The Victim | Page 7

perhaps, and in the rumble of the storm.
Maybe in dreams--and now they had come true.
In a few months, he found himself the only Protestant boy in school
and the smallest of all the scholars. The monks were kind. They seemed

somehow to love him better than the others. Father Wallace reminded
him of his big brother. He was so gentle.
The Boy made up his mind to join the Catholic Church and went
straight to Father Wilson, the venerable head of the college.
The old man smiled pleasantly:
"And why do you wish this, my son?"
"Oh, it's so much more beautiful than the Baptist Church. Besides it's
so much easier--"
"Indeed?"
"Yes, sir. The Baptists have such a hard time getting religion. They
seek and mourn so long--"
"Really?"
"Indeed they do--yes, sir--I've seen stubborn sinners mourn all summer
in three protracted meetings and then not come through!"
"And you don't like that sort of penance?"
"No, sir. I've always dreaded it. And the worst thing is the new converts
have to stand right up in church before all the crowd and tell their
experience out loud. I'd hate that--"
"And you like our ways better?"
"A great deal better. The Catholics manage things so nicely. All you
have to do is to go to church, learn the catechism and the good priests
do all the rest--"
"Oh--I see!"
"Yes, sir."

Father Wilson laid his wrinkled hand tenderly on the Boy's head:
"You are very, very young, my son, and you are growing rapidly. What
you really need is good Catholic food. Sit down and have a piece of
bread and cheese with me."
The Boy sat down and ate the offered bread and cheese in silence.
"I can't join, Father Wilson?" he asked at last.
The priest smiled again:
"No, my son."
"You don't like me, Father?" the boy asked wistfully.
"We like you very much, sir. But we are responsible for the trust your
father and mother have put in us. In God's own time when you are older
and know the full meaning of your act, I should be glad--but not this
way."
The Boy was so small, in fact, that a fine old priest in pity for his tender
years had a little bed put in his own room for him to watch the light and
shadows in eager young eyes when homesickness threatened. And then
he talked of the wonders and glory of Rome on her seven hills by the
Tiber, of the Coliseum, the death of Christian martyrs in the arena--of
the splendors of St. Peter's, beside whose glory all other churches pale
into insignificance. He lifted the curtain of history and gave the child's
mind flashes of the Old World whose pageants stretch down the ages
into the mists of eternity.
Of books, the Boy learned little--but the monks kindled a light in his
soul the years could not dim.
To the other students the old man was not so gentle. They were tougher
and he set their tasks accordingly. They rebelled at last and decided on
revenge. The plot was hatched and all in readiness for its execution.
The only problem was how to put the light out in his room.

The Boy held the key to the citadel. He was on the inside. He could
blow the candle out and the thing was done. He refused at first, but the
rebels crowded around him and appealed to his sense of loyalty.
"They can force you to sleep in his room," pleaded the ringleader, "but,
by Gimminy, that don't make you a monk, does it?"
"No, of course not--"
"You're one of us--stand by us. You didn't ask to sleep in his old room,
did you?"
"No."
"Well, you're there--the right man in the right place, in the nick of time.
Will you stand by us?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"Just blow out the candle--that's all--we'll do the rest. Will you do it?"
The Boy hesitated, smiled and said:
"Yes--when everything's quiet."
The old man had gone to bed and began to snore. The Boy rose
noiselessly and blew the candle out.
Instantly from the darkness without, poured a volley of cabbage heads,
squashes, potatoes and biscuits. Not a word was spoken, but the charge
of the light brigade was swift and terrible.
The Boy pulled the cover over his head and waited for the storm to
pass.
When the light was lit and search made, not a culprit could be found.
They were all in bed sound asleep. The only one awake was the Boy in
the little bed on which lay scattered potatoes, biscuits and cabbage.

The priest drew him from under the cover. His face was stern--the firm
mouth rigid with anger.
"Did you know they were