesn't quite know 
 what to do." 
 
 "For that matter," observed the Brother 
 Sacristan, "they've had him on the run ever 
 since Catherine Reno started the Communion 
 Section. You see, Father Carney made her 
 an officer at once, the Grand Secretary of the 
 Ladies of the Blessed Sacrament; and so the 
 idea spread among the Children of Mary that 
 everybody who got up a new section would 
 step right into office, and no questions asked. 
 Within a week six different girls came to him, 
 each with a section thought up out of her own 
 head. One of them proposed a section the 
 members of which should dress in black for the 
 souls in purgatory ; a girl from the fifth grade 
 brought in a fist of twenty from her class who 
 declared themselves willing to visit public 
 charitable institutions, including the jail and 
 the workhouse. Poor Father Carney had no 
 end of trouble in trying to combine in one act 
 squelching and encouraging them." 
 
 Charles laughed.
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 87 
 
 "Well, it's the fifth grade again. Those 
 little girls of ten and eleven are, with scarcely 
 an exception, little angels. And I happen to 
 know that several of them don't get their an- 
 gelic qualities from home either. It's the 
 school; it's the Sisters. Many of them are 
 good in spite of their home life. Anyhow, I 
 happened to call in to see Father Carney the 
 day before yesterday on my way home from 
 work. He was seated before his desk with a 
 sheet of paper before him, and rubbing his 
 cheek with his hand. 
 
 * 'Look at this, Charlie,' he said, handing 
 me the paper. I glanced over the page. It 
 had simply the names of forty-three girls. I 
 asked him what it was; and he told me that 
 they were the names of forty-three out of the 
 fifty-one girls of the fifth grade, and that it 
 was intended by the promoter, Miss Elizabeth 
 Marie Lynam, to be the nucleus of a vocation 
 section." 
 
 "What's that?" cried the sacristan, drawing 
 a deep breath. 
 
 "A vocation section! Every girl on that 
 list put her name down to be a nun!" 
 
 The Brother giggled. 
 
 "I laughed just the same as you did, 
 Brother, when Father Carney told me what 
 it meant. But he brought me up with a jerk.
 
 88 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 'It's no laughing matter,' said he. 'Just look 
 closely at that list. I know every girl on it. 
 Out of the forty-three signers there are ten 
 who would sign anything. That leaves thirty- 
 three. Well, out of those thirty-three there 
 are four, or at most six, who under no con- 
 ceivable conditions could embrace the religious 
 life. That leaves twenty-seven.' Think of it, 
 Brother Crellin! Twenty-seven pure young 
 hearts turning so sweetly, so innocently to 
 God ! Every one of them has the makings of 
 a spouse of Christ. Just now they are fragrant, 
 tender flowers in the garden of God." 
 
 "So," put in Brother Crellin, "he's going 
 to start a vocation section?" 
 
 "No; he's not." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "He says he intends to spend a year or two 
 longer in St. Xavier's. He's afraid of their 
 parents." 
 
 "Oh, go on! He's not afraid." 
 
 "I don't think he is myself; but he said he's 
 afraid of his life of angry mothers. And be- 
 sides, he said that such a section might savor 
 of novelty. He also said that, looking at that 
 list of innocents, and thinking of what most of 
 them would be in six years or so, it brought the 
 tears to his eyes." 
 
 "I think I know how he feels," said the
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 89 
 
 Brother. "He's had the school now for over 
 fourteen years; and he knows." 
 
 "I think I understand it myself, Brother. 
 These little girls in the fifth grade are, most 
 of them, pure as angels. Their hearts turn to 
 God naturally. The church, the school, the 
 Sisters who teach them, offset the dangers of 
 the world. They are little angels. But just 
 as soon as they are fourteen or fifteen out they 
 go to work. Most of 'em don't have to 
 go to work, but their parents want the 
 extra money; and so out they go into the 
 world before their character is formed, and 
 in six months their vocation, if they ever had 
 any, is killed." 
 
 "That's so," said the Brother. "A girl at 
 fifteen is no longer a child, and not yet a 
 woman. She lacks the safeguards of both, 
 and is at the dangerous age." 
 
 "It's simply shocking to see how quickly 
 they change," continued Charles. "They were 
 sensible at eleven; at sixteen they are absolute 
 geese. They paint and fix themselves up in a 
 way that shows they have the taste of a Hot- 
 tentot." 
 
 "Oh, I say, Charles; you're too hard on 
 them. There are plenty of them who don't 
 turn out that way at all." 
 
 "Oh, I wasn't talking of the Sodality girls
 
 90 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 not of those who stick to the Sodality when 
 they go to work. No girl can have real devo- 
 tion to the Blessed Virgin and live like a fool. 
 The Sodalists are all right. It's those who 
 leave school and Sodality both." 
 
 "I wonder what their parents especially 
 their mothers are thinking of," said the 
 Brother. "They ought to know what the 
 Sodality means to their children. Why, in 
 this down-town district it means every- 
 thing/' 
 
 "If they don't know that," said Charles, 
 "it's because they haven't enough sense to come 
 in out of the rain when it's raining." 
 
 "I've been in other parishes," continued the 
 Brother, looking through his glasses upon some 
 invisible audience, "where the young men and 
 the young women are either good or fairly 
 good. But here it's different. They're either 
 very good or downright bad." 
 
 "That's about it." 
 
 "In a place like this," continued the Brother, 
 "where our young people are within a stone's 
 throw of every indecent show-house and of 
 the worst class of pool-rooms and of every- 
 thing that leads to the primrose way, they've 
 got to be mighty careful. If they are, they 
 are leading strong and saintly lives. But if 
 they are not careful, they become as pagan
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 91 
 
 almost as their surroundings. And that's the 
 reason our parish is made up of saints and 
 sinners." 
 
 "It's enough to discourage Father Carney, 
 isn't it, Brother?" 
 
 "No, Charles. He's not discouraged at all. 
 He holds this : The growing children around 
 here are exposed to dreadful temptations. 
 Also, a number of them have careless or igno- 
 rant parents. Lots of them really do not 
 seem to have a fair chance. Well, God, he 
 holds, takes all that into account. They 
 haven't the chance of the average Christian. 
 They have poverty, and the danger of drink, 
 and the danger of bad company, and no end 
 of temptations. God fails to give them many 
 things; but He makes it up by giving them 
 one thing a gift they received at the bap- 
 tismal font, a gift cultivated in their Catholic 
 training at school; and so when they've lost 
 everything else that gift remains, and will in 
 the end most probably save their souls." 
 
 "What gift is that, Brother?" 
 
 "The gift that the world laughs at and 
 despises the gift of Catholic faith. At the 
 last, faith means everything, provided only 
 they get the chance of repentance. And God 
 is good. He will give it to them." 
 
 Charles was about to continue the conversa-
 
 92 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 tion, when Bob Ryan suddenly entered, deep 
 perplexity upon his face. 
 
 "Halloa, Bob," said Charles, "where have 
 you left your smile? At the dry cleaner's?" 
 
 Charles and Bob, serving in the church at 
 the same hour every morning, were already 
 fast friends. 
 
 "Good evening, Brother. Halloa, Charlie; 
 I didn't expect to find you here; but I'm 
 mighty glad you are, because I want your ad- 
 vice, too, as well as Brother Crellin's. I'm in 
 a peck of trouble." 
 
 "You are!" from both. 
 
 "Yes, I am. You know Angelo Corcoran?" 
 
 "He's a Xaverian Acolyte!" said Charles, 
 in a manner which indicated that nothing more 
 in the way of encomium need be said. 
 
 "Well, since his father's death he's been 
 supporting the whole family. He's getting 
 sixty a month." 
 
 "As nice a family as there is in our parish," 
 commented the Brother. 
 
 "Don't I know it?" cried Bob. "I feel just 
 as though I belonged to that family. Albert 
 and I are partners, we study and read to- 
 gether. And Mrs. Corcoran is so good to me, 
 always thinking up some kindness for me. 
 She's "
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 93 
 
 "But what about Angelo?" interrupted the 
 Brother. 
 
 "Oh, he's been burning the candle at both 
 ends. He's been killing himself with work 
 and study; and now he's on the verge of a 
 breakdown." 
 
 Charles Bryan and Brother Crellin became 
 as grave as Bob. 
 
 "Does that mean he'll have to stop work?" 
 asked the Brother. 
 
 "It means that he'll drag along a little 
 longer," returned Bob, "three or four or five 
 weeks, and then collapse; or it means that if 
 he stops right now and takes the proper treat- 
 ment for about ten weeks he'll be all right." 
 
 "Who told you that?" asked the Brother. 
 
 "Young Doctor Keane. He's a great friend 
 of mine. I got to know him through one of 
 our sick boys he was attending. The doctor 
 wants him to go to a hospital for ten weeks 
 and he'll take care of him free." 
 
 "Fine," said Charles. "That settles it." 
 
 "I wish it did; but it doesn't," returned Bob. 
 
 "We can get him into a ward at the Good 
 Samaritan, I think," argued Charles. 
 
 "Oh, that part's all right, too. I've seen 
 Sister Regina myself, and she says she'll give 
 him a special room, all to himself, and the best 
 of nursing and care."
 
 94 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "Well, then, I should say that settles it," 
 said Charles. 
 
 "No, it doesn't, Charlie. Sister Regina, 
 when I began to thank her, stopped me short. 
 She said I needn't thank her, because a kind 
 woman, with a sad, sweet face those were 
 her words from Hamilton had visited her a 
 few weeks ago, and told her that if any de- 
 serving poor boy needed a room and care at 
 the hospital the Sister might take him, and she 
 would foot the bill." 
 
 "Well, I declare," said the Brother. 
 
 "Do you know her, Brother?" asked Charles. 
 
 "I suspect I do, Charles. There's a woman 
 dressed in black 
 
 "That's right," interrupted Bob, "she's in 
 mourning. I remember the Sister said so." 
 
 "And she has the saddest and sweetest of 
 faces," continued the Brother. "She comes 
 to our church every month or so, and she al- 
 ways gives me ten dollars to spend on clothes 
 and shoes for any poor altar boys. I know 
 she doesn't belong to Cincinnati." 
 
 "I hope," said Bob fervently, "that I'll see 
 her some day. But," he went on, "I'm still in 
 a hole and can't see how I'm to climb out. Do 
 you think Angelo would stop work and lie 
 down for ten weeks, with his mother and 
 brother and three sisters dependent upon him ?
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 95 
 
 I should say not! He's too game. And be- 
 sides, he hasn't the least idea that he's on the 
 brink of a breakdown. He feels sure that he'll 
 be all right in a few weeks." 
 
 All three became silent. 
 
 "Couldn't Father Reardon persuade him 
 to go?" asked Charles presently. 
 
 "Maybe he could," answered Bob; "but even 
 if he did, that wouldn't settle the matter." 
 
 "Of course it wouldn't," put in Brother 
 Crellin promptly. "In the meantime what's 
 to become of the family? They can't live on 
 air." 
 
 "That's just it, Brother," said Bob. "I 
 happen to know that they're just out of debt 
 at last. It was only three days ago that Mrs. 
 Corcoran paid all the bills due since her hus- 
 band's death; and she was so happy about it. 
 She said that for the first time in ever so long 
 she could breathe freely. But in paying those 
 debts she put out every cent they had. If 
 Angelo were to stop working next Saturday 
 she would have to carry her family for ten 
 weeks on fifteen dollars." 
 
 "But couldn't Mrs. Corcoran get some 
 work?" asked Charlie. "She's young and ac- 
 tive, and is a wonderful cook, and she can use 
 a needle handily."
 
 96 HIS LUCKIEST TEAR 
 
 "Who's going to take care of the home and 
 the children?" objected Bob. 
 
 "I don't like that scheme, Charlie," said 
 Brother Crellin. "As the old song says, 
 'What is home without a mother.' From what 
 I've noticed in this parish, I feel free to say 
 that a lot of children, with their mothers work- 
 ing out by the day, are worse off than if they 
 were in an orphan asylum. Of course, Mrs. 
 Corcoran could do some sewing at home, 
 and help out that way; but, first of all, the 
 money she earned wouldn't be near enough, 
 even if she got plenty of work ; and, secondly, 
 I doubt whether she'd get enough just now 
 to keep her going as much as two hours a 
 day." 
 
 "If we could only put Angelo in the hos- 
 pital for ten weeks and keep his salary going 
 on just the same," said Bob, his chin cupped 
 in his right hand and his left supporting the 
 elbow, "there would be no trouble at all. Gee! 
 I wish I were rich ; I'd pay it myself. Yester- 
 day I got a letter from my friend Tom Tem- 
 ple. He sent me a check for thirty dollars, 
 and told me to use it buying Christmas pres- 
 ents for my friends. I'm sure he wouldn't 
 mind my using it for Angelo; but that would 
 pay for just two weeks." 
 
 Charlie and Brother Crellin exchanged
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 97 
 
 glances of wonder, which Bob, chin in hand 
 and deeply absorbed, failed to perceive. 
 
 "That gives me an idea," Brother Crellin 
 presently observed. "Most of our people are 
 poor; but, according to their means, there are 
 no more generous people in the country. Take, 
 for instance, those young ladies of the So- 
 dality. They are charitable to a fault. If 
 Father Carney calls up fifteen of them, and 
 tells them about the Corcoran family case, 
 and asks each to contribute one dollar a week 
 for ten weeks " 
 
 Brother Crellin left his sentence unfinished, 
 in obedience to a protesting gesture from 
 Charlie Bryan. 
 
 "No, you don't, Brother," cried Charlie, hi? 
 face lighted up with animation. "The young 
 ladies are all right; but we mustn't throw 
 everything on them. Angelo is a Xaverian 
 Acolyte. Why can't the Xaverian Acolytes 
 take this thing up and see it through?" 
 
 "And leave me out!" exclaimed Bob rue* 
 fully. 
 
 "We'll count you in as an honorary mem- 
 ber, Bob ; but we can get together fifteen dol- 
 lars a week, I think." 
 
 "Hold on," interrupted Brother Crellin, 
 looking both gratified and troubled. "We're 
 not professional charity workers; we're not
 
 98 HIS LUCKIEST TEAR 
 
 ranged under the banner of a 'statistical 
 Christ.' " 
 
 "What's that?" asked Bob. 
 
 "How?" queried Charlie. 
 
 "It's possible," continued the Brother, "to 
 be charitable and humane at the same time. 
 Many charity workers don't know that; but 
 it's so. Would it be the right thing, boys, for 
 everybody in the parish to know that Mrs. 
 Corcoran, who is a woman with self-respect, 
 and her family are objects of public charity?" 
 
 "I should say notl" declared Bob emphati- 
 cally. 
 
 "Of course," said Charlie, "we could keep 
 it quiet among the boys." 
 
 "Twenty-one in number," stated the Brother 
 Sacristan. "That's far too many. Besides, 
 several of them are almost the sole support of 
 their own mothers, and several are drawing 
 very low salaries." 
 
 "That's so," assented Charlie. "And be- 
 sides, there might be two or three who couldn't 
 keep a secret." 
 
 Charlie paused for a moment, then added: 
 "Oh, I've got it! We'll pick out six of them 
 besides myself, and put them under secrecy. 
 I can pick six that are absolute clams when it 
 comes to keeping a secret. Then we'll each 
 chip in two dollars a week, and Bob one dol-
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 99 
 
 lar; that makes fifteen. I'm sure with a 
 little sacrifice we can all keep that up for ten 
 weeks." 
 
 "That isn't fair," protested Bob. "One dol- 
 lar! Why, I've thirty dollars. Put me down 
 for three." 
 
 Meanwhile Brother Crellin had been going 
 over the membership list of the Xaverian 
 Acolytes. 
 
 "Let's make this a close corporation," he 
 suggested. "The fewer in it, the less chance 
 of its getting out. We'll make it six Xaverian 
 Acolytes instead of seven. I see five on this 
 list besides yourself, Charlie, who can spare 
 the money and hold their tongues. Each will 
 give two dollars a week, and Bob three." 
 
 "That's the stuff!" cried Bob radiantly. 
 
 Brother Crellin was an adept in the use of 
 the telephone. Within twenty minutes the 
 chosen acolytes were in the boys' sacristy. 
 Then Brother Crellin set the matter before 
 them. 
 
 "It's a privilege to come in on this," said 
 John Reenan, the youngest of the Xaverians. 
 "You can put me down. And I'll not even 
 tell my mother." 
 
 "As for me," said William Denny, "it won't 
 be hard at all. I was thinking of cutting 
 cigars and tobacco out during Advent, and now
 
 100 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 it's settled. That will save me one dollar a 
 week, and I can easily afford the other." 
 
 In like manner spoke all. 
 
 "First ratel" said Charlie Bryan. "I guess 
 we've got it all settled now." 
 
 "Oh, Lord!" cried Bob, who had been silent 
 and thoughtful for several minutes. "It isn't 
 settled at all." 
 
 "What's the matter?" cried several. 
 
 "Why, this. How are we going to get An- 
 gelo to take the fifteen a week from us? He 
 won't do it. And even if he were willing, 
 what about his mother? She's never accepted 
 charity in her life." 
 
 "That's a fact," said Will Denny. "And 
 it would be rubbing it in on her in a way if 
 she were to know that the people helping her 
 were boys of the parish, some of whom she 
 used to help herself. I don't mind saying that 
 I was a mighty poor boy when I went to St. 
 Xavier School; and she knew it, and she was 
 always on the lookout for me when I passed 
 her house. She always took me in and fed 
 me and sometimes I was mighty hungry. 
 And more than once when my feet were on the 
 ground" here there was a slight break in the 
 young man's voice "she slipped me a pair of 
 shoes. And I'll tell you something else, boys." 
 Denny paused and held up an impressive hand.
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 101 
 
 "I'm willing to bet all my chances in life 
 that she never told a soul what she did for 
 me." 
 
 "That," said Brother Crellin, "is the charity 
 of Christ." 
 
 Then up spoke in turn each of the Xaverian 
 Acolytes. Two of them, like Denny, had 
 been very poor boys, and these two had been 
 helped by the good woman. All of them, at 
 one time or another, had been fed. 
 
 "I had no idea," commented the Brother, 
 "that Mrs. Corcoran, good as I knew her to 
 be, was so charitable. In fact, it never oc- 
 curred to me that she was able to do much 
 in that line. She had a large family and very 
 little money." 
 
 "Where there's a will there's a way," said 
 Charlie. 
 
 "Anyway," pursued Brother Crellin, "we 
 must imitate her in not letting the left hand 
 know what the right hand's doing. And I've 
 got an idea." 
 
 "Pass it around, Brother," said John 
 Reenan. 
 
 "It's this. Father Carney is a great friend 
 of Mrs. Corcoran's. She will stand for any- 
 thing from him. Now, if he goes to her and 
 tells her that he has arranged everything, and 
 that Angelo is to go to the hospital for ten
 
 102 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 weeks, and that he himself will bring 
 her Angelo's salary each week, she'll obey 
 him." 
 
 "Fine!" cried Bob. 
 
 "But she'll get suspicious," objected Charlie. 
 "She'll want to know how the firm got to be so 
 generous. In fact, she may ask who's paying 
 the salary." 
 
 "I know it," asserted the Brother. "And 
 all Father Carney has to do is to look severe 
 and say that he's very much hurt at her asking 
 any questions, and that he must insist on her 
 doing just what he tells her. That wouldn't 
 stop Mrs. Corcoran in dealing with most peo- 
 ple; but in Father Carney's case it will." 
 
 Presently the delegation, headed by Brother 
 Crellin, waited upon Father Carney. He lis- 
 tened without interruption. 
 
 "I declare!" he said. "Did you ever!" he 
 added. "Boys, it's splendid. I'm proud I've 
 had you at St. Xavier School. It seems to 
 me I'm getting my reward in this world. You 
 may go to bed to-night and sleep sound. I'll 
 fix Mrs. Corcoran. If she starts to ask ques- 
 tions I'll take up my hat and look pained, and 
 start to leave, and she'll give in for fear of 
 hurting my feelings. My! but I'm glad that 
 you show the true charity of Our Lord for 
 that's the kind of charity yours is. But I'm
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 103 
 
 still gladder, in a way, that you're showing 
 gratitude. It's a rare thing nowadays." 
 
 "Most of us," said Brother Crellin, "are 
 grateful enough to people we expect to get 
 something more out of." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" assented the priest. "But there's 
 one thing I want to criticize." 
 
 "What's that, Father?" came the chorus. 
 
 "This thing concerns the Xaverian Acolytes. 
 All the members ought to come in on it." 
 
 Eight people began to explain at once. 
 
 "Hold on, hold on!" cried the father. 
 "You've explained that all to me already. Of 
 course the whole thing is to be kept a dead 
 secret. And I know it will be kept. But the 
 other fifteen members ought to do something. 
 Let them be formed into a flower committee 
 and see that Angelo gets flowers twice a week." 
 
 And so it was settled out of hand. 
 
 As the young men left they each shook 
 hands with Bob and thanked him as though 
 he had done them a personal favor. 
 
 And, unusual as it may seem, everything 
 was carried out according to the proposed ar- 
 rangements. Angelo at the end of the week 
 drew his salary ; obtained, to his great delight, 
 leave of absence for ten weeks; and, accom- 
 panied by Bob, went to the Good Samaritan 
 Hospital for a stay of two months and a half.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Narrating how Bob became prefect, the 
 mystery of the Lady in Black, and the won- 
 derful oration of Johnny O'Brien. 
 
 BOB was a popular boy in St. Xavier School, 
 His kindness, his smile, his courtesy, 
 won the good opinion of the girls, while his 
 strength and skill in athletics made him the 
 hero of the boys. Bob never quarreled. It 
 was impossible to tease him. Jibes and jests 
 and insinuations fell powerless before the 
 armor of his good nature. 
 
 At Christmas time his popularity reached 
 its acme. It came about in the following 
 way: Anita sent him a Christmas box 
 with enough cake, candy, nuts, raisins, and 
 pie to last him a month. Mine host and hostess 
 of the Blue Bird Inn, Mr. and Mrs. Symmes, 
 enriched his larder with a number of turkeys 
 and other eatables that would have made a 
 feast for Lucullus. Tom Temple and Matt 
 Morris sent him boxes, too; while the vener- 
 able Mose and his ancient wife remembered 
 him in the shape of the famous blanket he had 
 once worn in their modest hut. 
 
 Bob, seeing that he was heavily over-sup- 
 plied, went to Father Carney and obtained 
 
 104
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 105 
 
 permission to have the use of the St. Xavier 
 tea-room. He gave the St. Aloysius Sodality 
 a banquet. There were one hundred and 
 twenty invitations, and one hundred and nine- 
 teen acceptances. The one hundred and twen- 
 tieth boy was down with tonsilitis; and, the 
 story goes, it took the united efforts of his 
 mother, one strong brother, and three sisters 
 to hold him down in his bed when the banquet 
 hour drew nigh. 
 
 Mrs. Corcoran, bright and alert as ever, 
 took charge of the kitchen. She declared, an 
 hour before the guests seated themselves, that 
 she had provisions enough for two hundred. 
 An hour later she had her doubts. The youth- 
 ful banqueters did not seem to share her opin- 
 ion. One loaf of bread, overlooked in a hid- 
 den corner of the pantry, was the only bit of 
 perishable goods left when the happy guests 
 arose and gave three cheers for Bob and three 
 for the good lady and her assistants. 
 
 "I think," observed Johnny O'Brien, as the 
 boys made their way downstairs, "that Bob 
 Ryan would be a fine prefect for our So- 
 dality." 
 
 Judging by the effect produced, this was 
 the happiest remark that ever dropped from 
 Johnny's eloquent tongue. 
 
 The duly elected prefect had left school just
 
 before the holidays to go to work, and by do- 
 ing so had automatically ceased to be a 
 member of the St. Aloysius Sodality. So 
 there was more than academic suggestion in 
 Johnny's remark. 
 
 One week later the officers were summoned 
 to nominate three names for the prefectship. 
 Bob got every vote but his own. The mem- 
 bers, following the lead of the officers, then 
 elected Bob to the prefectship, by the hand- 
 somest majority ever given in any boys' So- 
 dality of Cincinnati. 
 
 Bob inaugurated his term in office by in- 
 troducing an athletic section. The sessions 
 were held on Friday and Saturday nights in 
 the schoolboys' playroom. At the suggestion 
 of Charlie Bryan he started the boys with 
 boxing and wrestling. 
 
 "You see, it's this way," Charlie explained. 
 "Nearly every boy with good red blood in 
 him, like like well, like us Irish, is more or 
 less pugnacious. And the trouble is they 
 haven't much chance for a real, good, honest 
 fight. Generally speaking, there's always 
 something wrong about fighting, and half the 
 fights that do come off among the boys come 
 from the fact that one boy is just naturally 
 dead curious to find out whether he isn't 
 stronger than some other boy."
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 107 
 
 "I guess that's so," said the new prefect. 
 
 "Well, they'll have their very natural curi- 
 osity gratified with boxing and wrestling or 
 with both, and then there's something else; 
 they'll learn the great lesson of self-restraint." 
 
 "How's that, Charlie?" 
 
 "Why, we will teach them to keep their tem- 
 pers. As soon as a boy gets mad we'll call 
 him to order. If he doesn't correct himself, 
 we'll take him out and put another boy in his 
 place. You'll do the teaching, Bob, because 
 you know more about it than any of our 
 fellows; but I'll be on hand with some 
 of the other Xaverian Acolytes to act as ref- 
 erees." 
 
 "George!" exclaimed Bob, "that will be 
 great. And you'll tell them they must keep 
 their tempers?" 
 
 "Oh, no," answered Charlie. "Some of them 
 might think we were mixing the thing up with 
 a Sunday-school class. We'll tell them to keep 
 cool, to be game." 
 
 "I see," said Bob grinning. "As Johnny 
 O'Brien would put it, they must all be good 
 sports." 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 With the successful inauguration of boxing 
 and wrestling, tempered by dumb-bell and In- 
 dian club exercises, the fighting spirit of the
 
 108 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 youth attending St. Xavier's found a sufficient 
 outlet. They all became Johnny O'Briens. 
 
 Bob was now busier than ever. His studies, 
 his duties as prefect, his visits as member of 
 the Sick Committee, to which committee Wil- 
 liam Devine and Edward Bolan were now 
 added, and his task as athletic instructor gave 
 him little or no free time. He was too busy 
 to worry ; too busy to give thought to the mys- 
 tery that might else have clouded his life; too 
 busy to realize that he was alone in the world, 
 and that by the end of the school year his 
 money would be exhausted and he would be 
 unprovided for. 
 
 Toward the end of February Bob was seated 
 beside Angelo in a bright room in the Good 
 Samaritan Hospital. 
 
 "Well, Angelo, how do you feel?" 
 
 "I feel, I feel I feel like a morning star. 
 I've been here nine weeks, Bob. There's just 
 one more left. But, goodness gracious me! 
 I've been well for the last ten days never 
 felt so well in all my life. I wanted to go out 
 last week; but Dr. Keane said nix." 
 
 "I guess he knows best," said Bob. "He's 
 awfully proud of your case. He told me so 
 himself; and he says that if you take just 
 common care of yourself you'll be better now 
 than you ever were in your life."
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 109 
 
 "That's the way I feel. And, Bob, I got 
 a mighty nice letter from my firm. They say 
 that they've learned in my absence how much 
 work I've been doing, and that my place is 
 open to me, even if I need to stay away for 
 six months or a year." 
 
 "That's some compliment," said Bob. 
 
 "I guess it's because I'm quick at figuring, 
 Bob. I got that from my father. When I 
 leave here next week I'm going to give up 
 extra lessons and studies." 
 
 "The doctor says you must/' said Bob. "He 
 sa^s; you can take up the extras when you're 
 nineteen or twenty* Say, what beautiful 
 flowers you've got!" 
 
 ** Aren't ihey? They've been coming every 
 day, Bob, besides the flowers from the Xaver- 
 ian Acolytes. For a long time I wondered 
 who was sending them. Now I think I know." 
 
 "You do? I've been wondering, too. Lots 
 of boys have been trying to find out. Who 
 is it?" 
 
 "You remember me telling you about the 
 very nice quiet lady who came to see me the 
 first week I was here?" 
 
 "The one who didn't give any name who left 
 you a basket of fruit?" 
 
 "That's the one. She was here again yester- 
 day. And she brought me more fruit; and,
 
 110 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 though her face is very sad, she smiles so 
 sweetly and seemed to feel so very glad be- 
 cause I was so much better." 
 
 As Angelo spoke, Bob's eyes widened and a 
 great wonderment showed upon his features. 
 He cupped his chin in his familiar pose. 
 
 "When I thinl of her," Angelo continued, 
 "I always think of her as the Lady in Black." 
 
 Bob jumped to his feet. 
 
 "The Lady in Black!" he repeated. 
 
 "Yes; she's dressed in mourning. She has 
 the gentlest face I ever saw. But there's some- 
 thing strange about her fre, too, that puzzled 
 me. The Sister in charge of this floor says 
 that she must have suffered a good deal, and 
 the nurse says that it must be the loss of her 
 husband." 
 
 "Does she live in Hamilton?" asked Bob. 
 
 "Why, Bob Ryan, who tokl you about her?" 
 
 "She's fond of boys, isn't she, Angelo?" 
 
 "You talk as if you knew her, Bob. The 
 nurse says that she comes here about once a 
 month and visits all the sick children, espe- 
 cially the boys. Anyhow, I'm now almost 
 dead certain that she's the one who has been 
 sending me flowers every day." 
 
 "I wish I did know her," said Bob, seating 
 himself once more, and putting his hand under 
 his chin.
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 111 
 
 "And she wishes that she knew you, Bob." 
 
 "What!" 
 
 "Just as I said. I was telling her about 
 your Sodality and your Sick Committee and 
 your being prefect and your athletic section, 
 and she was so pleased no, that's too weak a 
 word she was so delighted! What took her 
 most was your care of the sick. She says she 
 hopes to meet you some day." 
 
 "I hope she will, Angelo," said Bob fer- 
 vently. 
 
 "By the way," Angelo began, after a short 
 pause, "has your Sodality anything new on 
 hand?" 
 
 "I should say we have. We're going good, 
 as Johnny O'Brien says, but we want to go 
 better. The gym class is full, and the boys 
 are learning to take hard knocks without losing 
 their tempers. The Communion Section, the 
 Brothers tell me, has produced wonderful re- 
 sults. But we're springing a new move for 
 this Lent." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "It isn't anything original, Angelo; it's just 
 trying to do in a small way what the Young 
 Ladies' Sodality have been doing for years. 
 You know, during Lent we all make some 
 little sacrifices. A lot of the boys cut out mov- 
 ing pictures, and no end of them stop eating
 
 112 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 candy. Now, what we propose to do is to get 
 the kids to put aside the money they would 
 else spend for candy and moving pictures and 
 things like that, and hand it over to Father 
 Reardon for a fund to go to the Jesuit mis- 
 sion in British Honduras." 
 
 "Why the British Honduras mission, Bob?" 
 
 "Oh, we've had a lecture on it from a former 
 missionary there, and he told us they needed 
 money badly just now; and besides, the fel- 
 lows know some of the men who were mission- 
 aries there; and so we thought it might inter- 
 est them more than if we worked for the for- 
 eign missions in general." 
 
 "Do you think the boys will take to it, Bob?" 
 
 "I hope so; but I'm not so sure. We an- 
 nounced it two weeks ago, and we started the 
 collection last Sunday. The first Sunday of 
 Lent only six boys reported, and the amount 
 turned in was fifty-seven cents." 
 
 "That's not so very bad, Bob." 
 
 "I don't know. I put in twenty-five cents 
 myself. At the rate we're going we'll get 
 about three dollars. The kids are all right; 
 but sometimes you've got to club them almost 
 to wake them up. I wish I knew how I could 
 get them interested." 
 
 Bob had some cause to worry in regard to 
 this, his pet scheme. On the following Sun-
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 113 
 
 day eleven boys reported, their self-denial 
 offerings coming to eighty-one cents. It was 
 discouraging. Then to be precise, on the 
 following Tuesday something happened. 
 
 It was half -past three in the afternoon, the 
 time for the dismissal of the classes. Bob 
 Ryan, who was to stay for special work in the 
 eighth grade, came hurrying into the yard to 
 deliver a note from his teacher to a boy of a 
 lower grade. He caught the boy at the gate 
 and, having handed him the note, was about to 
 return, when Alice O'Shea came running up 
 to him, holding in her hand a cheap-looking 
 publication. 
 
 "Listen, Bob," she cried. "There's a man 
 standing over at our gate; and he's giving a 
 copy of this to each little girl as they come 
 out." 
 
 Bob took the paper and glanced over its 
 headlines. 
 
 There is a species of publication, quite com- 
 mon in the backwoods of America, which has 
 its reason for existing founded on the gospel 
 of hate. Under the name of patriotism that 
 patriotism, by the way, which has been aptly 
 defined as "the last refuge of a scoundrel" 
 it attacks Catholics, their doctrines, their prac- 
 tices, their priests, the nuns. Every issue 
 of such papers is well seasoned with lubricity,
 
 114 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 which has an appeal to a large circle of read- 
 ers; every issue abounds in the truth which is 
 half a truth, and consequently worse than a 
 lie ; every issue smacks of listening at keyholes 
 and of backstairs gossip. These papers pre- 
 tend to represent patriotism and Protestant- 
 ism. They are an infamous libel on both. 
 
 Such a paper was the one in Bob's hand. 
 We shall call it the Unspeakable. For the 
 second time in the recorded history of Bob 
 Ryan his face flushed with anger. He tore 
 the paper to pieces, and threw it into a waste- 
 paper box placed near the boys' gate. 
 
 "Here, fellows," he cried to two of the fifth- 
 grade boys, "get hold of this waste-paper box, 
 and bring it over as quick as you can to the 
 girls' side." 
 
 Then Bob, followed by the eager-eyed Alice, 
 hastened to the sidewalk, and paused for a 
 moment to see what was being done. 
 
 A nondescript fellow of about thirty years of 
 age, with a beard of several days' growth, was 
 handing the little girls of the lower grade, as 
 they issued from the school grounds, a copy of 
 the Unspeakable. 
 
 "Take that home to your mother," he said 
 from time to time. 
 
 Bob drew nearer, followed almost immedi- 
 ately by the two willing boys of the fifth grade
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 115 
 
 with their waste-paper box, provided gra- 
 ciously by a municipality to help keep the 
 city clean. 
 
 "Alice," he said, "round up all those little 
 girls who have gone off with those papers, and 
 tell them to bring them back to me." 
 
 At the words, Alice with speeding feet 
 hastened to obey. 
 
 Then Bob halted the two girls who had just 
 received copies of the fragrant sheet. 
 
 "Hand 'em here, children," he said, with his 
 old smile. "Your mother wouldn't want that 
 thing in her house." 
 
 "Take 'em, Bob," said one, handing her 
 copy to him as though she were re- 
 ceiving a favor. The second girl made a like 
 speech. 
 
 He tore the two copies into bits, and threw 
 them into the municipal can. 
 
 The agent of the Unspeakable forgot his 
 work, and fixed upon Bob eyes of anger. He 
 might as well not have fixed them, however, 
 so far as the boy was concerned. Bob was too 
 intent upon the matter in hand to take any 
 interest in facial expression. 
 
 "Here, Bob, take mine"- "Take mine, 
 Bob."- -"I was here first; take mine." 
 
 For Bob was surrounded now by the sweet, 
 innocent children of the first grade, all clamor-
 
 116 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 ing in tiny accents to be relieved of the Un- 
 speakable. 
 
 Bob, for the next three or four minutes, was 
 the busiest boy in Cincinnati; the man, the 
 most glaring. Between Bob and himself was 
 a host of little girls, all trying to reach Bob, 
 not one of them conscious of the awful glare. 
 
 "I'm with you, Bob," cried a familiar voice, 
 "pass 'em to me, and I'll help tear 'em up." 
 
 It was that prince of sports, Johnny 
 O'Brien. 
 
 There were others with him presently, boys 
 from the fifth and sixth grades. The can was 
 fast filling with Unspeakable*. Meanwhile, 
 the girls of the third grade caught the idea, 
 and proceeded each to tear up her own par- 
 ticular copy. Very shortly the crowd about 
 Bob thinned; and the man, ceasing to glare, 
 had recourse to action. 
 
 Advancing to Bob, he held a paper toward 
 him. 
 
 "Do you want this paper, sonny?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Bob, "I'll take all you give 
 me." 
 
 "Now," said the agent of the Unspeakable, 
 handing Bob a copy, "I'd like to see you tear 
 that up." 
 
 "Then you'll see it, all right," said Johnny 
 O'Brien,
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 117 
 
 And so he did. 
 
 Without further word the enraged fellow 
 gave Bob a sound smack on the cheek. 
 
 "Take that, will you?" he added. 
 
 The man, very properly, regarded Bob as 
 a boy. And so he looked. Bob was dressed 
 like any other lad of fourteen years. 
 
 Bob raised his head and looked surprised. 
 It may seem remarkable, but the fact is that 
 he showed no sign of anger. Not for nothing 
 had he conducted the gym classes. 
 
 Then a brilliant idea occurred to the ag- 
 gressor. He would humiliate that impudent 
 boy before the whole crowd. Reaching for- 
 ward an incautious hand to catch Bob by the 
 nose, the man suddenly saw stars and felt the 
 pavement. For Bob's good right hand had 
 shot out and caught the aggressor right at the 
 point of the chin. 
 
 With ill-suppressed curses the fellow arose, 
 and, instead of renewing the attack, put his 
 right hand into his hip pocket. 
 
 "Quick, Bob," cried Johnny O'Brien, "he's 
 got a gun." 
 
 Bob did not need this admonition. As the 
 hand moved to the pocket Bob struck out 
 once more, and once more the man went down 
 with a precipitancy which must have been 
 hard on the concrete sidewalk.
 
 118 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 The fellow, somewhat dazed but still suffi- 
 ciently conscious, sat up, making no attempt 
 to rise, and, fixing eyes of malignity upon the 
 boy, once more reached for his hip pocket. 
 With the quickness of a trained wrestler in 
 perfect condition, Bob was upon him and 
 pinned him to the sidewalk. 
 
 "Quick!" he cried, "get Jerry." 
 
 "He's coming, he's coming!" piped a chorus 
 of voices. 
 
 Through the crowd of children came the 
 janitor of St. Xavier's. 
 
 "Here, let me at him," he cried. 
 
 "Look out, Jerry," said Johnny O'Brien. 
 "He's got a gun in his pocket." 
 
 "He'll not have it long," said Jerry, push- 
 ing Bob aside and beginning his experiments 
 on the agent of the Unspeakable by knocking 
 him flat. 
 
 Then Jerry took the man by the feet and 
 held him up on high. Out from his pockets 
 fell: one pistol, one vicious-looking knife, a 
 blackjack, several pieces of silver, and a lot 
 of pictures and leaflets, all of them a trifle more 
 unspeakable than the unspeakable paper it- 
 self. 
 
 "You let go of me," shouted the man, re- 
 stored to his feet, trembling with rage and 
 fear.
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 119 
 
 Jerry reversed him once more, and was thus 
 holding him when Officer Brierly laid a hand 
 upon the janitor. 
 
 "What's the charge, Jerry?" 
 
 "Oh, there's no charge at all. I'm willing 
 to give him another shaking, free, too." 
 
 "But what has he done?" 
 
 Jerry calmly restored the man to his feet. 
 
 "He's carrying a pistol; and look at the 
 dirty stuff I shook out of his pockets. And 
 he's been passing a dirty paper out to the lit- 
 tle girls of this school." 
 
 The officer put his arm about the terror- 
 stricken man. 
 
 "I'll take him, Jerry: we'll have several 
 charges against him." 
 
 "Sure, you're welcome to him. He's too 
 small for me. Say, officer, while we're waiting 
 for the patrol would you mind my giving him 
 a sound spanking?" 
 
 Brierly grinned. 
 
 "The patrol is coming," he said. 
 
 A few moments later Johnny O'Brien, 
 mounted on the wooden box procured for the 
 occasion, yelled at the top of his voice: 
 
 "Attention, you kiddies." 
 
 The children who had waited to see the 
 patrol wagon take away the prisoner were in 
 no hurry to leave. Johnny's face, alight with
 
 120 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 enthusiasm, drew them, one might say, mag- 
 netically. 
 
 "You saw Bob Ryan do up that bigoted 
 short skate, didn't you?" 
 
 "Yes, Sister," answered most of the girls. 
 
 "Well, that's the kind of a poor fish our 
 Catholic missioners have got to go up against. 
 Those fellows are liars and cowards." 
 
 "Hurrah 1" cried Johnny O'Brien's sister. 
 
 "Hurrah!" echoed a hundred small boys. 
 
 The girls squealed approbation. 
 
 "Two weeks ago," continued Johnny, ges- 
 ticulating wildly, "Bob Ryan started our So- 
 dality to get up a fund a lot of money, you 
 know to help our missioners. And is the 
 money coming in? Not so as you can notice 
 it. And look here, you kiddies. That fellow 
 who's just gone off a joy-riding in the patrol 
 wagon has handed out free more copies of his 
 measly old paper than all the money we have 
 collected could pay for. Ain't that nice?" 
 
 "Yes, Johnny," answered a little girl seri- 
 ously. 
 
 Most of the girls nodded their heads in as- 
 sent. 
 
 "Aw, go on home!" growled Johnny, and 
 got down. 
 
 One hundred little girls followed the dis- 
 gusted orator's advice. They went home, and
 
 with shining eyes and voluble tongues related 
 all the incidents leading up to the arrest, con- 
 cluding with Johnny O'Brien's flash of ora- 
 tion. These innocent children varied ex- 
 tremely in their several accounts. Neverthe- 
 less, three distinct and uniform impres- 
 sions were firmly established throughout the 
 parish: 
 
 1st. Bob Ryan knocked out a big man who 
 hated the Catholic Church. 
 
 2nd. The man was trying to offset the 
 good work of the British Honduras mission- 
 aries. 
 
 3rd. Bob Ryan was trying to get up a fund 
 to help the missionaries against these bigots. 
 
 There was a general opinion, also, to the 
 effect that Johnny O'Brien would go to Con- 
 gress some day. 
 
 Next morning three little girls two of them 
 twins brought Bob three dollars for his fund. 
 In the afternoon eight innocents added four 
 dollars more. 
 
 On the following day, there was so great a 
 throng of donors that Bob was forced to get 
 an assistant. The story spread. All the girls 
 in the upper grades began to show interest. 
 Nickles and dimes and quarters came rolling 
 in. Last of all the St. Aloysius Sodality woke 
 up. It was their work, and it was the girls
 
 122 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 who were doing it. The spirit of generosity 
 spread. 
 
 By the end of Lent, the amount subscribed 
 to the British Honduras fund totaled seven 
 hundred and twenty-five dollars.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 In which the mystery concerning the late 
 Mr. Corcoran is cleared, and Mrs. Corcoran 
 learns much from Bob Ryan. 
 
 N a Saturday morning toward the close of 
 Lent there was a knock at Bob's door. 
 
 "Come in," chirped Bob blithely. "Oh," 
 he cried, jumping to his feet, "is it you, Mrs. 
 Corcoran?" 
 
 "Good morning, Bob. I've come to have a 
 talk with you." 
 
 Bob, smiling radiantly, moved the finest 
 chair in his room from a corner. 
 
 "Sit down, Mrs. Corcoran. I had no idea 
 it was you who knocked. I thought it was one 
 of the boys." 
 
 "Now, look here, Bob Ryan; my boy, An- 
 gelo, is well and working, and he's going to 
 get a raise of ten dollars on the first of next 
 month." 
 
 "By George!" cried Bob; "that's just 
 bully." 
 
 "And all the ten weeks he was sick, and 
 you visited him, he drew his fifteen dollars a 
 week." 
 
 123
 
 124 HIS LUCKIEST TEAR 
 
 "That was fine!" said Bob. 
 
 "Now, Bob, where did that money come 
 from?" 
 
 Bob turned rosy. He looked at Mrs. Cor- 
 coran, opened his mouth as though about to 
 reply, but uttered no sound. 
 
 "Bob Ryan," she repeated, "where did that 
 money come from?" 
 
 "Why don't you ask Father Carney?" he 
 gasped. 
 
 "Bob Ryan, where did that money come 
 from?" 
 
 "Why where Oh, Jiminy what makes 
 you ask?" 
 
 "Because," answered Mrs. Corcoran, "two 
 days ago my boy got a letter from his firm, 
 and in that letter it said that it wasn't their 
 custom to pay salary to their office force when 
 on the sick list, but that in view of certain cor- 
 rections they had just discovered which my 
 boy had made in their accounts a week before 
 he went to the hospital, and which saved the 
 firm several hundred dollars, they had resolved 
 to make an exception in his case, and so they 
 enclosed a check for seventy-five dollars half 
 pay for the ten weeks he was away." 
 
 "Yes," said Bob. "And do you know, Mrs. 
 Corcoran, that Albert, my best friend, is the 
 finest boy in the eighth grade?"
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 125 
 
 "We're not talking about Albert," rejoined 
 Mrs. Corcoran. 
 
 "Have you ever taken a look at my room? 
 There are some mighty nice pictures in it. 
 Look here," and Bob arose, "this picture over 
 my desk " 
 
 "Sit down, Bob Ryan; we're not talking 
 about pictures." 
 
 "Oh, hang it!" blurted Bob. "We just 
 knew you wouldn't stand for any charity. It 
 was a trick." 
 
 "Bob Ryan, tell me about it." 
 
 Bob had a miserable quarter of an hour. 
 He tried to suppress his own part; but Mrs. 
 Corcoran's direct and pointed questions left 
 him no loophole of escape. The whole story 
 came out. 
 
 Then Mrs. Corcoran took out her handker- 
 chief and wept. 
 
 "Oh, don't do that, ma'am. Please don't," 
 pleaded Bob. 
 
 But she continued to weep. 
 
 "I I wouldn't hurt your feelings," Bob 
 exclaimed, "for anything in the world. Oh, 
 Mrs. Corcoran, we certainly meant all right." 
 
 Then Mrs. Corcoran, with the tears stand- 
 ing in her eyes, raised her face and smiled. 
 
 "Bob Ryan, God bless you," and she wiped 
 her eyes. "And God bless Father Carney and
 
 126 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 Brother Crellin and Charlie Bryan and all 
 those boys. And what I say now I'm going to 
 keep on saying as long as I'm able to pray." 
 
 "That's good of you," said Bob. 
 
 "We're as happy a home now as there is in 
 Cincinnati. We want nothing; and if God 
 continues to help us, we shall soon be able to 
 help others." 
 
 "You're always helping others," said Bob. 
 
 "Bob, I'm going to tell you something 
 which nobody but my confessor knows." 
 
 Bob grew alarmed once more. 
 
 "I married a very clever man and a good 
 man, too. But from the second year of my 
 marriage until his death I carried an awful 
 burden. It lasted nearly twenty years, and 
 I carried it alone. I tried to be brave; I tried 
 to keep a smiling face. I tried to make both 
 ends meet, with nothing at either end, and 
 sometimes I got so desperate that I spent 
 hours before the Blessed Sacrament. If it 
 weren't for daily communion I think I'd have 
 gone mad." 
 
 "What in the world was the matter?" 
 thought Bob, but he said nothing. 
 
 "The fact is," continued Mrs. Corcoran, "my 
 husband was a gambler." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Bob. 
 
 "Not an ordinary sort of gambler, Bob, but
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 12? 
 
 a scientific one. He was amazing at figures, 
 as you know, and he had a hobby on the laws 
 of chance." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Bob once more, beginning at 
 last to see a light. 
 
 "From the first years of our marriage he 
 took to figuring out how to beat the races. As 
 a result, nearly all his salary was thrown away 
 on his experiments. When I married him, I 
 had three thousand dollars. The day you came 
 to see Albert as the Sick Committee I had 
 spent the last cent of that money." 
 
 "You must have had a hard time, Mrs. Cor- 
 coran." 
 
 "It was especially hard the last six months 
 of my husband's life. He thought he had dis- 
 covered at last a sure method of beating the 
 races, and he worked at it night and day. He 
 assured me that he'd soon be a millionaire. 
 Sometimes I feared he was going insane. In 
 the meantime I saw nothing but ruin and 
 starvation ahead." 
 
 "Now I understand, ma'am," said the sym- 
 pathetic boy. 
 
 "I don't know how I bore it the last four 
 weeks of his life," continued the good woman. 
 "I don't know how I kept the secret from my 
 friends. Why, when he talked often about 
 buying a house at Clifton and stopping work,
 
 128 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 it was all I could do to keep from screaming. 
 It was it was hard." 
 
 "I should say so," assented Bob. 
 
 "And then he quit work." 
 
 "I remember," said Bob. 
 
 "And the next day, Bob, he went over to 
 stake his whole salary on the plan he had fig- 
 ured out the plan which he said was sure to 
 win. And when he was at the races I was 
 kneeling before the Blessed Sacrament. I was 
 there for three hours the three blackest hours 
 of my life." 
 
 "That was terrible," whispered Bob. 
 
 "Yes; but I thought even then how Our 
 Lord suffered in the Garden of Gethsemane, 
 and the thought made me brave. Then I got up 
 and went out of the church and returned home. 
 The news of my husband's death followed me 
 into the house. And, Bob, while it was a shock, 
 I could not but wonder whether it was an an- 
 swer to my prayers. And when that good 
 priest who was at my husband's side in his last 
 hours came to me and brought his dying mes- 
 sage, I knew it was an answer to prayer. 
 Bob, my husband was himself in his last con- 
 scious moments; he was the man I married 
 twenty years ago. He made a good confes- 
 sion; he was heartily sorry for a wasted life, 
 and he told the priest that he had been a de-
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 129 
 
 luded fool. He sent his dearest love to me 
 and the children; he begged my forgiveness, 
 and he died from the shock that came from 
 finding that all his studies and calculations 
 for beating the races had come to nothing. 
 Best of all, he died humbled, repentant, with 
 the sacred name of Jesus upon his lips." 
 
 "Thank God for that, ma'am." 
 
 "I'm telling you this, Bob, because I trust 
 you and love you as my own son. You were 
 right, my boy; I fear I'd have been too proud 
 to accept help even from Father Carney. But 
 it was done. And my boy is saved. And want 
 and poverty are no longer threatening; and 
 my children are well and happy, and I am 
 grateful beyond any words. As for those 
 young men who helped, they are just noble. 
 I'll never, never forget what you and they 
 have done. Sometimes, Bob, I have seen some 
 mighty mean and ugly things in human nature. 
 Perhaps I shall meet such things again. But 
 no matter how ugly they may be, I'll always 
 think of Brother Crellin and Bob Ryan and 
 Charlie Bryan, and I'll know that this world 
 is worth while and that God created us a little 
 lower than the angels." 
 
 "I know lots of mighty good people," said 
 Bob. "This parish is just full of them. And 
 on my road down here last summer I met the
 
 130 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 nicest people in the world. You see that 
 picture of the little girl over my desk? 
 That's Anita Reade. She's one of my best 
 friends. I get a letter from her every 
 week. Hasn't she a nice face. She's full of 
 energy. The Reades are the nicest family I 
 ever met." 
 
 "How did you come to meet them, Bob?'* 
 "Well, you know, Mrs. Corcoran, all my 
 trouble began last summer. I'd been living in 
 Dubuque with my father and his old house- 
 keeper, who brought me up. Pa was fond of 
 money, but he didn't care much for me." 
 "How about your mother, Bob?" 
 "I never saw her. Pa says she died when 
 I was a baby of six months. Well, anyhow, 
 on July 5th of last year, my father took me 
 off from Dubuque in a machine. We rode till 
 it was very late at night. And then he ordered 
 me to get down ; he gave me fifty dollars and 
 told me not to show my face in Dubuque for 
 one year. He said I was to go South, and if 
 I didn't do what he told me I'd be arrested. 
 Then I met the nicest man you ever saw, the 
 first thing next morning. His name is Tom 
 Temple, and he's a poet, and he writes the 
 nicest things in rhymes. He tramped with 
 me down along the Mississippi river, and got 
 me interested in books and poetry. We had
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 131 
 
 fine times, till we got caught in a thunderstorm 
 and Tom Temple took a chill." 
 
 "And what did you do, Bob, when he got 
 sick?" 
 
 "A jolly old man named Mose found us out 
 in the storm, and he took us to his hut, where 
 his wife was sitting on the bed, smoking a pipe. 
 They gave us shelter for the night, and old 
 Mose is the funniest old man I ever saw. He's 
 over eighty, but he's as strong as an ox. When 
 he was a man of forty-five he took a horse 
 weighing over eleven hundred pounds, raised 
 it completely off the ground and carried it 
 seven feet. No other man from Davenport 
 to Dubuque, the people say, was able to do 
 that. And would you believe it, Mrs. Cor- 
 coran, my pa was right about the police being 
 after me." 
 
 "Why, Bob, surely you never did anything 
 wrong!" 
 
 "Not that I know of, ma'am. But the 
 morning after I got to Mose's house there were 
 two detectives came along looking for a man 
 and a very fat boy. I was the fat boy, ma'am, 
 but I've trained down. My partner, Tom 
 Temple, was already in the hospital, but Mose 
 didn't tell the detectives the truth. He sent 
 them off on a wrong scent. I was hiding in 
 the house, and they didn't come in."
 
 132 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "And did the detectives trouble you any 
 more?" 
 
 "No, ma'am; that's the last I heard of them. 
 But I was afraid they would catch Tom Tem- 
 ple. They told Mose that Tom had kidnaped 
 the boy with him. Just think of a poet like 
 Tom being a kidnaper. All the same, they 
 managed to track him up to the hospital. He 
 was delirious when they arrived, and so he 
 didn't know anything about it at the time. 
 He was up visiting there again about a month 
 ago, and the nurse who had been waiting upon 
 him told him how the two detectives came in 
 and looked at him hard for five minutes, and 
 took out their note-books and a photograph, 
 and then said that he wasn't the man they 
 were looking for at all, and that they had 
 wasted their time running after the wrong 
 pair." 
 
 "So they didn't want you at all, Bob?" 
 
 "That's what I would think; but Tom Tem- 
 ple's got a different idea. He says they were 
 looking for me." 
 
 "That's strange, my boy." 
 
 "And Tom says I must try to get back to 
 Dubuque next summer. He says there's a 
 mystery about my case that ought to be 
 cleared." 
 
 "So you hear from him, do you?"
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 133 
 
 "Every two weeks or so, Mrs. Corcoran. 
 Well, after I left Mose and his wife I met the 
 nicest man and woman you ever saw. They 
 were the landlord of the Blue Bird Inn and his 
 wife. They gave me a dinner fit for a king. 
 The lady cooked it, and she's just the kind of 
 cook you are. And she's nice and kind like 
 you. Her husband was fat and jolly. They 
 helped me buy a boat, and Mrs. Symmes " 
 
 "Who?" cried Mrs. Corcoran. 
 
 "The lady of the Blue Bird Inn." 
 
 "What name did you say?" 
 
 "Mrs. Symmes, ma'am." 
 
 "Mrs. John Symmes?" 
 
 "Why, how did you know her name? Here's 
 her picture. She was as nice a woman as ever 
 I met. Why, what's the matter, Mrs. Cor- 
 coran?" 
 
 The good woman had taken one quick glance 
 at the photograph which Bob had selected 
 from a number on his desk, and then sank back 
 into her chair. Her eyes closed. Bob feared 
 she had fainted. 
 
 The boy hastily procured a glass of water 
 and put it to her lips. Mrs. Corcoran opened 
 her eyes presently. 
 
 "Give me that picture, Bob." 
 
 Holding it in her hands, she gazed at it 
 long and earnestly, then pressed it to her lips.
 
 134 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "No wonder I remind you of her, Bob; 
 that's my youngest sister." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Bob. It was now his turn to 
 sit down. 
 
 "Our family was broken up by death when 
 I was quite young," went on Mrs. Corcoran. 
 "And my little sister, who was then barely 
 five, was taken by some relatives living in In- 
 diana. After it was too late we learned that 
 they were fallen-away Catholics. They did 
 all they could to make the little one forget us. 
 So, as the years went on, we almost lost com- 
 plete track of her. I just learned by the merest 
 accident a few months ago that she was mar- 
 ried to a man named John Symmes. Oh, Bob, 
 what a small world it is I Tell me all about 
 her." 
 
 And then Bob became eloquent. Into his 
 story entered the details of his buying The 
 Wanderer, that splendid boat, and of his re- 
 ceiving the best of dogs, Hobo. 
 
 "And when I bade her good-by," concluded 
 Bob, "she she kissed me." 
 
 "I don't blame her, Bob," said Mrs. Cor- 
 coran, "if she thought half as much of you as 
 I do. And I'm so glad that she feels so nicely 
 toward Catholics. She is baptized a Catholic, 
 and probably doesn't know it. So you've got 
 her address?"
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 135 
 
 "Yes, ma'am; and I'll write her a letter to- 
 night and tell her about you." 
 
 "And I," rejoined Mrs. Corcoran, "will 
 write her a letter to-night and tell her all 
 about you. But what became of Hobo and 
 the boat, Bob?" 
 
 "I'm telling you my whole story, ma'am. 
 You've told me yours. Well, with that boat I 
 began to make money. You see, I wanted to 
 study for another year and finish the eighth 
 grade. I sold fish, and hired my boat, and had 
 a great time. And one day, going down the 
 river, I met the Reades." 
 
 "Oh, Anita's people." 
 
 "Yes; they're the nicest family I ever met. 
 Tom Reade goes to Campion College; he's a 
 bird. And Lucille! She's just a lovely young 
 lady tall and stately. She and Tom were 
 almost Catholics when I met them. I spent a 
 day with them, and it was one of the happiest 
 days of my life. They treated me as if I be- 
 longed to the family." 
 
 "Everybody does that to you, Bob." 
 
 "It was hard for me to leave them. A day 
 or so afterward a rich man offered me a big 
 price for my boat. So I sold it. That was 
 hard, too. While I was wondering what to 
 do next and sitting alone by the river bank, 
 along came a boy named Matt Morris, in a
 
 136 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 canoe ; and we became friends right away. He 
 was living in the woods he was a Campion 
 boy, too and he agreed to instruct me for 
 first communion if I'd live with him. 
 You see, my pa wouldn't bring me up 
 a Catholic, though he let me know I was 
 baptized." 
 
 "That's a funny father you had." 
 
 "He was queer," admitted Bob. "Of course, 
 I was dead anxious to get ready for com- 
 munion, and so I stayed with Matt Morris. 
 He was a great athlete, and he put me through 
 a course of stunts that took away most of my 
 fat, and made me a good boxer and wrestler, 
 and things of that kind. Oh, but we did have 
 good times! We were happy as butterflies. 
 And then, just as the three weeks were up, a 
 thief got into our cave and stole a lot of stuff, 
 along with my money. I caught him as he 
 was running away and got him down and 
 made him empty out everything he had 
 stolen." 
 
 "Your boxing and wrestling came in handy, 
 Bob." 
 
 "It surely did. All the same, if it hadn't 
 been for my dog, Hobo, I think that thief 
 might have killed me. He killed poor Hobo 
 with one blow, and then I got mad and kicked 
 him to the door of our place. And Matt fin-
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 137 
 
 ished what I began. I guess Matt was mad, 
 too." 
 
 "It served him perfectly right," said Mrs. 
 Corcoran. 
 
 "And then," Bob continued, "who should 
 come along but Mr. Reade. Anita was very 
 ill and was calling for me. Of course, I went, 
 and that broke up our camp. But I'll never 
 forget Matt Morris. He was one of the best 
 friends I ever had." 
 
 "Are all your friends up North?" 
 
 "I should say not. Why, there's Albert. 
 He's one of the best friends I ever had." 
 
 "And what about the people on this street?" 
 
 "Why, they're all friends of mine. There's 
 little Alice O'Shea. She's always gay and 
 smiling and in good humor. She has a heart 
 as big as herself. And there's Johnny 
 O'Brien, the sport of Pioneer Street. He's 
 true as gold. And there's Alice's best friend, 
 little Elizabeth Reno, with the bobbed hair and 
 the quaint smile that wrinkles her nose. Why, 
 I never had better friends than they." 
 
 Mrs. Corcoran broke into a ringing laugh. 
 
 "Look here, Bob Ryan. All your geese are 
 swans. Do you know that whenever you talk 
 about any of your friends you always say that 
 each particular one is one of the best friends 
 you ever had?"
 
 188 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "Is that so?" exclaimed Bob. "Why, I 
 never noticed till you told me. That's funny, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "No, it isn't funny," corrected Mrs. Cor- 
 coran. "It's just beautiful. Well, you went 
 to visit Anita?" 
 
 "Yes, and she wanted to be baptized a 
 Catholic, and she got so ill that very night that 
 I baptized her myself. And then we took her 
 to the Good Samaritan Hospital here to see a 
 famous children's specialist, and she got well. 
 And Lucille and Tom became Catholics and 
 went to communion with Anita at the hospital. 
 While I was there I met Brother Cyril, and 
 that settled me. I had found my teacher, and 
 my school, and my grade." 
 
 "It was a good thing for all of us, Bob, 
 when you came to stay." 
 
 "Look at this room," cried Bob, arising and 
 waving his hands. "See how beautifully it's 
 fixed up. Well, the Reades did that. My, 
 but they were kind to me ! You'd think I had 
 done something wonderful for them; and I 
 was just simply nice and friendly because I 
 loved them." 
 
 "Don't you like everybody you meet, Bob?" 
 
 "Pretty much all of them, ma'am." 
 
 "And that's why everybody likes you. The 
 boys of the Sodality swear by you. Anything
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 139 
 
 you say goes. Father Carney has noticed the 
 difference. You've put life into the Sodality; 
 it's a going concern. And you've stopped a 
 lot of fussing and fighting. Even in your 
 class, Brother Cyril says, there's more fun and 
 more hard work than he ever dreamed possible. 
 Things are going better at the school than ever 
 before in its long history." 
 
 "Well, you see, Mrs. Corcoran, with boys 
 like your Albert, who is one of my very " 
 
 The good lady's laugh brought him to a 
 pause. 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon. Anyhow, with 
 boys like Albert and Will Devine and Edward 
 Bolan and Johnny the dead-game sport, and 
 a lot of others like them, it's no wonder that 
 everything is going well. But," added Bob, 
 after a pause, "there's one thing that worries 
 me." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "The girls on our street. About a week ago 
 Lulu Jones got into a scrap with Marie 
 Cramer. All the other girls took sides. And 
 now one-half of the girls won't speak to the 
 other half." 
 
 "That's the way with girls," commented the 
 good woman. "They fall out easily, and they 
 say they'll never speak to each other again, and 
 the next day they're walking arm in arm."
 
 140 HIS LUCKIEST TEAR 
 
 "Yes; but this time it's different, Mrs. Cor- 
 coran. They don't make up, and a lot of them 
 have stopped going to daily communion. Why, 
 even Alice won't speak to her dearest friend 
 on earth, Elizabeth Reno." 
 
 "Oh, is that so?" cried Mrs. Corcoran. 
 "Then some of the parents have taken a hand 
 in the row." 
 
 "That's a fact," assented Bob. "I remem- 
 ber now several mothers paid their respects to 
 each other." 
 
 "Precisely. Some mothers love their chil- 
 dren not wisely but too well. 
 
 "If the little girls were left to themselves," 
 said Mrs. Corcoran, "they'd have their little 
 fallings-out one minute and forget them the 
 next." 
 
 "I never thought of that," said Bob. "I'm 
 glad you told me. Maybe, now, I can fix 
 it up." 
 
 And, if we may anticipate, on the following 
 day Bob, who had read the life of St. Monica, 
 the mother of St. Augustine, did actually bring 
 about peace. He told the warring women all 
 the nice things each had said of the other. 
 
 "And you hear from all these absent 
 friends?" continued Mrs. Corcoran. 
 
 "I certainly do. Even from old Mose, who 
 can neither read nor write. His wife, Anna,
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 141 
 
 sends me letters. It keeps me busy keeping 
 up with them; but it's worth while. And do 
 you know, Mrs. Corcoran, there's one funny 
 thing about these letters. In the beginning of 
 the school year Tom Temple and Lucille in 
 all their letters were always writing about each 
 other. Tom's letters were all about Lucille, 
 and Lucille's were all about Tom." 
 
 "That's clear," said Mrs. Corcoran, "they 
 were in love." 
 
 "But, you see, they had never seen each 
 other." 
 
 "Oh," said Mrs. Corcoran, "I suppose you 
 wrote to Tom all you knew about Lucille, and 
 you told Lucille all you knew about Tom." 
 
 "How did you guess that?" 
 
 "And on the strength of your talk and your 
 letters it was a case of love before first sight." 
 
 "Do you think so? Well, maybe it was. 
 Anyhow I told the truth. But here's the 
 funny part. They met each other early in 
 December; and since that time they don't say 
 a word about each other in their letters." 
 
 "You don't say!" cried Mrs. Corcoran. "I 
 guess, Bob, you spoke about them too flatter- 
 ingly." 
 
 "I didn't," returned Bob stoutly. "I only 
 told the truth. Lucille is the nicest young 
 lady I ever met. She's one of my
 
 142 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 A ringing laugh put an end to Bob's pane- 
 gyric of the "tall and stately" Lucille. 
 
 "And as for Tom Temple," continued Bob, 
 blushing and grinning, "he's just a wonder. 
 His poems are better than ever, and he's get- 
 ting more money for them, and he's writing 
 more. And only the other day he sent me 
 another check for thirty dollars which he says 
 he still owes me from our partnership on the 
 Mississippi river." 
 
 "And he's one of the best friends you ever 
 met?" said Mrs. Corcoran, her eyes dancing 
 with fun. 
 
 "That's no joke," returned Bob. "The 
 trouble with you, Mrs. Corcoran, is that you 
 haven't seen these friends of mine." 
 
 "Well, Bob," said Mrs. Corcoran, rising. 
 "I'm sure God's blessing is on you. I'm a 
 better woman for knowing you " 
 
 "Oh, shucks!" interrupted the boy. 
 
 "I am. God knows I am. And I've prom- 
 ised Our Lord that in memory of the sweet 
 charity shown my boy Angelo and my family 
 I will give all the time I can spare and all 
 the money I can spare to helping the needy. 
 What has been done to me and mine I am 
 going to do to those who, often without know- 
 ing it, take the place of Christ the orphan, 
 the widow, the stricken. As to that check for
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 143 
 
 seventy-five dollars sent to Angelo, it all goes 
 to charity. I am giving fifty of it to Father 
 Carney to buy shoes for the poor boys and 
 poor girls; and the other twenty-five I am 
 holding for the help of any sick children, Bob, 
 that you meet in your work as the Sick Com- 
 mittee." 
 
 "Mrs. Corcoran," said Bob, breaking 
 into his most radiant smile, "you're just 
 like my friends I've been talking about. 
 And you're most like Mrs. John 
 Symmes." 
 
 Then Mrs. Corcoran, glowing with pleasure, 
 said, "Bob Ryan, if ever you want a home, 
 come to me. My children, every one of them, 
 love you as though you were my own true 
 son." 
 
 "Why," exclaimed Bob, "that's just the 
 way Mrs. John Symmes spoke to me. You 
 certainly are her sister. Here take her pic- 
 ture with you." 
 
 The tears came to Mrs. Corcoran's eyes. 
 She accepted the photograph, and without 
 saying a word (indeed, she was too full of 
 emotion for utterance) she caught Bob's hand, 
 and, leaning forward, imprinted a kiss upon 
 his brow. 
 
 "And that," said Bob, deeply touched, "is 
 what Mrs. Symmes did to me when she wished
 
 144 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 me good-by. Mrs. Symmes is one of the best 
 -Oh, gosh!" 
 
 With which prosaic expression ended the 
 most sentimental passage thus far recorded in 
 the story of Bob Ryan.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Bob at the circus. A mysterious visitor. 
 The Lady in Black once more. 
 
 THE most prosperous year in the history of 
 St. Xavier School was drawing to a 
 close. The spirit there prevailing was due 
 largely to the spirit of the St. Aloysius So- 
 dality and of the Children of Mary; and the 
 spirit of these two Sodalities was in no small 
 part due to the influence and initiative of Bob 
 Ryan. 
 
 "I declare," said Father Carney, seated at 
 his office desk, "never in my life and it's gone 
 considerably over a half a century have I 
 met such a wonderful small boy as Bob. He 
 has the strength of ten, because his heart is 
 pure; and he has the heart of ten, because 
 there's something so big about him. The boy 
 has a giant's strength, but he does not use it 
 like a giant. He is gentle, yet absolutely fear- 
 less." 
 
 Brother Cyril, to whom he was talking, 
 laughed. 
 
 "Did you hear of his adventure at the circus 
 yesterday afternoon, Father?" 
 
 145
 
 146 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "No; what happened?" 
 
 "Well, I had all the acolytes there, thanks 
 to your kindness in presenting the tickets " 
 
 "Don't put it on me, Brother," interrupted 
 Father Carney. "It was the thoughtful 
 Colonel Robert Bridwell who sent them to me. 
 He's always thinking of somebody else's hap- 
 piness. But please go on." 
 
 "Bob enjoyed the clowns so much that his 
 laugh could be heard above the crowd. He 
 was shiriingly happy. After a while, Father, 
 all those clowns were acting as though Bob 
 were the whole audience. Really, Father, I 
 think that boy is a born leader of men. There 
 were thousands of people there, but the cir- 
 cus actors, after the first two or three num- 
 bers, seemed to settle on Bob. Even the little 
 girl equestrienne, a tiny mite of a thing with 
 a very pretty and innocent face, made it a 
 point to throw her smiles upon Bob." 
 
 "The boy," observed Father Carney, "has 
 magnetism." 
 
 "There were some trained bears, comic fel- 
 lows, natural-born clowns in every movement. 
 Bob went simply wild over them. He seemed 
 to fall in love with those bears." 
 
 "He's a wonder with cats and dogs," put 
 in Father Carney. "Probably he's fond of all 
 animals."
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 147 
 
 "After a while," the brother continued, "the 
 bear trainer handed a large black bear a cigar, 
 and said : 'Bruno, give this to the most popu- 
 lar man in the audience.' Just before he issued 
 the orders, a man, evidently one of the com- 
 pany, had seated himself right in front of Bob. 
 He was waiting to get that cigar. Did he get 
 it? He did not. When the bear approached 
 the man Bob gave a chuckle and made a slight 
 clicking noise. And would you believe it? 
 Bruno reached over the man's head and gave 
 the cigar to Bob. But that wasn't all. 
 
 "Toward the end of the show one of the 
 ringmasters brought out a bucking broncho, 
 and offered five dollars to any boy who would 
 ride it once around the ring. At first about 
 one hundred boys seemed anxious to ride it; 
 but after six brave youths had got on the beast, 
 and got off much faster than they got on, the 
 enthusiasm died out. Among others that 
 changed their mind was Johnny O'Brien. He 
 turned to Bob and urged him to try it. But 
 Bob only grinned and shook his head. Now, 
 when Johnny O'Brien wants something he 
 wants it intensely. He returned to the charge. 
 I was sitting behind the two, and so I could 
 hear easily what he said. 'Bob,' urged Johnny, 
 'there's a family on Twelfth Street that's in 
 bad. The father's sick, and his oldest girl is
 
 148 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 worse, and they're short on the rent. 
 Five dollars will put them up in business 
 again/ 
 
 "Then Bob stepped into the ring. 'Jump 
 on, Johnny, quick,' said the ringmaster. But 
 Bob walked up to the broncho, stroked its 
 head, and seemed to whisper something in its 
 ear. At once some sort of change came over 
 the animal. Then Bob jumped on. And did 
 the broncho hunch up and send Bob into the 
 air? Well, yes, it did; but in a very mild way. 
 Then Bob began talking to the beast, and the 
 next thing you know that broncho trotted 
 around the ring like a family pony." 
 
 "I've heard before of Bob's power over ani- 
 mals. They say he's a little St. Francis of 
 Assisi; and I believe it. Do you know, 
 Brother Cyril, that I envy that boy's kindness 
 and power of love? I wish I knew how to deal 
 with people as he does. He never gets fidgety 
 or nervous or irritable as I do. Why, I'm a 
 priest, and a priest's power for good is simply 
 vast. But if I had his big heart I'd be able to 
 do more good with less means than any man in 
 Cincinnati." 
 
 "The fame of his work, Father, as a mem- 
 ber of the Sick Committee has gone outside our 
 parish. There are many families that when a 
 child is sick send first for Bob, secondly for
 
 HIS LUCKIEST TEAR 149 
 
 the priest, and if that doesn't stop the sickness 
 they call in the doctor." 
 
 "I'm afraid," pursued Father Carney, "that 
 he'll not be with us long." 
 
 "You mean he's going to St. Xavier's next 
 year?" 
 
 "No; I think we're going to lose Bob. 
 There's some sort of a mystery in his life, and 
 I feel it in my bones that the mystery is soon 
 to be cleared. I know the boy's story and I've 
 kept track of him all this year, and I'm almost 
 certain that something strange is going to 
 occur." 
 
 "By the way, Lucille has written to Bob 
 several times lately to be prepared for a big 
 surprise. Do you think that has any bearing 
 on Bob's case?" 
 
 "Yes; and Tom Temple has written to the 
 same effect," answered the priest. "And I 
 know that Tom takes a tremendous interest in 
 Bob's case. All the same, Bob himself doesn't 
 seem to worry." 
 
 "He's too busy to worry," said Brother 
 Cyril. "What with his Sodality work and his 
 studies and keeping up with his friends he's on 
 the go all the time." 
 
 "And how is he getting on in class, 
 Brother?" 
 
 "He's easily first. There's only one boy
 
 150 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 who can touch him, and that's Albert Cor- 
 coran. Albert, in fact, is better than Bob in 
 arithmetic. But in English, Bob is the best 
 boy I've ever had in the eighth grade. He'll 
 make a writer some day. Indeed, I should not 
 be at all surprised if he should become a poet." 
 
 "A man," observed Father Carney, "who 
 gets poetry into his life may not have time to 
 get it into his writings. He certainly has the 
 poetic heart ' 
 
 "Which," quoted the Brother, "is more than 
 all poetic art. Yes, Father, if I were a betting 
 man, I'd be willing to stake everything I own 
 or expect to own on Bob's coming out first in 
 the contest for the scholarship at St. Xavier 
 College." 
 
 "How are your boys getting along in their 
 preparation?" 
 
 "They're going too hard, Father. Never 
 in all my years of teaching did I have an easier 
 time. Those boys, when I give them work, 
 just eat it up. And Bob is the most eager of 
 all. His eagerness is catching. Every day 
 after our extra hour of class I have to drive 
 them out. It's my happiest year of teaching." 
 
 "Brother," said Father Carney, "sometimes 
 when I step within your class I almost envy 
 you. It's simply wonderful to me to see how 
 eager and alert and jolly and care- free your
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 151 
 
 boys are. They are so busy that one almost 
 feels they are living ideal lives. They have so 
 many good habits that they've no time to take 
 up bad ones." 
 
 "Thank you, Father; you have paid me a 
 great compliment. Well, in a few weeks the 
 contest will come off. I hear that there will be 
 about two hundred boys to take part, the pick 
 of the eighth-grade boys in all our Cincinnati, 
 Covington, and Newport parishes. No mat- 
 ter ; you just keep your eye on our boys. Good- 
 by, Father." 
 
 On- that very afternoon, Bob, on arriving at 
 his room after a very strenuous class-day, 
 found his landlady awaiting him. She had 
 the air of one with an important communica- 
 tion. 
 
 "Nobody sick, ma'am?" inquired Bob. 
 
 "No, Bob; but there's been a visitor to see 
 you." 
 
 "Not Mrs. Corcoran?" 
 
 "I don't call Mrs. Corcoran a visitor. Why, 
 isn't she here three times a week, going 
 through everything in your room, and reading 
 all your letters?" 
 
 Here it must be set down that Mrs. Jones, 
 Bob's landlady, was a most excellent woman. 
 She took the greatest interest in Bob, and she 
 gave what time she could afford from her mul-
 
 152 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 tifarious duties to seeing to his comfort and 
 happiness. But Mrs. Jones was a much over- 
 burdened woman; and many a time she had 
 left many a thing undone for the boy because 
 her more intimate duties absorbed her. So 
 when Mrs. Corcoran, whose quick eye no 
 household duty undone could escape, had come 
 to her and begged as a favor for permission to 
 visit Bob's room three or four times a week 
 and go over the boy's clothes and linen and 
 furniture, Mrs. Jones, because she was a noble 
 woman, gave a willing consent; but because 
 she was also just a woman she never quite for- 
 gave Mrs. Corcoran. Nor could she speak of 
 that grateful friend of Bob's without saying 
 something unkind. It was hard for Bob to 
 understand. 
 
 "I'm sure she doesn't read my letters, Mrs. 
 Jones," returned Bob gently. "She's not that 
 kind. For that matter, if she wanted to read 
 them, she'd be welcome. In fact, next time I 
 see her I'm going to tell her she can read any- 
 thing in my room." 
 
 "And have the whole parish talking about 
 your private affairs?" protested Mrs. Jones 
 indignantly. "Don't you do any such thing, 
 Bob Ryan. She's got enough to talk about 
 now from what she sees in your room, without 
 her going and reading your private letters.
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 153 
 
 She's got a tongue, Mrs. Corcoran has. All 
 women have." 
 
 It was difficult for Bob to follow this bit of 
 what is called feminine logic. Here was a 
 good woman declaring in one breath that Mrs. 
 Corcoran read all his letters and in the other 
 begging him not to give her permission, as she 
 would be sure to make the contents known to 
 every one. Bob did not as yet know that jeal- 
 ousy plays the mischief with logic. 
 
 "She's a splendid woman and you know it, 
 ma'am," continued Bob. 
 
 "Oh, I'm not saying anything against her," 
 answered the woman of the house. "But 
 there's a lot of other people who would do 
 what she does for you, and do it just as well, 
 and see to your buttons and put your things in 
 order; and then they wouldn't go boasting 
 about it all over the street." 
 
 "But, Mrs. Jones, I'm sure she doesn't do 
 that." 
 
 "Oh, you're young and innocent. But I have 
 eyes and ears, and Alice O'Shea knows that 
 she comes here, and so does Johnny O'Brien, 
 and Elizabeth Reno. I've heard them talk 
 about it." 
 
 "Good gracious!" exclaimed the boy, still 
 smiling. "Of course they know it. So do 
 their mothers and their sisters and their cousins
 
 154 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 and their aunts. Everybody on the street 
 knows it." 
 
 "Just what I said," cried Mrs. Jones tri- 
 umphantly. 
 
 "Yes; but I told them so myself, ma'am. 
 Why, there's no secret about it." 
 
 Mrs. Jones laughed somewhat bitterly. 
 
 "Secret!" she echoed, "I should say not. 
 That woman keep a secret! Oh, you don't 
 understand people, Bob." 
 
 "Maybe I don't; but just the same, Mrs. 
 Corcoran told me not to talk about her caring 
 for my room. She wanted me to keep it quiet ; 
 but I felt so obliged to her that I just had to 
 let it out. She's not to blame." 
 
 Mrs. Jones tossed her head and sniffed. 
 
 "Much you know about human nature," she 
 stated with a tone of finality. "Some women 
 talk about everything." 
 
 "I guess I know very little," commented the 
 puzzled youth. "But who was the visitor?" 
 
 "Bob, it was some lady." 
 
 "Some lady?" 
 
 "Yes, some lady that I never laid eyes upon 
 before. And there's no one upon the street 
 that knows her." 
 
 "Why, did all the people on the street see 
 her?" 
 
 "Oh, no; but after she left I went around
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 155 
 
 and described her, and they all said she was a 
 perfect stranger." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Bob, realizing with a suppressed 
 grin that everybody on Pioneer Street was 
 discussing his visitor. "Tell me all about her, 
 please." 
 
 "She had beautiful grey eyes, Bob. Her 
 hair was natural." 
 
 "Natural!" cried the boy. 
 
 "Yes, natural. Dull brown with little glints 
 of gold in it. Her complexion was natu- 
 ral- 
 
 "Natural!" cried Bob once more. 
 
 "Yes, natural. She had beautiful teeth. 
 They were " 
 
 "Natural?" put in Bob. 
 
 "Yes," came the unsmiling but enthusiastic 
 answer, "her teeth were natural, too. She had 
 a beautiful mouth, small but curved like a 
 Cupid's bow. There was a delicate color, like 
 that of a peach, upon her cheeks. That color, 
 Bob, was natural." 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Bob. "Of course it was 
 natural; what would you expect it to be?" 
 
 Mrs. Jones cast a pitying smile upon Bob, 
 and went on to tell how the lady's hair was 
 dressed. Bob listened without comprehend- 
 ing. Then Mrs. Jones described the shoes the 
 visitor wore, out of which description Bob
 
 156 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 gleaned the information that there were shoes 
 on both feet, and extremely small, size one and 
 one-half. Every woman is a dressmaker at 
 heart. Mrs. Jones, then, having disposed of 
 the shoes, dilated upon the strange lady's dress. 
 She spoke for five minutes. Women on the 
 street had already heard the same description 
 and had listened with delight. Bob, noble 
 youth, lent an ear, too, and concealed his suf- 
 ferings. He was listening to an unknown 
 tongue. The hat and veil came in for their 
 share of description. 
 
 "And," continued Mrs. Jones, "when I told 
 her you weren't in she seemed to be so dis- 
 appointed." 
 
 "Did you tell her to come back?" 
 
 "No; she said she couldn't; but," here Mrs. 
 Jones reached a hand into the bosom of her 
 shirt-waist and promptly brought out an en- 
 velope, a small square envelope, dainty, though 
 somewhat rumpled, "she asked me to give you 
 this." 
 
 Bob tore the flap open, pulled out the en- 
 closure and read: 
 
 To Robert Ryan: The enclosed ten dollars 
 is for flowers for sick little boys. Pray for 
 the donor. M. L. 
 
 Then Bob, catching his breath, gazed now
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 157 
 
 upon the delicate handwriting, now upon the 
 crisp ten-dollar note. 
 
 "It's ten dollars for flowers for the sick," he 
 cried jubilantly. "Isn't that fine? But she 
 doesn't sign her name." 
 
 "No," assented Mrs. Jones with uncon- 
 cealed disappointment. 
 
 "I wonder who she was?" mused the boy. 
 
 "I've described her as well as I could, Bob." 
 
 Suddenly the boy's eyes gleamed. 
 
 "Say, Mrs. Jones, was she dressed in black?" 
 
 "Why, Bob Ryan, I spent ten minutes in 
 telling you that." 
 
 "Oh, you did! And did she look sort of 
 sad?" 
 
 "That's so; she did. Just like she'd lost her 
 husband." 
 
 "And does she live outside the city?" 
 
 "She lives in Hamilton," came the answer. 
 "She had to catch a train." 
 
 "Why didn't you tell me that?" cried Bob. 
 "Oh, I'm so sorry I missed her. Why, Mrs. 
 Jones, that's the Lady in Black." 
 
 "The Lady in Black!" echoed Mrs. Jones. 
 "And who may be the Lady 
 
 Mrs. Jones found it useless to ask her ques- 
 tion; for Bob had run up the stairs and bolted 
 into his room, where, with his chin buried in 
 his right hand, he meditated upon the mystery
 
 158 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 of the lady whose love for the sick and friend- 
 less had once more come into his life. 
 
 Mrs. Jones meantime had stepped into the 
 street, and before Bob's meditations were 
 ended the ten-dollar note, the mysterious 
 woman, and her missive with the initials were 
 topics of discussion in ten different homes.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 So near and yet so far! The first meeting. 
 
 QUDDENLY Bob jumped to his feet. There 
 O had flashed through his mind the thought 
 that it was Thursday, his regular confession 
 day, and that if he hurried over to the church 
 he could catch his confessor before six o'clock, 
 the dinner hour for both. 
 
 It was a beautiful afternoon. The street was 
 bright with the latest rays of a glorious sun; 
 there was a faint odor of flowers in the air; a 
 bird, lost in a great city, sang his song from a 
 telephone wire ; and, best of all, the street was 
 a thing of joy with the sweet cries and happy 
 laughter and swift movement and artless prat- 
 tle of boys and girls as nice a set of children, 
 Bob fondly meditated, as one could find from 
 Oakland to New York. 
 
 Prominent among them were Alice O'Shea 
 and her dearest friend in the world, Elizabeth 
 Reno. The two were walking up and down 
 the street, not without some show of stateli- 
 ness, marred somewhat, it must be confessed, 
 by the fact that each had a fast-disappearing 
 ice-cream cone. They were the belles of the 
 
 street, the belles, that is, of the extremely 
 
 159
 
 160 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 younger set; and they were dressed accord- 
 ingly. Alice's curls "almost natural" set off 
 her features to the best advantage. Dressed in 
 white, dashed with touches of blue, she looked 
 like a princess such as one would see looking 
 out from magic casements in joy land. Dark- 
 haired Elizabeth, with her clear-cut features, 
 her large and expectant eyes, and her slow 
 smile, dressed, allowing for a dash of red, to a 
 dot like her dearest friend, was a splendid foil 
 to her companion. 
 
 "Where are you going, Bob?" inquired 
 Alice. 
 
 "I'm going to get shriven." 
 
 "Is it good to eat?" continued the young 
 lady. 
 
 "I mean," laughed the boy, "that I'm going 
 to confession." 
 
 "We went this afternoon, early," said Eliz- 
 abeth. "And," she added proudly, "we both 
 got up early last Saturday and went to com- 
 munion." 
 
 "And," put in Alice, "we're going again 
 next Saturday." 
 
 "Yes" here Elizabeth took up the won- 
 drous strain "and we intend to keep it up 
 just as long as the fine weather lasts." 
 
 "That's fine!" said Bob. 
 
 "And do you know, Bob," continued Alice,
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 161 
 
 "that we're all friends on this street? I speak 
 to all the girls now, and so does Elizabeth." 
 
 "It's been going on that way for eight 
 weeks," explained Elizabeth, her eyes as she 
 spoke betraying the wonder of it all; "and my 
 sister Catharine has got us all so interested 
 in the Ladies of the Blessed Sacrament Sec- 
 tion. They say she'll be the next prefect." 
 
 "Say, Bob," Alice inquired with tense in- 
 terest, "do you think there's a chance for me 
 to be prefect some day?" 
 
 Bob was about to answer, when the young 
 ladies, screaming with excitement and forget- 
 ting that they were dressed for the evening, 
 darted down the street. Johnny O'Brien had 
 just opened a box of candy for the benefit of 
 his many friends. 
 
 Bob went on, feeling intensely happy. 
 Spring and peace and love and kindness 
 were they not all about him? The chimes of 
 St. Xavier Church were announcing to Cin- 
 cinnati that the time was half after five when 
 Bob reached the corner of Sixth and Syca- 
 more. A car had stopped to take on passen- 
 gers. As the car started, the boy, turning 
 from Sycamore to Sixth, glanced casually in 
 its direction. From the arms of a woman who 
 had just got on slipped a small package. In 
 the very moment that Bob saw the mishap he
 
 162 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 took action. He ran into the street, picked up 
 up the package, and, still running, caught up 
 with the car. 
 
 "Here you are, ma'am," he cried, handing 
 it to the lady. 
 
 "Oh, thank you so much I" 
 
 Bob was thrilled with the sweetness of the 
 voice; and, for the first time, he looked into 
 its owner's face. The face and the voice be- 
 longed together. There was sweetness in 
 both and sadness. As the car moved on the 
 woman turned and looked at Bob. Suddenly 
 her eyes lighted up, she drew a deep breath, 
 and a smile came upon her fair and delicate 
 features which dispelled as though by magic 
 every trace of sorrow. No less electrical was 
 the effect on Bob. He smiled in return and 
 waved a hand, while there surged through him 
 a feeling of vague longing. It all happened 
 in a few seconds. The face, the lovely face, 
 the face with an indescribable something which 
 stirred the boy's whole being profoundly, was 
 gone. 
 
 Bob entered the church wondering. He 
 made his confession, and in due time went once 
 more into the pure air of sunset, still wonder- 
 ing. 
 
 Suddenly he paused on the church steps and 
 gave a gasp.
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 163 
 
 "By George!" he exclaimed. "Why didn't 
 I jump on that car and introduce myself? 
 Why didn't I notice her dress? I must have 
 noticed it or I wouldn't know it now. It was 
 the Lady in Black."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 In which chanty interferes with study, Bob 
 is awaiting surprising news, and the great 
 examination day is at hand. 
 
 IT was the eve of the great examination. Bob 
 Ryan and Albert Corcoran were met to do 
 their last bit of preparation. Albert was the 
 picture of good health. Bob looked tired, as 
 his friend noticed. 
 
 "What's the matter, Bob? You don't look 
 like yourself." 
 
 "I don't feel like myself, Albert. There's a 
 little boy on Pendleton Street, one of the 
 nicest little boys you ever met. He's in the 
 fifth grade and the brightest in the class." 
 
 "You mean Charlie Fitzpatrick, the new 
 altar-boy?" 
 
 "That's the boy. You see, I helped Charlie 
 learn his Mass prayers, and we got to know 
 each other pretty well. He's so frail and deli- 
 cate it used to make me feel ashamed of my- 
 self. I've only known him a few weeks not 
 more than three and he's one of the best 
 friends " 
 
 A giggle stopped Bob's flow of language. 
 
 "Well, he is," pursued Bob stoutly. "Yes- 
 terday, early in the evening, his little sister, 
 
 164
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 165 
 
 Mary, who in her way is just as fine as he is, 
 came running here to tell me that he was awful 
 sick, and wanted me to come and see him. Of 
 course I went." 
 
 "Don't I know it?" put in Albert. "When 
 I came here to go over the cube root with you 
 I found your room empty. I stayed for two 
 hours." 
 
 "Awfully sorry," said Bob. 
 
 "You needn't be; I studied just the same, 
 and went home ready for any examination. 
 But what about little Charlie?" 
 
 "Say, Albert, it was awful. I never saw 
 anybody in such pain. I stayed with him till 
 away after ten; and it broke me all up to see 
 how terribly that little fellow could suffer and 
 keep on smiling. When I left him he was feel- 
 ing ever so much better. But I tell you, Al- 
 bert, I wasn't. I felt as if I had been sick ; and 
 I couldn't sleep for over three hours, thinking 
 of that poor little chap." 
 
 "No wonder you look all in." 
 
 "I wish I were sick in his place," said Bob. 
 "I'm strong. I could stand it. But he is so 
 frail, and yet so brave. Father Carney 
 brought him communion this morning. The 
 poor kid, his sister told me, was burning up 
 with thirst all night; but he wouldn't touch a 
 drop of water after it struck twelve."
 
 166 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "Oh, that reminds me," said Albert. 
 "Father Carney said a funny thing the other 
 day. He said that when he first took charge 
 of the school years ago, children, when they 
 took very sick, always asked for a priest to 
 hear their confession; but now that frequent 
 communion has come in they never say a word 
 about confession, but ask for a priest to bring 
 them Holy Communion." 
 
 "Little children are so interesting 1" ob- 
 served Bob Ryan, age fourteen. "But," he 
 added, "some grown people are very interest- 
 ing, too. "I've got the funniest letters from 
 Tom and Lucille. Tom is in New York and 
 Lucille is in Iowa. Both of them tell me that 
 next time I hear from them, and it won't be 
 very long, I will hear the most wonderful news. 
 And both of them want me to pray hard for 
 their intention till July the fifth. I wonder 
 what's up?" 
 
 "July the fifth!" exclaimed Angelo, jump- 
 ing to his feet. "Why, don't you see?" 
 
 "See what? They want me to offer up my 
 communion for a special intention on that 
 day." 
 
 "Bob, what an owl you are. Don't 
 you remember what you told me? July 
 the nfth is the day your father threw you 
 out!'
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 167 
 
 "By George!" said Bob. "I never thought 
 of that." 
 
 "And ' continued Angelo, "he told you 
 not to dare come back to Dubuque for one 
 year. On July the fifth your year is up. Bob, 
 I'll bet anything that Tom Temple, who has 
 been studying your case, has found out some- 
 thing, or expects to find out something on that 
 date." 
 
 "I wonder," said Bob. "Anyhow, my year 
 will be up, and if I can afford it I'm going 
 back to Dubuque to see all my friends." 
 
 "And when you get to Dubuque, Bob, how 
 long do you intend staying?" 
 
 "That depends," Bob made answer. "If 
 I win a scholarship I'm coming back here, 
 even if I have to tramp it. I suppose I 
 can get some work to do after school hours. 
 I'll have to. I'm going to be poor next 
 year." 
 
 "You'll stay with us," cried Albert. "My 
 mother wants it ; my brother Angelo wants it ; 
 and, as for my sisters, they all want it; and 
 little Rosie is crying for it." 
 
 "It's mighty nice of your mother, Albert," 
 returned Bob, "but I can't do it. Every- 
 body's been helping me, and I'm afraid, if it 
 keeps on, I'll be pauperized. It seems to me 
 I'm big enough and strong enough to make
 
 168 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 my own way. It spoils a chap to be relying 
 on his friends for everything. Anyhow, I 
 may not win the scholarship; and if I 
 don't- 
 
 "Well, what if you don't?" 
 
 "Why, I think I'll stay in Dubuque and try 
 to earn my living there. That's my home, and 
 I feel that I ought to be there." 
 
 "Did my mother show you the letter she got 
 from Mrs. John Symmes, Bob?" 
 
 "Yes; and I got one, too. Mrs. Symmes 
 says she's the happiest woman in the world. 
 She's so proud of you and Angelo and your 
 sisters. And she thinks that it's most extraor- 
 dinary that I should find in Cincinnati her sis- 
 ter, and that I should be such a close friend of 
 your family. And best of all, she's going to 
 return to the Church she was baptized in. It's 
 funny, Albert, that I didn't notice from the 
 start how much alike your mother and Mrs. 
 Symmes were. When I saw your mother first 
 I had a feeling that there was something fa- 
 miliar about her; but I couldn't make out 
 where it came in." 
 
 "In that letter my mother got," said Albert, 
 "she begs her to come and pay her a visit. Mrs. 
 Symmes wants my mother to bring on all the 
 children and stay the summer. And it won't 
 cost my mother a cent, either."
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 169 
 
 "That will be fine. I hope your mother will 
 go" 
 
 "So do I, Bob; my mother hasn't had a va- 
 cation in twenty years ; and she's pretty tired. 
 This past year has been very hard on her. I 
 was sick for two months, and Angelo for ten 
 weeks, and my father died. It was just one 
 thing after another. We all want her to go, 
 even if the rest of us stay home. But she can't 
 make up her mind. Last night she said that if 
 I win the scholarship she'll go, and she'll take 
 me along for a good rest." 
 
 Bob cupped his chin, supporting his right 
 elbow with his left hand. 
 
 "Say," he said presently. "Suppose I win, 
 you lose that trip." 
 
 "That's what I said to my mother. And 
 she said that since St. Xavier School could 
 win only one scholarship she'd go provided my 
 average was among the first five." 
 
 "Good," cried Bob. "And I think you'll 
 come first, anyhow." 
 
 "You're the only one who does think that 
 way, Bob. Brother Cyril thinks you'll make 
 the best examination of any boy he has ever 
 taught, and all the fellows feel sure that you'll 
 come out first." 
 
 "I think, Albert, that I'm pretty well ready 
 for anything except that confounded old cube
 
 170 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 brute. It is a brute, and no mistake. Sup- 
 pose we go over that. You know it ; and then 
 we'll run over the last ten pages of our Eng- 
 lish grammar." 
 
 Albert did his best to initiate Bob into the 
 inner workings of extracting the cube root. 
 Bob, though he tried to listen, had no little 
 difficulty in keeping his eyes open. 
 
 "There 1" said Albert after twenty minutes 
 of figuring and explanation. "Do you see it 
 now?" 
 
 There was no answer. Albert turned his 
 eyes upon Bob's face. Bob, sitting upright in 
 his chair and with an air of attention, was fast 
 asleep. 
 
 "Hey, Bob!" 
 
 "Oh!" cried Bob, jumping up and shaking 
 his head. "I beg your pardon, Albert. I 
 didn't know I was asleep. How far did we 
 get with that sum?" 
 
 Albert, with a laugh, began his explanations 
 once more, and Bob, pinching himself from 
 time to time to keep awake, paid close atten- 
 tion. 
 
 "Now, Bob," asked Albert presently, "do 
 you get it?" 
 
 "I think so," returned Bob. "There's one 
 little point, though, I'm not quite so sure 
 of."
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 171 
 
 At that moment there was a timid knock at 
 the door. 
 
 "Come in," shouted Bob. "Why," he went 
 on as a rather frightened little girl stood re- 
 vealed at the threshold, "is that you, Mary 
 Fitzpatrick?" 
 
 "Please, Bob, my brother's been took bad 
 again; and he wants you. He's awfully sick, 
 and he wants you." 
 
 Bob forgot all about the examination. 
 
 "Say, Albert, suppose you come along, too. 
 I've just got to go." 
 
 "All right, Bob; and when we come back 
 we can settle that little matter of the cube 
 root." 
 
 The three accordingly hurried out into the 
 night. 
 
 Their visit did great good. Bob succeeded 
 in consoling and strengthening the little suf- 
 ferer. The paroxysm of pain passed; and at 
 eleven o'clock the two boys set back for Pio- 
 neer Street. 
 
 But there was no more studying that night. 
 Bob, thoroughly exhausted, excused himself 
 and went promptly to bed.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Bob's failure, the comments of Mr. Latv- 
 ian thereon, and the unhappy results. 
 
 ON the following day, a few minutes before 
 noon, there was, for the first time since 
 the day after the Christmas holidays, deep 
 gloom in the eighth-grade classroom. The 
 twenty-four boys who had represented the 
 class in the interparochial contest were just 
 returned, looking like anything but victors. 
 Bob Ryan had lost his usual smile. 
 
 "Well, boys," said Brother Cyril, "how 
 were the questions?" 
 
 "Rotten," answered Edward Bolan. 
 
 "Some of them were pretty hard," added 
 Albert Corcoran. "There was a very hard 
 sentence to parse and analyze, and I just hope 
 I got it. The arithmetic was dead easy." 
 
 A protesting growl arose from twenty-three 
 throats. 
 
 "I guess," said Bob, whose eyes were heavy, 
 "that it was easy for Albert. Anything in 
 arithmetic is easy to him. But one of the 
 problems nearly broke my head." 
 
 "One of 'em," cried Bolan, "just broke my 
 heart. I left the old thing out." 
 
 172
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 173 
 
 "Did you manage to get it, Bob?" asked the 
 brother. 
 
 "I don't know. Brother. I believe I got 
 most of it: but I'm not sure about one part." 
 
 "And how about the composition?" 
 
 "Oh/ said Bob, "we were told to write a 
 page and a half or two about 'An Early 
 Spring Morning in the Country.' ' 
 
 "That's just your line, Bob." 
 
 "Yes; but somehow I felt heavy and tired, 
 and I never knew before how hard it was to 
 think. I wrote a page and a half; but I think 
 it was punk.'' 
 
 Deeper grew the gloom upon the entire class. 
 
 "Let's do something to cheer ourselves up," 
 observed a wag. "There was a funeral at St. 
 Xavier's at ten o'clock. Brother, if we took 
 a car right now we might get to the cemetery 
 in time for the burial. I'm sure a little thing 
 like that would lighten the gloom." 
 
 Bob was the only one present to laugh 
 heartily. 
 
 "Oh, well," said Brother Cyril, "you needn't 
 be discouraged, boys. After all, it's better to 
 deserve to succeed than to succeed." 
 
 The class received this information with un- 
 broken mournfulness. 
 
 "You've done your duty," continued Brother 
 Cyril ; "and that's the thing that counts."
 
 174 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "Say, Brother," said the wag, no suspicion 
 of a smile upon his countenance, "I don't see 
 that just now. I'm awfully stupid to-day. 
 So are all of us. Would you mind making a 
 diagram on the board, so we could all under- 
 stand it " 
 
 The Brother laughed. The effect was as 
 though a burst of sunshine had broken the 
 gloom of a cloudy day. 
 
 "Boys, boys," pleaded Brother Cyril, 
 "don't take on so. By the way, how did the 
 boys from the other schools feel after the ex- 
 amination?" 
 
 "They looked just as sad as we did," an- 
 swered Bob. 
 
 "Ah!" cried the brother, much consoled. 
 "Did they seem to be very gloomy?" 
 
 "Gloomy isn't the word for it, Brother 
 Cyril," Albert made answer. 
 
 "They looked," said the wag, "as they'd 
 just spent a week in the trenches and were 
 going back again." 
 
 "Some of them that I saw," added Bolan, 
 "looked as though they had just been through 
 an earthquake and come out just alive enough 
 to know they weren't killed." 
 
 A great joy was growing on Brother Cyril's 
 face. 
 
 "Did they seem to feel absolutely
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 175 
 
 wretched?" he asked with the light of rosy 
 hope in his eyes. 
 
 "They did," roared the twenty-four. 
 
 Whereupon everybody present broke into 
 smiles. The gloom was dispelled; a holiday 
 spirit prevailed, and Brother Cyril, having 
 first consulted with the head Brother, an- 
 nounced that they would have a picnic at 
 Burnet Woods the next day. 
 
 When, a few minutes later, the twenty-four 
 contestants filed into the school-yard, each 
 carried himself as though he were a wedding 
 guest. 
 
 A week passed by before the result of the 
 contest was announced. On the morning of 
 July first all the contestants, two hundred and 
 eighteen in number, assembled in the Memorial 
 Hall of St. Xavier College. 
 
 On the stage stood Father Feeley, the vice- 
 president of the college, and Father Dalton, 
 one of the professors. 
 
 "Boys," began Father Feeley, "I've no 
 doubt that most of you thought the examina- 
 tion was very severe. It was. We made it a 
 searching examination, because we had reason 
 to believe that you were the brightest set of 
 contestants that had ever entered into our 
 scholarship contest. Had we made the ex- 
 amination an easier one, we feared that it
 
 176 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 would be difficult to find out the winners. 
 There would be, we thought, too many ties. 
 Now, the event would seem to justify our 
 judgment. Hard as the examination has been, 
 there are two almost tied for the first place, 
 and three for the fifth place." 
 
 At this announcement many of the boys be- 
 gan to bob up and down in their seats like 
 corks upon troubled waters. 
 
 "I see," continued Father Feeley, "that you 
 are all bursting to get results. Before I pro- 
 ceed to announce the winners, I think it right 
 to tell you that neither I nor any one connected 
 with the college has, as yet, the least idea as to 
 who are going to enjoy the privilege of the first 
 scholarship. Each of you, as you know, signed 
 your examination papers with a fictitious 
 name. Each of you placed in an envelope 
 signed with your assumed name a slip of paper 
 containing your real name. These envelopes 
 are still sealed. And now I shall proceed to 
 announce the winners according to the names 
 they adopted for the occasion. 
 
 "The highest average, entitling the boy who 
 gained it to a scholarship both for high school 
 and college, was won by 'Blue Hope.' While 
 Father Dalton is verifying the winner, 
 suppose the boy who adopted that name
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 177 
 
 There was a tremendous sensation when a 
 handsome, dark-eyed boy arose. 
 
 "Albert Corcoran!" shouted Bob. 
 
 "Corcoran! Corcoran!" yelled the eighth- 
 grade pupils of St. Xavier School. "Xavier! 
 Xavier!" 
 
 "His average," continued Father Feeley 
 when the applause had died out, "is ninety- 
 nine and one-third per cent." 
 
 This announcement evoked buzzes of ad- 
 miration. 
 
 "The next in merit," continued the vice- 
 president, "has an average of ninety-nine and 
 a quarter per cent. Between the two, you will 
 observe, is just the difference of one- twelfth of 
 a note. He uses the name 'Campion.' ' 
 
 Then Bob arose. 
 
 There was applause; but it was not hearty. 
 Bob's classmates had felt so sure of his lead- 
 ing the class that they were unable at once to 
 put aside their disappointment. His very 
 popularity was the cause of the scant enthusi- 
 asm. Bob did not know how much he was 
 loved ; but he realized with a sensitiveness new 
 to him that there was a marked difference be- 
 tween the ovation accorded Albert and the 
 faint plaudits which had greeted him. 
 
 "Why," exclaimed Father Feeley, "this is 
 a great surprise. The two leaders are both
 
 178 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 from St. Xavier School. As I presume you 
 all know, only one scholarship is awarded to 
 any school. The next winner, with a percent- 
 age of ninety-six, is 'Comus.' ' 
 
 A boy from the Assumption Parish arose. 
 
 "The next in merit is 'Tom Sawyer,' aver- 
 age ninety-five and a half." 
 
 Walter Godfrey, the wag of Brother Cyril's 
 class, arose. He, too, received an ovation. 
 
 "The next in merit is 'Macbeth,' average 
 ninety-five." 
 
 Edward Bolan received a round of applause 
 little less hearty than Godfrey's. 
 
 The third scholarship finally fell to a pupil 
 of the Cathedral Parish of Covington, the 
 fourth to St. Edward's, and the fifth to St. 
 Francis de Sales'. 
 
 Bob left the hall with a feeling of depres- 
 sion for which he could not account. No one 
 rejoiced more than he at the signal victory of 
 Albert Corcoran ; and yet there was associated 
 with it a sinking of the heart. Surely, he rea- 
 soned, he could not be jealous. His class- 
 mates were showering congratulations upon 
 Albert, and they did it in a whole-souled way. 
 But they seemed to fight shy of Bob; they 
 addressed him awkwardly; they were quick to 
 slip away from his presence. 
 
 "Bob Ryan," said Brother Cyril, catching
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 179 
 
 his hand at the door of the hall, "if you had 
 only got one little point right in that cube- 
 root problem you'd have won with a rating 
 of ninety-nine and four-fifths per cent." 
 
 "Is that so, Brother?" asked the boy, try- 
 ing, with faint success, to smile. 
 
 "Yes; Father Feeley has just told me. It's 
 too bad. Albert Corcoran got the arithmetic 
 perfectly. He lost two-thirds of a note in 
 English composition. What a pity you missed 
 a simple thing like that!" 
 
 For the first time in many a month Bob was, 
 as the saying is, under the weather. Hard 
 study in preparation for the contest, some 
 Worry about his finances, which were almost 
 exhausted, and his vigil of several nights in 
 succession at the bedside of his little sick friend 
 had all united to put him into a state of 
 nerves. It came to him, as Brother Cyril 
 addressed him, that he would not have missed 
 a single fraction of a note had he not gone to 
 visit little Fitzpatrick the night before the ex- 
 amination. Moreover, he was quite sure that 
 the Brother, no less than his classmates, was 
 disappointed. In fact, he read in the Brother's 
 words an expression of chagrin which was 
 not there at all. Bob hurried home, locked 
 his door and went to bed, where he remained 
 till supper.
 
 180 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 While Bob, really ill, though he knew it not, 
 passed the better part of the day in broken 
 slumber, several things happened which con- 
 cerned him intimately. 
 
 Word of the wonderful success of St. 
 Xavier School spread rapidly. It reached, 
 first of all, the office of the Catholic Telegraph. 
 The editor, a St. Xavier boy himself, rose to" 
 the occasion. It struck him that a contest of 
 such a nature, in which two boys of the same 
 school came within a tiny fraction of each 
 other and both within a small fraction of abso- 
 lute perfection, was worth special notice. He 
 resolved to secure, if possible, the photographs 
 of the two and to reproduce them in the next 
 number of his paper. 
 
 The news a few minutes later reached the 
 people of St. Xavier Parish. One of the first 
 to get it was a pleasant-faced, grey-haired man 
 on the confines of the period which separates 
 middle life from old age. He was a bank- 
 teller by occupation. In his early years Will- 
 iam Lawton had been the handsomest and 
 most engaging man in St. Xavier Parish. His 
 manners were unusually winning. A student 
 of St. Xavier College, he had shown in his 
 sophomore year a strong desire to enter the 
 priesthood. He was not the brightest boy of 
 his class, but he possessed sufficient talent to
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 181 
 
 give promise of qualifying in those studies 
 required of a seminarian. In addition, his 
 affability, his natural kindliness and his con- 
 versational powers led those interested in him 
 to believe that he would make a priest with 
 extraordinary power for good. At the last 
 moment, yielding to the tears and pleading of 
 his mother, he abandoned his intention of going 
 to the seminary, and, leaving college, went to 
 work in a clerical position. His life, from that 
 hour, was made up of little things. Slowly 
 but surely his high ideals melted away, and he 
 became a commonplace man with fine manners 
 and a misplaced sense of humor. The one 
 thing he picked out in the doings and sayings 
 of his friends and acquaintances was the ridicu- 
 lous side. As the years went on he became a 
 gossip; and at the time he enters into this 
 story he was never known to say a kind word 
 of any one, unless by way of introduction to 
 some bit of scandal. William Lawton is a sad 
 case of progressive deterioration; and it is de- 
 pressing to reflect that we meet our William 
 Lawton in every community. 
 
 He lived in the home of a widow, 
 Mrs. Alma Gentry, whose only son was a 
 pupil in the eighth grade of St. Xavier 
 School. 
 
 When Lawton came in for noon lunch Mrs.
 
 182 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 Gentry at once acquainted him with the news 
 of Bob's failure. 
 
 "Too bad, isn't it?" said Lawton, address- 
 ing himself to his soup. "That boy's had it all 
 his own way ever since he came here. Think 
 of an absolute stranger, a lad of fourteen, 
 camping in our parish and taking possession 
 of it! The boys elect him prefect of their So- 
 dality, and they know nothing about him." 
 
 "He's the strongest boy in the school," ob- 
 served Malcolm Gentry. 
 
 "So he is," answered Lawton with a genial 
 chuckle. "In fact, I shouldn't be at all sur- 
 prised if his father were a prizefighter or a 
 professional gymnast. But of course we don't 
 know anything about his parents. The people 
 of St. Xavier's are very charitable. The boy 
 is pretty fat. It may come out some day that 
 his father was a strong man who married the 
 Fat Lady in the same circus." 
 
 All this, with perfect charm of manner and 
 with his most winning smile, did Mr. Lawton 
 blandly declare. He attended Mass every 
 Sunday and considered himself a good Cath- 
 olic. Let us trust that he sometimes begged 
 to be delivered from his hidden sins. 
 
 "At any rate," Mrs. Gentry announced, 
 "I'm glad that one of our own parish and not
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 183 
 
 a boy of unknown origin and a stranger is the 
 winner." 
 
 The widow made this statement from the 
 fullness of her heart. She had never forgiven 
 Bob for having been elected prefect of the So- 
 dality. By some course of intricate reason 
 she persuaded herself that, had it not been 
 for Bob's invasion into St. Xavier Parish, 
 her boy might have been the recipient of that 
 high office. Malcolm's record hardly justified 
 her hopes. It seemed to be the rule of his life 
 to let neither study nor duty of any kind inter- 
 fere with his amusements. Thus, early in 
 life he had developed a strong taste for cheap 
 cigarettes and cheap theaters. His mother 
 held that Brother Cyril did not understand 
 her darling. 
 
 "Yes, it's better so," assented Lawton. "At 
 the same time, Mrs. Gentry, we must be fair 
 to Bob Ryan. Of course, he's overrated. 
 Boys always make too much of pure animal 
 strength, and most people are taken by that 
 vacant grin of his. He's got a loud laugh, too. 
 People like it; but people don't know that 
 Oliver Goldsmith speaks of the 'loud laugh 
 that speaks the vacant mind.' When all is 
 said, however, it must be granted that the boy 
 has many fine qualities. Without friend or 
 guardian, living alone, he has certainly done
 
 184 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 very well. He's behaved right decently. He 
 had every chance to run around and dissipate. 
 And he had lots of money. It's a wonder he's 
 not completely ruined. Where does that 
 money of his come from?" 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know," replied Mrs. 
 Gentry. 
 
 "It comes easy," observed Malcolm, "for it 
 goes easy." 
 
 "I repeat, then/' continued Lawton in his 
 softest and kindest tones, "that we must give 
 him all credit for going through the year un- 
 spoiled, and even if during the past few weeks 
 he has changed for the worse " 
 
 "What's that?" cried the widow, glowing 
 with excitement. 
 
 "Of course," whispered Lawton, "this talk 
 of ours is confidential." 
 
 "You may count on my prudence, Mr. Law- 
 ton; I detest gossip." 
 
 Mr. Lawton grinned. He had another 
 story to tell at the bank. 
 
 "A few nights ago," continued the teller, 
 "I happened to be coming down Sycamore 
 Street at about twelve o'clock, and whom 
 should I run up against but Bob Ryan. He 
 was walking along with his head down, as 
 though he didn't want to be recognized." 
 
 "Isn't that too bad!" ejaculated the widow,
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 185 
 
 her tones rich in sadness, her eyes gleaming 
 with joy and interest. 
 
 "I wouldn't for anything in the world 
 wrong the boy," Mr. Lawton went on, "but it 
 struck me that his gait was the least little bit 
 uncertain." 
 
 "Mercy!" gasped the widow. "So young 
 and given to drink !" 
 
 "Now, now, don't say that; it's a serious 
 charge, Mrs. Gentry. I hate to believe such 
 a thing. I saw him the next day, and his face 
 didn't look quite right. That very night, I've 
 learned the night before the contest he went 
 out again, and he was up late. This morning 
 I saw him, and his face looked worse than it 
 did yesterday, and his eyes looked suspiciously 
 like they were bloodshot." 
 
 "Poor boy!" exclaimed the enraptured 
 woman. "Who knows but he is being led 
 astray." 
 
 "Don't jump at conclusions, Mrs. Gentry. 
 Remember, too, that people can go wrong 
 without being led astray. Some children are 
 born into this world with tainted blood. They 
 go wrong, and only God Himself may judge 
 how far they are responsible. But a thousand 
 suspicions do not make a certainty." Here 
 Mr. Lawton arose, adjusted his collar, and 
 with his best smile, added:
 
 186 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "You should have seen that boy this morn- 
 ing. I got one look at his face, and it was the 
 face of 'the morning after the night before/ ' 
 
 And the kindly-spoken, kindly-eyed teller 
 departed. 
 
 Then up rose Mrs. Gentry with haste. 
 
 "Malcolm, dear, if you stay at home and 
 do the dishes I'll be back in an hour and will 
 give you fifty cents." 
 
 Fifty cents! Malcolm's face showed en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 "Say, ma, make it sixty." 
 
 "All right, Malcolm." 
 
 Putting on her best hat and her special 
 gloves, Mrs. Gentry hurried out to visit her 
 friends. 
 
 Two hours after her departure there were 
 twelve women, every one of them a gossip, who 
 were armed with the following information: 
 
 Bob Ryan was the son of a prizefighter who 
 had drunk himself to death and of a Fat Lady 
 who gave promise of repeating her husband's 
 performance. Bob Ryan had come to Cincin- 
 nati to reform. He had made a brave fight for 
 nine months. But the forces of heredity were 
 too strong, and so for the past four weeks he 
 had been going the way of his parents. No 
 wonder, then, that he had failed in winning 
 the scholarship. Three weeks ago his teacher
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 187 
 
 had been certain of the boy's victory. It was 
 really too bad. The boy was more to be pitied 
 than censured; still, he was hardly a fit com- 
 panion for the innocent little children of the 
 parish. 
 
 It was a great day for the gossips. Some of 
 them were having the time of their lives. Not 
 all, however; the door was shown to several 
 of them. 
 
 But alas for human nature Bob was 
 suffering from his too great popularity. 
 There were men and women who knew him 
 only by reputation, and they entertained for 
 him something of the sentiment which the 
 Athenians conceived for Aristides. After all, 
 who was he? Who were his parents? 
 
 Those who knew him were indignant. Did 
 not Jerry, the janitor of St. Xavier School, 
 pull Mr. Lawton's nose? Did not William 
 Devine, forgetting his good resolutions, 
 soundly thrash Malcolm Gentry, and send him 
 home with a swollen nose and a discolored eye? 
 Did not Mrs. Corcoran request the gossip of 
 Ellen Street never more to darken the Cor- 
 coran doors? 
 
 Before nightfall Alice O'Shea, Elizabeth 
 Reno, and Mary Fitzgerald were no longer on 
 speaking terms with fifteen of their girl 
 friends. In a word, a good part of the parish,
 
 188 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 thanks to Lawton and other old women, was 
 set by the ears. 
 
 Bob slept during most of these strenuous 
 hours. He awoke refreshed at five o'clock. 
 Half an hour later Mrs. Corcoran arrived, 
 bringing with her the entire family. She was 
 determined that Bob should not go out on the 
 street that night. 
 
 "We're going to celebrate, Bob,*' she said, 
 with a smile so full of sympathy and tender- 
 ness that Bob felt almost instinctively that she 
 felt sorry for him. "You and my boy Albert 
 have set the record for St. Xavier School. 
 I've told your landlady that I'll set up the 
 supper for to-night. We've brought every- 
 thing along, and we'll have our supper right 
 in this room." 
 
 It was a quiet celebration. How kind, how 
 tender, they all were to Bob 1 He could sense 
 as never before their love. But there was 
 something more. They pitied him. The tears 
 came to Bob's eyes, tears manfully suppressed. 
 After all, it was a wondrous thing to have the 
 love of this wonderful family. Bob had never 
 met a family like it. The Reades were won- 
 derful, too; but they were rich. The Cor- 
 corans, poor and struggling, had the special 
 mark that made them most like to Our Lord. 
 And yet, why should they pity him? And
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 189 
 
 then, he reflected, the boys of his class had 
 been so cold! Could it be possible that he 
 had disgraced himself by coming out second? 
 The question seemed, on the face of it, absurd. 
 
 The Corcorans stayed till ten o'clock. Be- 
 fore leaving, Albert engaged to meet Bob the 
 next morning at half -past eight. They were 
 to go together to William Anthony's photo- 
 graphic studio on Fourth Street to have their 
 pictures taken for the Catholic Telegraph. 
 
 Mrs. Corcoran bade Bob a most affectionate 
 farewell. Her smile was beautiful as she gazed 
 on him at the threshold ; but as the door closed 
 on her she burst into a fit of weeping which 
 fairly appalled her children. 
 
 Never before had they seen her lose her 
 self-control. 
 
 She was herself presently. The children 
 walked on in awed silence. 
 
 Then Mrs. Corcoran said as though to her- 
 self: 
 
 "It is a beautiful world. It is! There may 
 be hundreds of foul tongues, but a boy like 
 Bob Ryan, brave, noble, loyal, unselfish, atones 
 a hundred times over for them all."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 In which Bob has his picture taken, with, as 
 the sequel will show, extraordinary results. 
 
 "T TEY, Bob ready?" 
 
 11 Albert Corcoran, standing at the 
 partly open door of Bob's room, was grinning 
 genially. 
 
 Bob, frowning slightly, was seated at his 
 desk and sorting his letters. They were, alas, 
 old letters. Anita's weekly missive had not 
 come. There was no word from the Reades, 
 none from Tom Temple. The postman had 
 just passed down the street. Bob was sur- 
 prised and disappointed. Matt Morris should 
 have written, too; but he could account for 
 Matt's failure. Campion College had just 
 dismissed its students, and Matt, very likely, 
 was engrossed in preparations for camp life. 
 For ten months Bob had been receiving letters 
 on an average of four a week, and now seven 
 days had passed without a word from his dear 
 absent friends. In addition, on reckoning up 
 his expense account and his cash on hand, the 
 disturbing fact stood clear that when all out- 
 standing bills were paid he would have not 
 more than four or five dollars with which to 
 
 190
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 191 
 
 face the world. There were other matters 
 troubling him, too, to be presently revealed to 
 Albert. 
 
 "Say, Albert," he observed as they came out 
 upon Pioneer Street, "do the fellows think 
 I'm to blame because I didn't get one hundred 
 per cent?" 
 
 "Nonsense, Bob; what put that into your 
 head ? They're sorry, that's all. What makes 
 you ask such a question?" 
 
 "Well, somehow they act like it. By 
 George, I'm afraid I'm getting suspicious. 
 And maybe I'm spoiled. You know, Albert, 
 everybody's been so kind to me that I just take 
 their smiles and goodness as a matter of course, 
 instead of wondering at it. Now this morn- 
 ing after five o'clock Mass several of the 
 acolytes who were to serve at six o'clock came 
 in. Now, the funny thing is they were kind 
 and nice, all right, but, without intending it, 
 they hurt my feelings. Two or three stood 
 apart and looked at me in a strange way, and 
 talked in whispers. It's a terrible thing to be- 
 come suspicious, but for the life of me I 
 couldn't help thinking they were talking about 
 me." 
 
 "Don't get suspicious, Bob," said Albert, 
 knowing only too well that Bob's inferences 
 were fully justified. "It isn't at all like you.
 
 192 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 As for friends, you've got more just now than 
 you could shake a stick at." 
 
 "I should never forget that," said Bob sim- 
 ply. "Often it makes me feel utterly mean 
 and contemptible when I think of all the boys 
 and girls and people who show such trust in 
 me. Why, only this morning Brother Crellin 
 went out of his way to congratulate me. He 
 told me that I had done wonderfully well, and 
 he was proud of me. And there was so much 
 kindness in his voice. There was something 
 else, Albert." 
 
 "What else?" 
 
 "There was pity. And yesterday evening, 
 when you and your mother and the others of 
 your family were over, I noticed that, too. 
 You were all sorry for me." 
 
 Albert was about to make an evasive an- 
 swer, when a clear, sweet, piercing high voice 
 crying, "Bob, Bob!" saved the situation. 
 
 Turning, the two discovered, running after 
 them at full speed, Alice and Elizabeth. 
 
 "Hey, Bob! Are you going to have your 
 picture took?" panted Alice. 
 
 "Now, who told you that?" cried Bob, break- 
 ing once more into the smile concerning which 
 Lawton had quoted Oliver Goldsmith's much- 
 abused line. Alice always awoke the boy's 
 best smile. It was good to see her, fair, curly-
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 193 
 
 headed, radiant, the kindness of a kind soul 
 shining out of kind blue eyes. 
 
 "Who told me? Johnny O'Brien, of 
 course." 
 
 "Johnny O'Brien," remarked Elizabeth, 
 looking upon Bob with her most favoring eyes, 
 "knows everything." 
 
 "How could he have known it?" asked Bob. 
 
 "The answer's easy," responded Albert, 
 laughing heartily. "Johnny saw me in my 
 Sunday best coming to get you a while ago, 
 and it takes Johnny to put two and two to- 
 gether." 
 
 All this time the fair Alice was holding 
 daintily in her fingers a beautiful red rose. 
 At this point of the conversation Elizabeth 
 nudged Alice, who, looking darkly, began 
 making signals in return. 
 
 "Wait, Bob," she commanded, and she drew 
 Elizabeth aside. They communed together 
 earnestly, and in low tones. Finally, advanc- 
 ing to Bob's side, Alice, with a pretty blush, 
 said: "Bob, take this rose and wear it in your 
 buttonhole while you're getting your picture 
 took." 
 
 "It's from both of us," announced Eliz- 
 abeth, blushing in turn. 
 
 "Oh, thank you, thank you!" exclaimed the 
 radiant Bob.
 
 194 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 Then the two young ladies fell to nudging 
 each other and to making extraordinary signs. 
 
 "You tell him," said Alice. 
 
 "You tell him," returned Elizabeth. 
 
 "Let's both do it," suggested the blonde. 
 
 "That's it. We'll both do it. Now to- 
 gether." 
 
 Alice held up her hand. The two, still blush- 
 ing, faced Bob. 
 
 "Follow me," whispered Alice, taking the 
 lead, and obeyed so promptly by the quick 
 Elizabeth that they seemed to utter each syl- 
 lable synchronously 
 
 "Bob Ryan when you get your pic- 
 ture took will you give me one?" 
 upon delivering which they suddenly turned 
 and ran screaming away. 
 
 "By Jove," said Bob, as they turned into 
 Broadway, at the end of Pioneer Street, 
 "those two girls are wonders. They're as good 
 as real boys, only they're funnier. You're 
 right, Albert, I guess I'm suspicious. And," 
 he added, "I'm spoiled, too. Albert, those two 
 girls talked to me, and gave me this beautiful 
 rose and they didn't notice you the whole 
 time. And it didn't seem strange to me at all. 
 I guess I'm getting selfish." 
 
 "Not at all," returned Albert stoutly. 
 "They hardly know me, anyhow; and besides
 
 HIS LUCKIEST TEAR 195 
 
 I've got a flower in my buttonhole; and if I'd 
 been as kind and thoughtful as those two little 
 girls I'd have- 
 Albert's flow of language was brought to a 
 sudden halt by Eva Conlon, a little girl of 
 the primary grade. She was a simple, inno- 
 cent, loving little child, as are nearly all the 
 little ones of that grade in St. Xavier's. To 
 inhale the mystic fragrance of paradise one has 
 only to watch these little ones going about the 
 ordered duties of the classroom. The miracle 
 of it all is to account for the loveliness which 
 is the atmosphere in which these little ones 
 live and move and have their being. Not all 
 of them come by it honestly. Eva's mother 
 was decidedly unlike her child. 
 
 The mother was on a shopping tour, and 
 Eva, with unequal stride, was trotting on be- 
 side her. Happening to glance around, Eva 
 perceived Bob. Uttering a scream of sheer 
 delight, she turned and ran at full speed 
 toward him. It looked as though she would 
 run Bob down. But little children have the 
 peculiar gift of making a flying start and 
 coming to a stand with equal suddenness. 
 
 "Oh, Bob!" cried Eva, with shining eyes, 
 as she caught his hand. And that was all Eva 
 had to say the rest was expression. 
 "How do you do, Eva?" said the boy.
 
 196 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "Here, Eva," cried the mother, darting a 
 malignant glance at Bob, as she shouldered 
 the child away, "don't talk to everybody you 
 meet on the street. It's common." 
 
 Then as she walked off with the wide-eyed 
 child she added in a tone that came distinctly 
 to Bob's ears 
 
 "Before I let my child associate with stran- 
 gers I'd like to know first something about 
 their fathers and mothers if they've got any." 
 
 Had the woman struck Bob in the face he 
 could have borne it better. His head went 
 down, his face grew red and then deadly pale. 
 Tears sprang to his eyes. As for Albert, the 
 volatile, easy, good-natured Albert, he too was 
 much moved. His eyes blazed, his mouth 
 quivered. Placing his hands on his knees, he 
 stared at the woman's back, with a stare which, 
 had it been a dagger, would have pierced her 
 through, making at the same time a face that 
 would have done credit to a Gorgon. Albert 
 went through with all this in much less time 
 than it takes to tell. Then he turned his sym- 
 pathetic attention to his companion. 
 
 "Bob, Bob!" he cried, putting his arm 
 through his companion's; "don't you pay any 
 attention to that that cat!" 
 
 "Albert," returned Bob simply, "that was 
 awful. I never thought of such a thing. No
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 197 
 
 one ever said anything like that to me in all 
 my born days." 
 
 "Forget it, Bob." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Bob, "I see it all now. They've 
 been talking about me. That's why you all 
 looked so sorry." 
 
 "Yes, Bob," admitted Albert, "an old 
 woman of this parish who wears trousers 
 started the talk. But don't you mind. You've 
 lots of friends." 
 
 "How can I help minding," cried Bob, chok- 
 ing back a sob. "If they'd abuse me I think 
 I could stand for it. But they've they've 
 been talking about my mother." 
 
 Albert could say nothing. But he caught 
 Bob's hand and pressed it. 
 
 "I don't even remember her," said Bob; 
 "but she's been always the same to me as my 
 guardian angel. In fact, I think of them 
 always at the same time. All this year, Al- 
 bert, I've been helped to do right and fight 
 temptation because I believe that my mother, 
 who died when I was a baby, is a saint in 
 heaven watching over me." 
 
 "That's what my mother believes, too," said 
 Albert. 
 
 "Last night or early this morning," con- 
 tinued Bob, drawn out of his ordinary reti- 
 cence by the hideous insult of the woman, "I
 
 198 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 had the loveliest dream. It seemed to me that 
 as I was half-asleep, half-awake, a veiled figure 
 walked into my room. She came close to my 
 bed, and I saw her face the loveliest face! 
 I felt that it was the loveliest face, though I 
 couldn't describe it. And that face bent down 
 to mine, and I knew that it was my mother. I 
 knew it just as I know you're Albert. And 
 her lips touched mine. Then I woke and I 
 was crying 'mother!' with my arms stretched 
 out to embrace her. There was no sign of her 
 in my room. But, Albert, I felt as though she 
 had certainly been there." 
 
 "That's just beautiful," continued Albert. 
 "You ought to tell Father Carney. Maybe 
 your mother did come to you in a dream to 
 make you brave in spite of all this horrid talk." 
 
 As Albert was finishing his sentence they 
 were tramping up the stairs which led to Mr. 
 Anthony's studio. 
 
 The young woman in the office, on getting 
 their names, showed great interest. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "I've heard of you. You're 
 the two record-smashers. My ! I wish I was as 
 smart as you. If I were I'd be writing books 
 like Bertha Clay or something. Say, you're 
 to go right up, because Mr. Anthony says your 
 work is to be rushed. This way, boys right 
 up them stairs. He's got everything ready."
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 199 
 
 Up the stairs they skipped, Albert in the 
 lead. He realized he was in the presence of 
 Mr. Anthony by bumping full tilt into that 
 distinguished young photographer. 
 
 Mr. Anthony was an artist by nature. He 
 showed it in his dress, in his hair, in his actions, 
 and, his intimate friends avowed, in his moods. 
 Mr. Anthony was temperamental. 
 
 "I think you've arrived," he said, balancing 
 himself with no little difficulty. "Oh, 
 heavens!" he exclaimed, stepping back and 
 gazing with sheer delight upon Albert's face. 
 "Your features, young man, as I see them, 
 stand for the highest type of Italian beauty." 
 
 "Oh, crickey!" cried Albert, breaking into a 
 smile. 
 
 "Hey, Rosalind," called the artist, "come 
 up at once." Her name, by the way, was 
 Mary Jane. Rosalind was a free translation 
 made by Mr. Anthony himself. 
 
 "Look, Rosalind, look at that face. Can 
 you beat it? It's Little Italy." 
 
 "Sakes alive!" said Mary Jane. 
 
 "That face, Rosalind," continued Mr. An- 
 thony, staring straight at the blushing boy, is 
 
 ' "Full of the warm South, 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
 And purple-stained mouth.' '
 
 200 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 Mary Jane gasped, then recovering her- 
 self, she put her arms akimbo, and answered: 
 
 "That's just what I thought, sir, when I 
 first seen him." 
 
 "And this youth," continued the photogra- 
 pher, turning eyes almost as enthusiastic upon 
 Bob, "is another type the cherubic." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said Bob. 
 
 "But you don't look just right, boy. Your 
 eyes are a trifle swollen. You look as if you've 
 been crying. Rosalind, bring this cherub boy 
 to the lavatory, and see that he douches his 
 eyes till they look normal." 
 
 "Yes, sir," answered Mary Jane. 
 
 "Now, sir," continued Mr. Anthony, ad- 
 dressing Albert, "sit you down in that chair. 
 That's it. Head erect, chin down. What are 
 you frowning about?" 
 
 "I ain't," protested Albert. 
 
 "You are. And even if you weren't," added 
 Mr. Anthony, getting behind his machine, 
 "even if you weren't, don't do it again." 
 
 The smile that overspread Albert's coun- 
 tenance was brought to an end by a loud 
 click. 
 
 "What was that, sir?" 
 
 "That was you, my boy. I've got you. It 
 was so easy, so wonderful. All great art is 
 easy. If I were to keep you here for a week.
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 201 
 
 I'd not succeed in getting a better pose. If 
 you've no objection, boy, I'll put a special pic- 
 ture of you in my art exhibit." 
 
 "None at all, sir." 
 
 "Thank you, and I'll send you a dozen 
 photos with my compliments. I call them 
 photos; they will be portraits. Rosalind! 
 Rosalind!" 
 
 "Yes, sir," answered Mary Jane. "He's 
 all ready now, sir." And forth came Mary 
 Jane with Bob. The eyes were no longer 
 swollen; but the light of joy was gone from 
 Bob's face eclipsed by the cruel words of a 
 foolish tongue. 
 
 For fifteen minutes Bob endeavored to pose. 
 Several times the click was heard; but follow- 
 ing upon the click came some expression of 
 disgust from the photographer. 
 
 "You've got a great face," he observed, 
 "and I ought to get a great picture out of it. 
 When I tell you to look pleasant you try, but 
 you don't succeed. 
 
 "Suppose," he said, after taking several 
 turns up and down the room, during which he 
 ran his hands furiously through his hair, "sup- 
 pose, boy, you try to look serious. Think of 
 something sad." 
 
 It was so easy for poor Bob just then to 
 think of something sad. He obeyed at once.
 
 202 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "Stop! Stop!" implored the artist. "You 
 look like Romeo at the tomb of Juliet. Hey, 
 Rosalind, Rosalind! Come up at once." 
 
 Mary Jane, chewing gum and making no 
 secret of it, presently appeared. 
 
 "Rosalind!" exclaimed Mr. Anthony. 
 
 "Yes, sir," answered Mary Jane. 
 
 "I'm in a peck of trouble, Rosalind." 
 
 "You look it, sir," admitted Mary Jane. 
 
 "This stout youth has got me in a predica- 
 ment. I have taken his picture seven times. 
 But each is an ordinary thing. To reproduce 
 any of them would injure my standing as an 
 artist, Rosalind." 
 
 "What's the diff ?" queried Mary Jane. 
 
 Mr. Anthony fixed an indignant eye upon 
 her. 
 
 "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, 
 Rosalind." 
 
 "I ain't," retorted Mary Jane. 
 
 "Away with idle persiflage!" said Mr. An- 
 thony. 
 
 Mary Jane loved big words, and reverenced 
 them. She straightened up, and, for the mo- 
 ment, ceased chewing. 
 
 "Rosalind," continued the artist, pulling a 
 single hair from his head, holding it up to the 
 light and staring at it intently, "I've made this 
 boy this cherubic boy look pleasant, and it
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 203 
 
 doesn't work right. I know he ought to look 
 pleasant, but I fear he's temperamental, and 
 this isn't his day, Rosalind." 
 
 "No," assented Mary Jane, "it isn't his day." 
 
 "And I've asked him to look gloomy, and 
 he does the part to perfection. The effect is 
 too tragic." 
 
 "I guess," suggested Mary Jane, "that he 
 looks like one of those moving-picture men, 
 like Owen Moore when things don't come his 
 way." 
 
 "An excellent criticism, Rosalind." Now, 
 what would you suggest?" 
 
 The young lady put her arms akimbo, and, 
 chewing more vigorously than ever, frankly 
 examined Bob's features. 
 
 "He has a good heart, he has." 
 
 "Yes, Rosalind." 
 
 "And I'd say if he were to think of his 
 friends, of the people he loves, you'd get his 
 best face." 
 
 "Rosalind, you're a genius!" 
 
 "Oh, ain't I the little genius, though?" re- 
 torted Mary Jane. 
 
 "I think you've got the right idea. Some 
 day, if I can get my courage up to the stick- 
 ing point, I'm going to propose to you and 
 marry you before I change my mind, Rosa- 
 lind."
 
 204 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 Mary Jane, ceasing to chew, put on the face 
 of a tragedy queen. Giving Mr. Anthony a 
 look of magnificent disdain, she turned on her 
 heels and departed, with movement stately 
 and slow, down the stairway. Albert was by 
 way of being impressed with the young lady's 
 demeanor, but the arms, akimbo, supple- 
 mented by a wink which she threw at him as 
 she turned, left him free to conjecture that her 
 feelings were little if at all lacerated. 
 
 "That young woman," soliloquized the artist 
 photographer, still pacing the room, "under 
 the homeliest forms of speech, and under a 
 shirt-waist which you can buy at ninety -eight 
 cents in any department store, conceals a heart 
 rich with a sense of beauty. It is true she 
 loves to stand with arms akimbo, it is true she 
 considers the chewing of gum as a sort of pub- 
 lic function, it is true- 
 Suddenly his words stopped, and he gasped. 
 With a spring and a bound, he had reached the 
 camera. 
 
 "Don't move," he cried. Then there was a 
 click. i 
 
 "I've got you!" he cried. "Oh, but I've got 
 you. Say, my boy, what were you thinking 
 of just then? You looked something like a 
 picture of St. Augustine. You were gazing 
 dreamily into space, your chin resting in your
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 205 
 
 right palm, and its elbow supported by the 
 other. Say, what were you thinking of?" 
 
 Bob blushed. 
 
 "Of a dream I had last night." 
 
 "It must have been a very, very beautiful 
 dream," said Mr. Anthony. 
 
 While the two boys were making their adieu 
 there was an interesting scene in a bank within 
 one square of the studio. 
 
 Colonel Robert Bridwell was discussing the 
 news of the day with a real-estate agent, a 
 wholesale grocer, and a lawyer. They were 
 still talking when the bank president en- 
 tered. 
 
 "By the way, Mr. Lawton," cried the 
 colonel, "just fix up my book, will you, and 
 cash my balance." 
 
 "What!" cried Lawton, "you're not draw- 
 ing out?" 
 
 "That's what I am," said the colonel. "And 
 the reason is I don't want my money to pass 
 through your hands. You don't look good to 
 me any more." 
 
 "Wh-what's the matter?' asked Lawton. 
 
 "You are! See here, Lawton, do you know 
 what I've been working for the last six 
 weeks?" 
 
 "The orphans' picnic." 
 
 "Precisely. I think we ought to work for
 
 206 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 the orphans. Poor little kiddies, they have 
 no friends. We all feel sorry for them. We 
 all work for them. All except you." 
 
 "What's that?" asked Lawton. 
 
 "What about the orphan, Bob Ryan?" asked 
 the colonel. 
 
 "Bob Ryan!" repeated Lawton. "I didn't 
 know that he was an orphan." 
 
 "Oh, you didn't? Bob Ryan has been help- 
 ing me for three weeks. He's the cleanest, 
 most energetic boy I've ever met. He's going 
 to help me all day at the picnic on July fourth. 
 He's going to be my aide-de-camp. And you, 
 sir, with your confounded tongue that ought 
 to be thoroughly dry-cleaned after it's been 
 laundered first, have had the meanness to 
 talk about that boy so that, as far as you're 
 concerned, he hasn't a rag of reputation 
 left." 
 
 "I didn't say he was an orphan, Colonel." 
 
 "I wish you had," returned the colonel, "and 
 had let it go at that. But you did worse. You 
 insinuated that there was something wrong 
 about his parentage. Don't deny it we've 
 had the story traced up. And if it were true, 
 sir, that there was something wrong about his 
 parentage, he'd be worse off than an orphan, 
 poor fellow. Go on now and fix up my bal- 
 ance. I'll be back in an hour or so, and when
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 207 
 
 I come I'll leave you a list of streets you'd 
 better avoid if you want to save your precious 
 skin." 
 
 And white with anger, the colonel left the 
 bank.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Bob's picture produces effects which, as the 
 tequel will show, more than atone for his fail- 
 ure. He falls asleep to be awakened by a de- 
 lightful surprise. 
 
 ON the morning of July the fifth the mail 
 carrier who served the good people of 
 Pioneer Street found his work unusually sim- 
 ple. Little boys and girls met him at the 
 threshold of their respective homes, and, seiz- 
 ing the mail from his hands, rushed feverishly 
 indoors. They were all looking for Bob's pic- 
 ture. 
 
 Alice O'Shea was the first to get possession 
 of the coveted issue of the Catholic Telegraph. 
 She had stationed herself at the head of the 
 street and there held up the astonished mail 
 carrier. She opened the paper at once and was 
 quick to discover on the inside sheet opposite 
 the editorial page the pictures of a laughing 
 boy full of sunny Italy and of a thoughtful, 
 dreamy-eyed lad, his chin resting in his open 
 palm, who was looking inquiringly into space. 
 The pictures were side by side, and under 
 them were printed the names and addresses of 
 
 208
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 209 
 
 the two boys, with a statement concerning 
 their wonderfully high percentage in the great 
 contest. Alice gazed intently, gave a shriek 
 of delight, and dashed down the street at full 
 speed to show the wonderful thing to her best 
 friend. 
 
 On the way she stopped to greet Brother 
 Cyril, who happened to be coming up the 
 street. 
 
 "Oh, look, Brother Cyril," she cried. "Isn't 
 it cute?" 
 
 Brother Cyril, on seeing the pictures, gave 
 a start. 
 
 "Why," he exclaimed, "they are wonderful 
 photographs. One might call them L' Allegro 
 and II Penseroso. But I never saw that ex- 
 pression on Bob Ryan's face before. It looks 
 strangely like him, and yet there's an expres- 
 sion on his face such as I never expected to 
 see." 
 
 "I think he looks lovely," said Alice. 
 
 "It's the face," continued Brother Cyril, "of 
 one in great sorrow. Bob Ryan never knew a 
 sorrow in his life." 
 
 "They've been salamandering him," ex- 
 plained Alice. 
 
 "What's that?" asked the brother. 
 
 "They've been salamandering him," she re- 
 plied in her most distinct tones. "That's what
 
 210 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 my father said. He said some people love to 
 lie about other people, and they've been telling 
 lies about Bob." 
 
 "Oh," said the brother, "the scandalmongers 
 have been calumniating him." 
 
 "Yes," assented Alice; "that's what I said. 
 They're a lot of salamanders. And," she con- 
 tinued, doubling one fist, rolling her eyes and 
 frowning fiercely, "I wish I was a man. So 
 does Elizabeth. So does Mary Fitzgerald." 
 
 "Why?" asked Brother Cyril. 
 
 "We'd punch 'em good and hard." Say- 
 ing which, Alice once more broke into a run, 
 leaving the Brother to conjecture what had 
 given rise to the talk about Bob and why it had 
 brought upon the boy's face that strange, ap- 
 pealing expression. 
 
 Brother Cyril was not the only one to be 
 stirred by the unusual photograph. It inter- 
 ested all who saw it. It caused wonder and 
 discussion. 
 
 Angelo Corcoran, chancing to enter his em- 
 ployer's office, saw the Telegraph lying open 
 on the desk. The part containing the picture 
 lay exposed. He took it up, gave one look 
 and caught his breath. He looked again. 
 
 "My God!" he exclaimed, and left the room 
 as though he had seen a vision. 
 
 In a smaller town a lady in mourning saw
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 211 
 
 the picture. At the first glance she uttered a 
 cry and fell fainting to the floor. 
 
 Bob Ryan, seated at his desk, saw the pic- 
 ture, too. He glanced at it and threw it aside 
 with a heavy heart. It brought back keenly 
 to his memory the insult which had so much to 
 do with the sad expression which distinguished 
 his face in the photograph. 
 
 Bob had seen Father Carney that very 
 morning and had told him his troubles. 
 
 ' 'Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, 
 thou shalt not escape calumny.' Bob, you've 
 had a splendid year, my boy; and you have 
 been a credit to the school. Your influence 
 has been strong and it has all been for good. 
 The Sodality has done wonderful work with 
 you as prefect. But besides all this, you've 
 been too popular. You remember, Bob, at the 
 time of Confirmation, when I advised you to 
 wait another year." 
 
 "Yes, Father." 
 
 "Somehow I haven't the least doubt but that 
 you were truly and properly baptized. But 
 we could get no record; and we were obliged 
 either to baptize you conditionally or wait. 
 My reason, Bob, for asking you to wait was 
 because I felt quite sure that the mystery sur- 
 rounding your first years would be cleared up 
 very shortly."
 
 212 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "Yes, Father." 
 
 "Perhaps I made a mistake. No doubt some 
 busybodies began to inquire why you did not 
 receive Confirmation. It would be just like 
 Lawt er just like some people I know to 
 take up a thing like that and make 
 the most of it. All the same, I still be- 
 lieve that after this storm sunshine will 
 come again." 
 
 "Thank you, Father. Do you know that 
 my year is up to-day?" 
 
 "What year, Bob?" 
 
 "I guess you might call it my year of exile. 
 You know, my father made me swear to 
 change my name from Evans to Ryan, and to 
 stay away from Dubuque, my home town, for 
 one year. That happened on last July the 
 fifth." 
 
 "And you feel like going back?" 
 
 "I certainly do, Father." 
 
 Father Carney indulged in a moment's re- 
 flection. 
 
 "Bob," he said, "I believe it's the best thing 
 you could do. I understand how you feel. 
 Just at present this town is not the place for 
 you. Dangerous tongues have done for you 
 what they have done for the very best men. 
 But mark this, Bob: You'll come back some 
 day in triumph, and your slanderers will be
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 213 
 
 punished in God's own way. By the by, have 
 you money enough to travel?" 
 
 "I was at the Orphans' Picnic yesterday," 
 answered Bob, breaking into a smile, "helping 
 Colonel Bridwell. He's a daisy, ain't he? 
 He went out of his way to make much of me. 
 I'm sure he must have heard the story. Isn't 
 he a daisy, though? Well, I've spent nearly 
 every cent I've got in the world; I haven't 
 much more than will pay my rent for this 
 week, and a few odd bills. But I'm sure I 
 can get some money, Father." 
 
 "And so am I," said Father Carney, with 
 unusual cordiality. Praise of Colonel Brid- 
 well, though Bob knew it not, was music to his 
 ears. 
 
 "The colonel called me up this morning, and 
 told me what noble work you had done at his 
 picnic department store. He says he noticed 
 that you were short of money toward evening, 
 and that if you need anything I'm to ad- 
 vance you the cash, and he'll fix it up with 
 me later." 
 
 "Isn't that kind of him!" exclaimed Bob 
 "Thank you, Father Carney. I'll think about 
 it, and I'll let you know. I don't like travel- 
 ing on other people's money, but I'm tempted 
 to get away. So many people stare at me and 
 make remarks."
 
 214 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "Bob, are those people the ones you know?" 
 
 "No, Father, they were never friends of 
 mine. I just know them by sight that is, 
 most of them." 
 
 "And what about your friends?" 
 
 "Oh, they're nicer than ever." 
 
 "Then, why worry? In spite of lies and in- 
 sinuations you haven't lost a friend. Isn't that 
 fine, Bob?" 
 
 "Why, yes, Father; I guess it is. I never 
 looked on it in that way before. I ought to be 
 grateful. But there's another thing: I'm so 
 lonesome." 
 
 "Lonesome?" 
 
 "Yes, Father. I haven't heard a word for 
 ten days or more nearly two weeks from 
 Anita or Tom Temple or any of my old 
 friends. And besides, as you probably know, 
 Mrs. Corcoran and my best friend, Albert, 
 went to Iowa the night before last to visit Mrs. 
 Symmes. And I'm just as lonesome as I can 
 be." 
 
 Bob returned to his room. The mail carrier, 
 as already set down, left him a copy of the 
 Telegraph, but no letter. Bob fell into a 
 meditation, and from meditation into a sleep. 
 The strenuous work at the picnic, lasting until 
 nearly midnight, had exhausted him. 
 
 At the noon hour the landlady peeped in,
 
 HIS LUCKIEST TEAR 215 
 
 and retired discreetly on tiptoe, leaving the boy 
 undisturbed. 
 
 The afternoon was fast advancing toward 
 sunset, when a loud knock aroused the boy 
 from his slumbers. 
 
 "Come in," he cried, jumping to his feet 
 and rubbing his eyes. Then there came from 
 his throat a cry of joy. 
 
 "What!" he yelled. "Tom Temple and 
 Lucille Reade?" 
 
 "Not on your life," answered Tom genially. 
 "Permit me, Bob : Mr. Thomas Temple and 
 wife!"
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Showing how brides and grooms should act 
 when children greet them. A last look at the 
 Flower of Pioneer Street. Bob's farewell. 
 Alice and Elizabeth meet the Lady in Black. 
 
 BOB started to put his hand under his noble 
 chin; but before he could complete his 
 favorite gesture, Lucille, smiling and blushing, 
 threw her arms about him and planted a kiss 
 upon the spot which his gesture would have 
 covered. Whereupon Tom Temple in turn 
 caught him in a stout embrace and whirled 
 him about the room. 
 
 "What! What! Why how " blurted 
 Bob. 
 
 "That's it exactly," answered Tom to these 
 wild and incoherent exclamations. "You've 
 said it all in words of one syllable." Here 
 Tom whirled Bob into a chair and held him 
 down. "Yes, Bob; it's exactly as you say: 
 
 'The voice that breathed o'er Eden, 
 
 That earliest wedding day, 
 The primal marriage blessing, 
 
 It hath not passed away.' ' 
 
 216
 
 HIS LUCKIEST TEAR 217 
 
 'Bob, delighted, startled, dazed, gazed at 
 Lucille. Lucille, pink as a peony, gazed at 
 Tom Temple. Tom, gurgling, rippling with 
 laughter, returned the gaze, and suddenly 
 threw his arms about Lucille, who, to do her 
 justice, showed a like activity. 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Bob, bubbling over with 
 joy, "I see!" 
 
 "See what?" cried Tom, disengaging him- 
 self. "It's about time. Bob, we've gone and 
 got married." After which declaration the 
 happy couple, like mountain torrents, rushed 
 into mutual arms. 
 
 "I should think," observed Bob, "it must 
 have happened only a few minutes ago." 
 
 "Change the word minutes to hours, Bob. 
 We were staggering up the aisle of a church 
 at least I was staggering at five o'clock 
 this morning, to an air from Lohengrin; and 
 we were duly married ; and we took forthwith 
 the first train, to speed to you, our best friend. 
 For it is you who are the author of our present 
 bliss." 
 
 "Good gracious!" gasped the delighted boy. 
 "How do I come in?" 
 
 "Your letters to me about Lucille, when 
 you first saw her, put me in love with her un- 
 seen." 
 
 "And your description of Tom Temple*
 
 218 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 Bob," continued Lucille, "had the same won- 
 drous effect on me." 
 
 "Dan Cupid," continued Tom, "must have 
 loaned you two of his darts; and your marks- 
 manship was perfect." 
 
 "And we're not only in love with each 
 other," added Lucille, "but we're also in love 
 with you, dear Bob." 
 
 "And our wedding journey," Tom went on, 
 "would be incomplete without you." 
 
 "Wedding journey!" Bob echoed. 
 
 "Yes, wedding journey. We've sped hither 
 to get you. There's a train leaves in two 
 hours. So pack up and off we go." 
 
 "This this is so sudden!" said Bob, won- 
 dering whether he was really awake. 
 
 "That's what Lucille said when I laid my 
 heart at her feet." 
 
 "I didn't, and you didn't," protested Lu- 
 cille. 
 
 "Well, your words were to that effect, and 
 my actions came to what I just said. Bob, 
 when Lucille and I met each other for the first 
 time, everything else was off. Everything you 
 said of Lucille was less than true. From that 
 hour I went about like Orlando in the forest 
 or Arden. The birds sang, and their song 
 was Lucille; the brooks murmured Lucille; 
 and when I sat me down to write an
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 219 
 
 ode or a sonnet my pen wrote nothing but 
 Lucille." 
 
 "Some of your best poems," objected Bob, 
 "have come out in the last six weeks." 
 
 "Oh, they weren't mine," answered the radi- 
 ant poet. "I looked simply into Lucille's 
 eyes and wrote. Result 
 
 All the buds and bells of May 
 From dewy sward or thorny spray. 
 
 Or I looked into her heart, and if my verses 
 were poor it was because the beauty I saw 
 there was 'too pure for the touch of a word.' ' 
 
 "But how did you get here so soon after 
 your marriage?" Bob asked. 
 
 "We were not married at Lucille's home. 
 We came south, to a town in Indiana, where 
 I have a friend who happens to be a great 
 priest," answered Tom. "You see, there were 
 reasons for a quiet wedding, too." 
 
 "But what's become of Anita and Tom 
 Reade? I haven't heard a word from them." 
 
 "No wonder," answered Lucille. "Anita 
 was flower girl, and she's been too busy and 
 excited to write. My brother Tom has been 
 in charge of arrangements, and has had no 
 time for anything else." 
 
 "And moreover," added Tom Temple, "the
 
 220 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 eager-eyed Anita was so afraid she'd let out 
 the secret of July fifth our wedding. 
 Strange, Bob, I didn't think of it when we 
 named the day; yet it's the very anniversary 
 of the day your father issued the edict of your 
 exile." 
 
 "Yes, Tom; and I'm free again, free to re- 
 turn to Dubuque, free to take up my own 
 name." 
 
 "Don't I know it?" said the poet. "And 
 that's why you're coming with us to Dubuque. 
 Bob, we're going to find out everything; and, 
 till we do, you are our Bob." 
 
 "What's that?" asked the boy. 
 
 "We're going to adopt you." 
 
 "Oh, go on," said Bob, half in laughter, half 
 in tears. 
 
 "Well, anyhow, we'll keep you to be held 
 until called for." 
 
 "Ohl" cried Lucille, who had gone to one of 
 the windows looking out on the street, "did you 
 ever see such beautiful children?" 
 
 Tom and Bob rushed over to the window, 
 and shared with Lucille in a sight which was 
 enough to bring joy to any lover of child- 
 hood. 
 
 Gathered about the automobile which had 
 conveyed the happy pair to Pioneer Street was 
 the flower of the neighborhood, boys and girls
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 221 
 
 in their best attire. No sooner had the ma- 
 chine stopped before Bob's room than Johnny 
 O'Brien, first taking note of the handsome 
 young man and stately beauty who issued from 
 it, sped from house to house with the glowing 
 news that Bob Ryan was receiving automobile 
 friends and that something important was to 
 happen. Every house on the street blessed 
 with boy or girl forthwith became a scene of 
 activity; with the result that in a few minutes 
 gay Alice and laughing Elizabeth, and Marian 
 and Margaret Hunter in a word, all the 
 youth and beauty of the street were as- 
 sembled, forming a riot of color around the 
 touring car. How they rejoiced over it! That 
 car, they reasoned with the imaginative logic 
 of childhood, was enough to rehabilitate Bob 
 in the eyes of all his "salamanders." 
 
 "Look," cried quick-eyed Johnny O'Brien, 
 "look at Bob's window." 
 
 "Look," cried Bob from above, "aren't they 
 a nice set, though? They're all friends of 
 mine." 
 
 "Hello, Bob!" cried fifty voices as one, as at 
 young O'Brien's words fifty smiling and 
 cordial faces turned upward toward his win- 
 dow. 
 
 "Hello, boys and girls!" 
 
 "I say," cried Tom Temple, "this is too
 
 222 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 much for me. You think I'll stand here and 
 see such friends such wonderful boys and 
 girls and not shake hands with 'em?" And 
 Tom, catching Lucille with one arm and Bob 
 with the other, made hastily for the stairway. 
 
 "Hello, boys and girls!" said Tom as they 
 reached the front stoop. 
 
 "How do you do, sir?" responded Alice, 
 and those few who were not overawed by the 
 vision. 
 
 "I understand that you are all friends of 
 our Bob." 
 
 "You bet your boots 1" cried Johnny 
 O'Brien, speaking for all. 
 
 "Well, he's the best friend I ever had," 
 added Lucille. 
 
 "They've both just been married," said Bob, 
 smiling in his old way. "Did you ever see a 
 lovelier couple?" 
 
 Screams and shouts of joy rent the air. 
 Alice rushed to Lucille's side, and that sweet 
 young bride caught up the child and hugged 
 her. Then Lucille was surrounded. Every 
 girl on Pioneer and in the environs thereof 
 pushed and struggled to be kiesed by the blush- 
 ing beauty every girl and most of the very 
 small boys. 
 
 When, after the excitement had died down, 
 Tom Temple asked the multitude whether
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 223 
 
 they liked ice cream and had received an earn- 
 est and fervent answer in the affirmative from 
 the tots of the assemblage, the chauffeur was 
 commissioned to get two gallons from the near- 
 est place; and, as Alice and Elizabeth kindly 
 consented to enter the machine and show him 
 the way, there was sure to be no serious de- 
 lay. 
 
 It was just then that Mr. Lawton, turning 
 from Pike into Pioneer, came into view. On 
 seeing the gay and happy throng, with Bob 
 the j oiliest and most prominent of all, he was 
 minded to turn back and seek some more cir- 
 cuitous way to his lodging house. He hesi- 
 tated, faltered, turned half-way round, then 
 compromised by crossing to the other side of 
 the street. Nothing of all this escaped the 
 watchful eye of Johnny O'Brien, and as the 
 unhappy man came opposite the festive bridal 
 party, Master Johnny, the dead-game sport, 
 shrieked out at the top of his voice 
 
 "Three cheers for Bob Ryan." 
 
 And it was Tom Temple who led the cheer? 
 ing cheering the like of which was never be- 
 fore heard in that vicinity. 
 
 "Ha!" said Johnny darkly to Alice's 
 brother, "I guess that finishes him all right. 
 Did you see his head go down?" 
 
 While the children were discussing the ice
 
 224 HIS LUCKIEST TEAR 
 
 cream, Tom announced that he was going to 
 take Bob away. 
 
 "For good? Oh, not for good!" implored 
 Alice. 
 
 "He'll see you all again, children. In an 
 hour or so we start for his home town, Du- 
 buque." 
 
 It is to the credit of Alice and Johnny 
 O'Brien that they ate no more ice cream that 
 evening. Leaving their dishes unfinished, 
 they entered into a secret conference a thing 
 not without its difficulties, as everybody of 
 consequence in that juvenile party came up to 
 know what it was all about. 
 
 "Go away," said Alice. 
 
 "Make a noise like a hoop and roll along," 
 said Johnny to each and every one. 
 
 Presently the two revealed their discus- 
 sion in low tones to their curious friends; 
 whereupon there was a quick scurrying to 
 homes, and Pioneer Street was once more de- 
 serted. 
 
 Aided by the skilled hands of Lucille, and 
 embarrassed by the bungling efforts of Tom 
 Temple, Bob, within an hour's time, having 
 packed, put his room in order, attended to the 
 payment of outstanding debts, passed out from 
 the place dear to him by a thousand and one 
 beautiful associations. He left it regretfully
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 225 
 
 but bravely, little knowing that it was to be 
 his room no more. 
 
 Outside all was quiet. Not a soul could be 
 seen save the chauffeur, wearing upon his 
 stolid features an expression too solemn to be 
 natural. Then, as the three stepped toward 
 the auto, suddenly from nook and corner and 
 cranny and doorway sprang forth with shout 
 and scream the entire juvenile population of 
 the street, with numerous friends from the 
 neighborhood. 
 
 "Surprise! Surprise!" piped the girls. 
 
 "Hurrah!" yelled the boys. 
 
 Then Alice and Johnny O'Brien stepped 
 forth, holding between them a bouquet of 
 American Beauties. 
 
 "Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Tentacle," said 
 Alice, "we wish you a happy wedding journey, 
 with lots more of them." 
 
 "And many happy returns," added Johnny 
 O'Brien. "And these roses are red and beau- 
 tiful, Mrs. Temple, and they're for you. But 
 they're not in it with your cheeks." 
 
 Tom Temple, for the first and only time in 
 this history, was speechless. Lucille, speech- 
 less, too, looked as though a beautiful sunset 
 afterglow had passed into her face. 
 
 Then came Bob's turn. Each and every
 
 226 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 child approaching him handed him a flower, 
 saying: 
 
 "Good-by, Bob." 
 
 There was an embarrassment of flowers; 
 so much that Tom and Lucille and the 
 chauffeur were obliged to come to Bob's assist- 
 ance. 
 
 "Good-by, boys and girls," said Bob 
 hoarsely, taking the last flower and placing it 
 in his buttonhole. 
 
 "Good-by, good-by," cried the children. 
 
 "God forgive me," said Bob a minute later, 
 as the machine turned on Fourth Street. He 
 was the first to break the silence. 
 
 "Why, Bob, what's the matter?" 
 
 "Oh, for a week or so I've been blue and 
 discontented. And why? Because people I 
 don't really know were saying unkind things 
 about me. How silly I wasl Let them talk 
 all they like. Just look at my friends 1" 
 
 Half an hour later, as daylight and the 
 night were merging, there dashed up to Bob's 
 residence another automobile, from which 
 alighted a portly gentleman, classical of fea- 
 ture, and a lady clothed in black. 
 
 Alice and Elizabeth, gently mourning, were 
 seated, as it were on guard, at the entrance to 
 the house. 
 
 ? id the gentleman, in a deep
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 227 
 
 voice, "but could either of you young ladies 
 tell me whether Robert Ryan is in?" 
 
 The two young ladies jumped to their feet. 
 
 "Please, sir," said Alice, "he's just gone." 
 
 "What! Gone?" cried the lady, in the sweet- 
 est and saddest accents Alice had ever heard. 
 
 "My dear lady," said the man, "I entreat 
 you to be calm. Just leave it to me. You 
 say he's gone, young miss?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; he went off in an automobile just 
 about half an hour ago," answered Alice. 
 
 "And where, may I ask, has he gone to?" 
 
 "He went with the nicest man and lady, 
 who were just married, to Dubuque." 
 
 "Oh!" cried the lady. 
 
 "And," continued Alice, "I'm afraid they're 
 taking him away for good. And Bob Ryan 
 was the nicest boy I ever saw." 
 
 The lady suddenly bent down and kissed 
 Alice, and then took out her handkerchief and 
 wept. Whereupon Alice wept, too, and Eliz- 
 abeth, much affected and not to be outdone, 
 lifted up her voice in grief. As for the gen- 
 tleman, he looked as awkward and as helpless 
 as any diplomat in such circumstances. 
 
 "My dear lady," he said, after tugging 
 helplessly at his moustache, "I beg you not to 
 be cast down. Perhaps we may catch him at 
 the station if we hurry."
 
 228 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "It's g-g-g-gone," sputtered Alice. 
 
 "What's gone?" asked the man. 
 
 "The t-t-train. Johnny O'Brien sneaked 
 down to see, and he telephoned over fifteen 
 minutes ago that B-Bob was smiling back at 
 him as the c-cars pulled out." 
 
 And as Alice resumed her weeping the man 
 helped the lady in black into the machine.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Tom Temple turns back time in his flight. 
 Old faces and old friends once more. 
 
 "T THOUGHT we were going to Dubuque," 
 JL said Bob early next morning. 
 
 The train had come to a stop at an obscure 
 Iowa town, and Tom and Lucille were gather- 
 ing up their belongings. 
 
 "So we are, O cherub of Iowa; but there's 
 more than one way of going there. Get hold 
 of your things, Bob." 
 
 Awaiting them outside was a touring car. 
 
 "Oh!" cried Bob. "I think I see now. We're 
 going to travel in this machine." 
 
 "Right-o. Jump in. You think you see; 
 but you don't." 
 
 For many golden minutes Lucille, fresh as 
 a flower dew-sprinkled and in early blossom, 
 and Tom, running over with animal spirits, 
 vied with each other in entertaining the happy 
 boy. How a few hours had changed him! 
 All his troubles were gone driven utterly 
 away by the advent of love. 
 
 It was only when the automobile came to a 
 stop that the conversation ceased. Bob looked 
 about him, took a deep breath, and cried: 
 
 229
 
 230 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "Why! If this doesn't look like old times! 
 Say, Lucille, pinch me; I must be dreaming. 
 Surely, I know this spot." 
 
 Before him, placid, broad, grand, dimpling 
 in the sun, lay the Mississippi river. 
 
 "Jump out, Bob," ordered Tom. "We'll 
 take a walk down to the bank. Here, Lucille, 
 you take care of him while I speak to the 
 chauffeur." 
 
 "This river is dear to me," said Lucille, 
 holding Bob's hand, as the two walked down 
 toward the bank. 
 
 "It was somewhere about here," said Bob, 
 "that I met Matt Morris, one of my best 
 friends. It is clear to me." 
 
 "It was on these banks," said Lucille, "that 
 I met you." 
 
 "Thank you, Lucille. And it was on this 
 river that I motored the best boat a boy could 
 have. It was on this river that I had that won- 
 derful picnic, and I bade Mrs. Symmes good- 
 by, and she gave me the best dog in the world." 
 
 "And it was on these banks, these bonny 
 
 banks," continued Lucille, "that Tom and 
 j 
 
 Here Lucille stopped and blushed into a 
 new phase of beauty. 
 
 "I know what you mean," said Bob. "It 
 was on these banks that you named the day."
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 281 
 
 Lucille's silvery laugh was yet ringing on 
 the magic air of the golden morning, when, 
 skirting a growth of bushes, Bob saw a sight 
 which brought his hand to his eyes. 
 
 "My goodness me!" he cried, after another 
 look. "It's The Wanderer" 
 
 "Exactly," said Tom, catching up with 
 them, "the happy Wanderer, at your service, 
 Bob, as long as you want it." 
 
 "What what does this mean?" asked 
 Bob. 
 
 "It seems, O cherub of Iowa," said Tom, 
 clapping Bob on the back, "that we're going 
 to turn Time back in his flight. Jump aboard, 
 young man, and convey us to the sylvan abode 
 of the woodland Apollo known to mortals as 
 Matt Morris." 
 
 It was a happy pilot who sent The Wan- 
 derer spinning down the river. In a few mo- 
 ments they touched land. Bob's eyes danced 
 as in a glance he picked out the old canoe, 
 hidden in the old place. It seemed incredible 
 that nearly a year had passed since he last 
 saw it. 
 
 "Oh, but this looks good!" exclaimed the 
 boy, jumping out of the boat. "That canoe 
 makes me feel certain that Matt's here again." 
 
 "Right you are, Bob!" And Matt Morris, 
 taller, bigger, finer than ever, sprang from be-
 
 232 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 hind a tree and threw himself upon his old 
 mate. 
 
 The violence of their welcome merged into a 
 friendly wrestling contest, in which Bob, to 
 Matt's supreme joy, held his own perfectly. 
 
 "Excuse me," Matt said, turning to Lu- 
 cille, "but Bob and I just naturally mix it up 
 whenever we meet. I'm so glad to meet you 
 again. How do you do, Mr. Temple?" 
 
 "If I did like you," returned the poet, "I'd 
 go to a hospital for repairs. The strenuous 
 life is certainly yours." 
 
 "That's the way Bob and I used to carry 
 on, day in, day out. Say, Bob, you're stronger 
 than ever. My, what a player you'd make for 
 our team even now, though you're not quite 
 fifteen! Oh, how I wish you could come to 
 Campion College I" 
 
 "And maybe I don't wish it either," re- 
 turned Bob. "I'm in love with Campion the 
 way Tom was in love with Lucille, and the way 
 Lucille was in love with Tom." 
 
 "What's the answer?" queried Matt. 
 
 "They loved each other before they met. 
 I've never seen Campion ; but I have heard of 
 it. And you're there, and Tom Reade, one 
 of the nicest boys in the world, is there." 
 
 "Not much," said a new voice; "he's right 
 here, and on the job." And Tom Reade him-
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 233 
 
 self, dashing down the steep ascent, landed, 
 before Bob could turn, squarely upon that 
 robust youth's shoulders. 
 
 "And what," asked the beaming Bob, after 
 the first excitement of greeting had passed, 
 "brings you here?" 
 
 "Matt and I are partners this summer, Bob ; 
 and I beg to announce that breakfast is served. 
 Follow me." And Tom, holding Bob's hand, 
 dashed up the ascent. 
 
 The eager Bob was anything but loath to 
 be thus laid captive. Even Tom and Lucille, 
 entering into the spirit of the place, trotted 
 after the leader. It was a breathless crowd 
 that seated themselves at the improvised table 
 in Matt's sylvan retreat. The cooking, excel- 
 lent as it was, could not compare with the ap- 
 petites upon which it waited. Tom Temple, 
 toward the conclusion of the meal, declared 
 that it was the greatest wedding breakfast in 
 song or story. 
 
 Toward the close of this never-to-be-forgot- 
 ten breakfast Tom Reade, trying to attract as 
 little attention as possible, slipped back into 
 the cave. After a few seconds he appeared 
 once more, and cried out: 
 
 "Say, Bob, what was the name of that dog 
 of yours?" 
 
 "Hobo," shouted Bob.
 
 234 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 At the word, out from the cave sprang a 
 shining-eyed dog. Bob's hands relaxed, and 
 from them a plate dropped upon the stone 
 floor and broke into fragments. 
 
 "Hobo!" he cried once more; and at the 
 word the dog ran to him and raised eyes of 
 tender inquiry. 
 
 "It's Hobo the Second," exclaimed Tom 
 Reade. "It took me a week to discover him. 
 He's a blood relative of your dog, Bob, and as 
 like him, almost, as it's possible for one dog to 
 resemble another." 
 
 "And it's your dog, Bob," said Matt. "It's 
 our present." 
 
 "By George!" exclaimed Bob, having se- 
 cured in a few seconds Hobo's undying love, 
 "this thing is all like a dream." 
 
 "It's more like 'when dreams come true,' ' 
 corrected Tom Temple, darting an ardent 
 glance at Lucille. 
 
 "I wish," said Tom Reade, "that you peo- 
 ple would cut out the sentiment stuff and help 
 clean up." 
 
 "That's right," said Matt, "we start in fif- 
 teen minutes." 
 
 "What's that?" asked Bob. 
 
 "Never you mind, Bob Ryan, just get 
 ready." 
 
 And twenty minutes later they were aboard
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 235 
 
 The Wanderer the wedding pair, Tom 
 Reade, Matt Morris, Bob Ryan, and Hobo II. 
 They landed presently at another familiar 
 spot, and proceeded to visit the little church 
 where Bob had made his first Communion. 
 The visit was short but fervent, and the prayer 
 of all was a prayer of thanksgiving. 
 
 Up the river they pursued their happy way. 
 At noon time they reached a little town, where 
 at an inn there awaited them a dainty lunch, 
 but, as Bob and the two boys with perfect 
 justice considered, a very light one. 
 
 The touring car was there, too. Every- 
 thing, Bob could not but observe, had been 
 prearranged. Over hill and dale they went 
 at top speed. At top speed, too, went the 
 hours. It was a continuous carnival of joy. 
 
 About four o'clock, however, the younger 
 members of the party, Bob, Tom Reade, and 
 Matt, began to look a trifle uneasy. 
 
 "What's the matter, boys?" asked Lucille. 
 
 "Oh, nothing," answered Matt. 
 
 "Nothing," echoed Tom Reade. "I 
 wouldn't say nothing myself, but that's what 
 my stomach is saying." 
 
 "That lunch we took," added Bob, "was 
 very nice indeed ; but it was rather light." 
 
 "How long can you hold out, Bob?" asked 
 the poet.
 
 236 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "Oh, I guess I can stand it, Tom, as long 
 as you like." 
 
 "For such a lovely couple," observed Tom 
 Reade, looking severely at Lucille, "I'm will- 
 ing to starve." 
 
 "Halloa!" cried Bob, jumping up and gaz- 
 ing intently ahead, "as sure as my name's Bob, 
 if that isn't the Blue Bird Inn!" 
 
 Even as he spoke the machine drew up be- 
 fore the quaint old hostelry. 
 
 Then out came, screaming, Anita, leaping 
 up and down like a jumping- jack. She threw 
 herself upon Bob and gave him a welcome 
 more easily imagined than described. And 
 before Bob was quite finished with paying his 
 respects to the ardent young lady forth came 
 Mrs. Corcoran, her laugh ringing birdlike in 
 the air, and Albert, his face running over with 
 smiles and glowing with the "warm South." 
 Close behind these two followed mine host and 
 his amiable wife; and then, to complete the 
 party, Mr. and Mrs. Reade with their happy 
 children. A perfect storm of greeting en- 
 sued hugging, hand-shaking, laughter, and 
 what not, in which all took an active part save 
 Masters Tom Reade and Matt Morris. These 
 young gentlemen were properly disgusted, 
 and Tom made no secret of it. 
 
 "I say," he said, snatching Lucille bodily
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 237 
 
 from the embrace of Mrs. Symmes, "are we 
 to starve to death while you people act like a 
 lot of howling hyenas on parade?" 
 
 Mrs. Symmes, breaking into a laugh a 
 laugh the twin of her newly found sister's 
 clapped her hands and cried: 
 
 "Dinner's served." 
 
 Tom Reade and Matt Morris rushed for the 
 house. 
 
 It was then that the boys understood the 
 reason of the light lunch. A banquet was 
 awaiting them, a banquet prepared by Mrs. 
 Symmes and Mrs. Corcoran, the two most 
 wonderful cooks, Tom Temple averred, since 
 the days of Lucullus. 
 
 "Do you know," said Bob to Anita, "that 
 I believe this has been the happiest day of my 
 life?" 
 
 "It's been mine, too, Bob," said Anita. 
 "Bob, are you going to stay with me 
 always?" 
 
 Bob laughed. He was about to frame a 
 reply when Tom Temple announced: 
 
 "Let everybody get ready. In fifteen min- 
 utes we take a boat ride on the river." 
 
 "Goodness gracious, Anita!" said Bob, 
 "what's next? I'm getting dizzy." 
 
 "It's a secret, Bob," Anita made answer. 
 "And did you miss my letters, Bob?"
 
 238 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 "I should say I did. The loss of them made 
 me blue." 
 
 "I'm just tickled to know that," said Anita. 
 
 Once more The Wanderer, brought up the 
 river by a motor truck, was awaiting them, and 
 into it, by some miracle of squeezing and con- 
 triving, entered the entire Reade family, Tom 
 Temple, Matt Morris, Albert Corcoran and 
 mother, Mr. and Mrs. John Symmes, Bob 
 Ryan, and, of course, Hobo II. 
 
 It was nearing sunset. The water, the air, 
 the woodlands, the singing birds, all united to 
 make this hour what Bob described as the close 
 of a perfect day. But justice compels me to 
 state that these meaner beauties were lost 
 sight of in the intercourse of love and laughter 
 and news of this chosen party. Indeed, there 
 was talk and laughter a plenty, talk and 
 laughter and song, in which the praises of 
 Campion College, you may be sure, were not 
 overlooked by that promising singer, Matt 
 Morris. In the rich afterglow of a flawless 
 sunset, Bob Ryan, retiring, as it were, into 
 his own heart, fell into a meditation of pure 
 thankfulness, when Anita's caressing hand 
 upon his shoulder aroused him. 
 
 "Look, Bob," she said. "Over there. Don't 
 you know it?" 
 
 Bob followed her gesture, and gave a cry
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 239 
 
 of joy, as he steered the vessel toward the 
 shore, where, neatly shaved and dressed in a 
 store suit, stood a smiling old man; and, en- 
 veloped in a cloak which gave her the appear- 
 ance of Mother Hubbard, with hands reaching 
 out toward him, his ancient wife Mr. and 
 Mrs, Moss,
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 In which one surprise follows upon another. 
 
 ' ' T T EY !" roared the ancient of the river bank, 
 
 * * removing his hat and bowing low, 
 "Mistaire Bob. How you do?" 
 
 Bob caught the venerable and horny right 
 hand and shook it up and down until the aged 
 consort, sweeping Mose aside with a backhand 
 gesture which nearly cost her the loss of her 
 cloak, took her turn at greeting. And while 
 Mrs. Mose made a carefully prepared speech 
 about the prodigal son's return and there being 
 a glut of fatted calves to celebrate with, Mose 
 bowed and beamed upon each and every mem- 
 ber of the party. 
 
 "Where's Tom Temple going?" asked Bob, 
 noticing that Tom had got into the touring 
 car. 
 
 "If he wanted you to know," returned the 
 old lady, "he'd have told you. Isn't he the 
 gay groom, though? Mose and I consider 
 him the most wonderful young man. Mose 
 says he's the greatest poet living." 
 
 "You don't say!" exclaimed the boy. "Have 
 you read some of Tom's poems to Mose?" 
 
 240
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 241 
 
 "I have not," returned the venerable blue- 
 eyed lady. "And no one else has. But Mose 
 says he can tell by the looks of him that Tom 
 is the greatest living poet. And Mose," she 
 added in a tone of conviction, "is right." 
 
 "You've read some of his poems, then?" 
 
 "I have not, Bob. I don't go in for poetry. 
 But I'm old enough to tell a poet when I see 
 one." 
 
 "Anna," said Mose, "you go up by the house 
 and see to the lemonade, while I talk to Bob. 
 Hey, Bob," he went on as the old woman, not 
 without visible signs of reluctance, made for 
 the ancient hut, "I am ver' glad to see you 
 oh, so glad, Bob" here the massive right fore- 
 finger came into play "I tell you something. 
 From the day you leave till this day you re- 
 turn I pray for you eve'y nide. I never for- 
 get. I pray for you so." The venerable man 
 raised his big eyes toward the heavens, fold- 
 ing at the same time his big hands. "And 
 Anna, she pray, too. And we pray for Tom 
 Temple, too Tom the great poeter." 
 
 "Thank you," returned Bob. "Do you 
 know all these people?" 
 
 "Bob, I no lie to you. These people, your 
 friends, they my friends, too. If I no treat 
 them right God Almighty, He punish me, 
 the way He punish the widow woman when the
 
 242 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 widow he tole a lie to God Almighty. He turn 
 the widow woman's boy into a tombear." 
 
 Around Bob and Mose all had now 
 gathered; and Bob introduced Mose by name 
 to every one present. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen," said Mose, when 
 he had bowed profoundly to each, "I tell you 
 somet'ing. I now eighty-five year old, and 
 my wife 
 
 "Here, Mose, you let me out." 
 
 "My wife, he older than me." 
 
 "Her ears are thirty years younger," 
 snapped the old lady. 
 
 "And now," Mose went on, "I weak in my 
 legs, becos they is roomatiz. But when I 
 young, I was the strongest man from Daven- 
 port to Dubuque." 
 
 "He looks strong yet," observed Matt Mor- 
 ris critically. "Just observe his shoulders and 
 that neck of his." 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen," continued the an- 
 cient, throwing his hat away that he might 
 gesticulate more freely. "I no lie to you I 
 tell you the troot I neider read nor write." 
 
 Mose then went on to give a faithful but in- 
 coherent account of his life, his wife at times 
 supplying caustic footnotes. 
 
 While the old man, beaming with benevo- 
 lence, discoursed simply of his former deeds,
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 243 
 
 there was a great stir and bustle about his 
 house higher up on the bank. Several men, 
 genii, it may be, brought together by the Alad- 
 din of the occasion, Mr. Tom Temple, were 
 stringing ropes from tree to tree. 
 
 Whether by accident or design, old Mose, 
 standing at the river's edge, held the eyes of 
 the assemblage to such purpose that none of 
 them was aware of those swift workers. Mose 
 Was of interest to all. His stories were good, 
 his idioms were curious, and his gestures and 
 intonation were enough to give new ideas to 
 professional elocutionists. 
 
 It was fast growing dark, and the very 
 younger set were fast growing thirsty. 
 
 Anita whispered to Bob, "Say, Bob, didn't 
 you hear something about lemonade?" 
 
 "I'm pretty thirsty myself," answered Bob. 
 
 Anita turned, pulling Bob with her. 
 
 "Oh!" cried Bob. 
 
 Anita screamed. 
 
 The home of Mose was hung about with a 
 profusion of Japanese lanterns. 
 
 At Anita's scream all turned and won- 
 dered. 
 
 "A belated Fourth of July, fair friends," 
 cried Tom Temple, standing at the door of 
 the illuminated hut. 
 
 At the words a rocket shot into the air; a
 
 244 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 giant pinwheel, fastened to one of the trees, 
 spun and sputtered into flaming loveliness; 
 Roman candles, held by unknown hands, 
 spurted out balls, yellow, green, glorious, 
 golden, and for fully a quarter of an hour the 
 night was made splendid. 
 
 "One word, ladies and gentlemen," said 
 Tom, approaching them at the close of the 
 pyrotechnics. "For the past twenty-four 
 hours I've not been quite certain whether it 
 was I who got married or Bob Ryan. By 
 right Lucille ought to be the shining mark, 
 and I ought to come a distant second. But 
 it's not so at all. Everything is Bob Ryan. 
 Everybody's glad to see him. As for Lucille 
 and myself, one would think we'd been mar- 
 ried for twenty years. To be serious, it has 
 been my dream for many a moon to return to 
 the old places made dear to me by their asso- 
 ciations with that part of my speckled career 
 which led to my meeting my best friend and 
 the finest, the loveliest, lady in the land. My 
 new life began here in the home of honest Mose 
 and his wife. It was here that I lost Bob and 
 found myself. And I have brought all Bob's 
 friends and may I say mine, too? together 
 here, that we, Bob and I, may fight our battles 
 o'er and tell how fields are won." 
 
 Tom paused, took out his handkerchief, and
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 245 
 
 wiped his heated brow. As the applause sub- 
 sided, the sound of an automobile as it swept 
 up to the house of Mose brought all to fresh 
 attention. 
 
 "Do you think it's another surprise?" Anita 
 asked Bob, as a man jumped from the ma- 
 chine and helped a woman to alight. 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder," answered Bob. "This 
 day is so full of surprises, though, that I'm 
 getting hardened to them." 
 
 The man, a portly gentleman, dignified in 
 gait, although his walk was brisk, was advanc- 
 ing toward the party as Bob spoke. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, removing 
 his hat and bowing with Old- World courtesy, 
 "I beg pardon for intruding on what I clearly 
 see is a gathering of friends, but I have a ques- 
 tion to ask which I think so important that it 
 can not be deferred. Is there a young gentle- 
 man here answering to the name of Bob 
 Ryan?" 
 
 Amidst a chorus of puzzled assents Anita, 
 holding Bob by the hand, stepped forward. 
 
 "Sir," she said, "I want to introduce to you 
 my best, my bestest friend Bob Ryan." 
 
 The man shook Bob's hand warmly and 
 deferentially. 
 
 "Bob Ryan," he said, "I want you to come 
 with me and to ask you a few questions of a
 
 246 Hit LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 strictly private nature, the answers to which, 
 truthfully given, can not hurt you in the least 
 and may prove to be most extraordinarily to 
 your advantage. Ladies and gentlemen, will 
 you kindly excuse Bob for a few minutes?" 
 
 An extraordinary change had come upon 
 the assembled party. The atmosphere seemed 
 surcharged with some great secret. Some- 
 thing strange was about to happen. As Bob 
 walked off with the strange man all eyes fol- 
 lowed the boy. 
 
 Half-way up the slope leading to Mose's 
 house the man halted Bob and held him with a 
 whispered dialogue. The man became very 
 nervous and excited. He began presently to 
 rub his hands, and bending down to glance at 
 the boy's face, as though he would read his 
 soul. Finally he took Bob's hand, and made a 
 sign toward the woman, who had remained 
 standing near the auto. 
 
 The friends of Bob, several of them catch- 
 ing their breath, looked on in absorbed silence. 
 
 At the man's signal the lady hastened 
 toward Bob. 
 
 "Now, ma'am," they heard him say, "be 
 calm. You must be calm. I don't think there 
 can be any mistake, but here, let me ask him 
 a few questions in your presence." 
 
 Under the light of the lanterns, which
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 247 
 
 brought out the faces of Bob and his two in- 
 terrogators, ensued a scene which none who 
 saw it on that eventful night will ever for- 
 get. 
 
 The man stood in the center, holding Bob 
 with one hand, the woman with the other. A 
 great wonder was on Bob's face, an overmas- 
 tering anxiety on the woman's, on the man's 
 an air of absorbing excitement. He appeared 
 to be asking Bob questions. Several times 
 Bob nodded his head in assent. Then the man 
 paused the beads of sweat dropping from 
 his face held up his hand, and apparently 
 asking Bob to do the same. It was evident to 
 all that Bob was testifying on oath. As Bob 
 dropped his hand the woman addressed him. 
 Bob opened his mouth, uttered one word, and 
 then 
 
 The man released their hands and pulled out 
 his handkerchief; the woman .gave a cry of 
 exquisite joy; and Bob, his face irradiated, 
 threw his arms about her. 
 
 As they thus stood, the man, rubbing his 
 eyes and turning toward the transfixed party, 
 exclaimed in a broken voice: 
 
 "It's his mother!"
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 In which the mystery of Bob's childhood is 
 cleared up, and he enters upon a new life. 
 
 THE announcement sent a thrill of awe 
 through the listeners. Incoherent ejacu- 
 lations, low murmurs, and all manner of ex- 
 clamations gradually merged into expressions 
 of pure joy. Then suddenly from the crowd 
 burst the great-souled Anita and, darting 
 straight at Bob and his mother, cried as she 
 sped: 
 
 "Mrs. Ryan, if you're Bob's mother you 
 must kiss me, too." 
 
 Fast after the flying Anita bounded Hobo 
 II, and as the lady disengaged herself from 
 Bob and threw her arms about the girl, the 
 dog, barking and jumping, circled about the 
 three in an ecstasy of delight. 
 
 Then Bob, holding his mother's hand, with 
 Anita clinging to both, walked toward the 
 group. 
 
 "Do you know, mother," he whispered, 
 "that we met once?" 
 
 "Indeed I do, Robert. You were the boy 
 that picked up my package as I seated my- 
 self in a car." 
 
 248
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 249 
 
 "And I knew you at once when I saw you, 
 mother; but I didn't suspect that I was your 
 son. I knew you as the Lady in Black. Say," 
 he cried, raising his voice, "this is my dear 
 mother, Mrs. Marion Leslie." 
 
 "God bless you all," said Mrs. Leslie. "For 
 years I have been grieving for my motherless 
 boy. But I know now that God has given 
 him loving hearts to take my place." 
 
 "And this," said Mrs. Leslie's escort, catch- 
 ing Bob by the shoulders, "is Robert Leslie, 
 the only son of Mrs. Marion Leslie. Permit 
 me also to introduce myself. I am Thomas 
 Coleman, Mrs. Leslie's personal friend and at- 
 torney." 
 
 "But what about that father of Bob's?" 
 asked Tom Temple, after the lawyer and hifr 
 sweet client had shaken hands with each and 
 every one, "the fellow who threw him out into 
 the world." 
 
 "That was not his father," said Mr. Cole' 
 man. 
 
 "Good!" cried Tom. "I'm glad to hear it." 
 
 "Suppose," continued Mr. Coleman, "that 
 we all come up to the immediate premises of 
 our friend Mose, and while Robert Leslie and 
 his mother have a heart-to-heart talk I will 
 tell you their story." 
 
 It took little time to follow the lawyer's
 
 250 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 suggestion. Mr. Coleman had held many a 
 jury in the hollow of his hand, but never in all 
 his experience had he so attentive an audience 
 as the one now before him. 
 
 "Some sixteen or seventeen years ago," he 
 began, "there lived in a small Ohio village a 
 lovely young girl educated in a convent 
 school and of a most winning personality. Her 
 parents were apparently in good circum- 
 stances. When at the age of eighteen the girl 
 was graduated from the convent school in Cin- 
 cinnati, she returned home just in time to take 
 up the duties of the household, for her mother 
 went into a swift decline, and after her death 
 the father lost all interest in his business. Very 
 soon he broke down, and shortly followed 
 his wife leaving the girl penniless. 
 
 "Then John R. Leslie, a young lawyer of 
 great promise, to whom she had been engaged, 
 insisted on a private marriage almost at once. 
 Mr. Leslie, born out of the Catholic Church, 
 had been induced by the girl to study the Cath- 
 olic teachings. God gave him the faith and he 
 was baptized on the day of their marriage. 
 Mr. Leslie's parents, on learning that their 
 son and heir had embraced the Catholic faith, 
 were furious. They forbade him their house 
 and refused to recognize him as their son. In 
 ronsequence, the young couple, being resolved
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 251 
 
 to make their own way, left for another part 
 of the State, where Mr. Leslie hung out his 
 shingle and contrived to make just enough to 
 support his wife. 
 
 "In course of time there was born to them a 
 son and heir Robert Leslie. In the eyes of 
 his mother and father he was the finest baby 
 in the world. Judging from what little I have 
 seen of him," added the lawyer, with a smile, 
 "I believe they were right." 
 
 "They were, absolutely," said Tom Temple. 
 
 "Their married life, hitherto an ideal one," 
 continued the lawyer, "was now a thing of 
 bliss. The father, a big, hearty, whole-souled 
 man, who, by the way, was built very much 
 on the lines of Bob, could never bring him- 
 self to believe that his parents would not relent. 
 He felt that he and his wife were undergoing 
 a temporary exile. He sent them a letter giv- 
 ing an account of young Bob, aged seven days. 
 The letter came back unopened. 
 
 "Mr. Leslie did not lose courage. He was 
 mystified at the conduct of his parents, and 
 said that they would surely forget and forgive 
 in a year. Before a year had passed the brave 
 young fellow, in attempting to rescue a drown- 
 ing child an attempt in which he succeeded 
 lost his life. 
 
 "As I have said, he was a very good lawyer.
 
 252 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 Now, gentlemen of the oh, I beg your par- 
 don! Now, my friends, a good lawyer is a 
 man who can attend in the most wonderful 
 way to other people's business; but just as 
 likely as not he is a baby in taking care of his 
 own. So it came to pass that he died with- 
 out any insurance on his life or anything in 
 the bank beyond enough money to cover the 
 funeral expenses and pay his outstanding 
 debts. Poor Mrs. Leslie I hope, by the way, 
 she's not listening 
 
 "You needn't worry," said Tom, "Bob and 
 his mother and the dog are walking on the 
 road Bob traversed with me one year ago." 
 
 "Very good. As I was saying, poor Mrs. 
 Leslie, who knew less about business than most 
 young wives, was at her wits' end. She wrote 
 a pitiful letter to her husband's people. That 
 letter, with its black-bordered envelope, came 
 back unopened. In the light of what we have 
 since learned it is much to be regretted that she 
 did not take the train and visit these people 
 personally. For her husband was absolutely 
 right. The old people were ready and willing 
 and waiting to forget and forgive." 
 
 "How about those returned letters, then?" 
 asked Mr. Reade. 
 
 "The question," returned Mr. Coleman, 
 judicially, "is eminently fair and in order. 
 The fact is that the old people never saw those
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 253 
 
 letters. There lived with them a spinster, their 
 nearest of kin after their son. This gentle 
 creature, with an inquisitiveness which we 
 wonder at without admiring in certain women, 
 inspected every piece of mail that came into 
 the house. It was to her interest to prevent 
 reconciliation; and she certainly put her mind 
 to it. She saw to it that these letters did not 
 go beyond the threshold. 
 
 "Mrs. Leslie, then, timid, shrinking, tried 
 to earn a living with the needle for herself and 
 her six-months-old child ; for nearly a year she 
 dragged out a precarious existence. Toward 
 the end of that year there came into her life a 
 certain hatchet-faced young man, Thomas 
 Evans by name, who apparently did every- 
 thing to help her. He got her work, he showed 
 her all manner of kindness; and he proposed. 
 He made his proposal, as they say, at the 
 psychological moment. It was when work 
 was slack, times hard, and the child was show- 
 ing unfavorable symptoms, resulting, as the 
 mother thought, from insufficient nourishment. 
 
 "Almost in despair, she consented. They 
 were to be married privately by a priest, in a 
 village some thirty miles distant. On the 
 appointed day, and arrived at the appointed 
 place, Mrs. Leslie was brought before a squire. 
 But Evans, a bitter bigot, though he had kept 
 this side of him from her, had reckoned with-
 
 254 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 out his host. She became indignant. She re- 
 minded him of his promise to secure a Cath- 
 olic priest for the ceremony. 
 
 "Then Evans, losing his temper, said such 
 things about her Church as opened her eyes. 
 She declared that under no circumstances 
 could she think of marrying such a man. Upon 
 this Evans, in a towering rage, getting into the 
 machine which had conveyed them thither, left 
 her to get home as best she might. 
 
 "She had no money. She attempted to walk 
 home, and was picked up on the road uncon- 
 scious and brought to a hospital, where for 
 months she struggled for her life. When she 
 left the hospital she succeeded in getting home, 
 only to learn that Evans had disappeared with 
 the child on the day of the proposed wedding. 
 
 "And what could she do? The daily papers 
 might have helped her; but news four months 
 old is no news. Money she had none. More- 
 over, she was temporarily broken in spirit. 
 So she prayed and hoped and worked and 
 wept. Her life was a life of sorrow. 
 
 "A little over a year ago Mrs. Leslie was 
 suddenly summoned to the home of her dead 
 husband's mother. She went at once, and was 
 brought to the bedside of the dying woman, 
 whose husband had died three years before. 
 The old woman was sorely repentant. She got
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 253 
 
 Mrs. Leslie's story, obtained Mrs. Leslie's for- 
 giveness, then summoned her lawyer and made 
 a new will. 
 
 "I was the lawyer," said Mr. Coleman, re- 
 laxing into a smile. "And I shed no tears 
 when old Mrs. Leslie left one bare dollar to 
 that spinster sister of hers who had intercepted 
 the letters. To Mrs. Leslie, Bob's mother, 
 the old lady left an income of six thousand a 
 year, and to Bob, with his mother as executor, 
 an estate valued at nearly a quarter of a mil- 
 lion." 
 
 "How much is that?" asked Mose, "enough 
 to support him?" 
 
 "Enough to support him," answered the 
 lawyer, "and to help old friends like Mose and 
 his wife to be comfortable for life." 
 
 "I tell you something, sir, and I lie not to 
 you. I always tole my wife Anna we will not 
 go to the poorhouse." 
 
 "And you were right, Mose. To continue: 
 The old lady, having made her will, very shortly 
 afterward died; and I, who had known Mr. 
 and Mrs. Leslie before their marriage, took up 
 Bob's case. Of course the thing got into the 
 papers, almost before we put detectives on the 
 trail. On the morning of July fifth, just a 
 year ago and a day, we traced Evans as far as 
 Dubuque. In fact, two of our men came to
 
 256 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 the house, and just as they made sure that they 
 had trailed the right man Evans and the boy 
 disappeared." 
 
 "But why did Evans hold the boy kid- 
 naped all these years?" asked Tom. 
 
 "So far as I can make out," answered Mr. 
 Coleman, "he counted on the death of the 
 mother. She was thought to be dying when 
 he stole the boy. He knew the Leslie family, 
 and he knew that they were ready to forgive. 
 Bob would inherit a fortune. That, I believe, 
 is the reason why he tried to marry young Mrs. 
 Leslie." 
 
 "I think/' said Tom Temple, "that I can 
 finish the story. When Evans abandoned 
 Bob in the woodlands I discovered the young 
 cherub. It was the finest discovery I ever 
 made. I really thought at the time that I was 
 entertaining a young cherub; I didn't know 
 that it was only a young heir. Of course, your 
 detectives, not knowing that Evans and Bob 
 had parted company, got on the wrong trail. 
 They followed me, they found me in the hos- 
 pital, and concluded they had been on a false 
 scent, and so started off on some other trail, 
 while Bob, as a member of the Reade family, 
 slipped into Cincinnati. But how in the long 
 run did you discover Bob?" 
 
 "Mrs. Leslie," replied the lawyer, "made the 
 discovery herself. It was that picture in the
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 257 
 
 Catholic Telegraph, a picture, by the way, 
 which would never have appeared had it not 
 been for Bob's failure to come out first in the 
 contest. It was a lucky failure. 
 
 "When Bob was a little baby he had the 
 singular habit of putting his hand under his 
 chin and gazing dreamily into space a habit, 
 I may add, which his father had. When Mrs. 
 Leslie saw that picture she felt sure that it 
 must be her own dear child, over whose loss 
 she had grieved for nearly fourteen years. 
 Within an hour she made hasty inquiries. She 
 learned enough to make her feel sure. To- 
 gether we visited Pioneer Street, only to learn 
 that Mr. and Mrs. Tom Temple had kidnaped 
 the boy again. We got the next train, we hur- 
 ried to Dubuque, we kept the lines busy, and, 
 after the most strenuous day in all my legal 
 career, we landed our little heir in the home of 
 Mose." 
 
 "Well," said Anita, "Bob said this is a per- 
 fect day. I heard him, and it is." 
 
 "Here they come," said Tom Reade. 
 
 Masculine cheers and feminine screams 
 greeted the happiest boy in the United States 
 and the sweet-faced woman in black, from 
 whose features had gone forever the sadness 
 and the longing of a mother bewailing her lost 
 child. 
 
 "We have had a happy hour," said the
 
 258 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR 
 
 happy mother. "Bob has told me of all his 
 friends. He has told me enough to assure me 
 of what I already had surmised, that God had 
 watched over him through the dearest friends 
 a boy could have. No matter how long I live, 
 my heart, I trust, will ever carry a sense of 
 gratitude to all who have so nobly befriended 
 my boy." 
 
 "And," added Bob, giving his mother a 
 glance of love and pride, "it's all fixed. Mother 
 and I are going to travel and get acquainted. 
 And she's going to live up here in Iowa. And 
 next year, Tom and Matt, I'm going to " 
 
 Bob paused and smiled. 
 
 "To Campion College?" cried both boys 
 breathlessly. 
 
 And Bob's answer was drowned in a chorus 
 of voices singing triumphantly: 
 
 Campion will shine to-night, 
 Campion will shine, 
 Campion will shine to-night, 
 Campion will shine, 
 Campion will shine to-night, 
 Campion will shine, 
 When the sun goes down 
 And the moon goes up 
 Campion will shine. 
 
 THE END 
 
 PRINTED BY BENZIGER BROTHERS, KEW YOST.
 
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