Felix O'Day

old men, living contentedly from hand to mouth, gayly propping each

their contemporaries were scudding with all sails set before the wind of success-if these castaways, their past always with them and their hoped-for future forev

possession of his mind. Few such helping hands had ever been held out to him. When they had been, the proffered palm had generally co

o unmindful of them, getting back to his lodgings at any hour of the night, either to let himself in by his pass-key-all the lights out and everybody asleep-or to find only Kitty or John, or both, at work over their accounts or waiting up for Mike or Bobby or for one of their wagons de

ed him, he had settled it with a pat on her shoulders. "Just let me have my way this time, my dear Mrs. Cleary," he had said gently but firmly. "I am a bad boa

-until then they had been fried-and a new way with a rasher of bacon, using the carving-fork instead of a pan. The clearing of the famous coffee-pot with an egg-making the steaming mixture anew whenever wanted instead of letting the dented old pot simmer away a

e life about him, and he soon found himself growing daily more

eir carriages. I got two arms, and I can sleep eight hours when I get the chance, and John loves me and so does Bobby and so does my big white horse Jim. There ain't one of them women as knows wha

e, and, picking them up bodily, he had set them down on hard chairs in a rathskeller on Sixth Avenue, where they had all dined together, the

ing to his room, he pushed open the door of the Clearys'

myself: 'Maybe ye'd come in before he went.' Here's Father Cruse I bee

e from his chair and held out his hand. "The introduction should be quite unnecessary, Mr. O'Day," he exclaimed in the full, sonorous voice of a man accus

hem, felt himself warmed by the hearty greeting and touched by its sincerity. "I agree with you, Father, in your praise of them," he said as he grasped the priest's

s he waved his hand toward his empty chair

you do not mind. Please do not mo

e myself?" continued Felix, shifting the

queer old part of the town it is. Strange to say, there are very few changes along its streets since my boyhood.

urteous man, and the anxious look in the deep-set eyes. As priest he had looked into many others, framed in the side window of the confessional-the most wonderful of all sch

f small houses, where I should think people could live very cheaply"; adding, with a sigh, "I have walked a gr

inger-leaned forward. "That's the matter with him, Father, and he'll never be happy until he stops it," she cr

he asked with a smile. "How can I learn anything ab

listen to a thing I say! I been waitin' for Father Cruse to get hold of ye, and I'm goin' to say what's in

ward her. "If he fails to heed you, Mrs. Cleary, he certainly

on scolding me, my dear Mrs. Cleary. I love to hear you. But there is Father Cruse, why not sympa

ight out toward Felix. "But why must you do it

ay is my

mass. Ye'd think he'd co

unded as if he had grown unaccustomed to letting the

t. Barnabas's some day very soon, and shall sit in the front pew-or, perhaps, in yours, Mrs. Cleary, if you will let me-now that

e very often at night, so

ong does t

ps an

ait until you are free, you could give

ure. But why at those hours?" ask

to see YOU. Your church is not my church, and never has been, but your people-especially your priests-have always had my admiration and respect. I hav

, sir," he replied solemnly. The acknowledgment came reve

ity. All the priests he had known were thoroughbreds in their manner and bearing; their self-imposed restraint, self-effacement, absence of all u

thoughts seemed to have wandered afar. "And now tell me," he asked, rousing himself to

ehind the question. "Oh, among my people," he answered, the slow

reater, in many ways, than London. The luxury and waste are appalling; the miser

ered the priest, his forefing

sts," ventured Felix, his eyes kindling, "if you

rned toward the boy, who was sound asleep in his chair

e no others,

l tell you. My district runs from Fifth Avenue to the East River, from the homes of the rich to the haunts of the poor, and there is no form of vice and no depth o

oved priest, and still fearing that the talk would lead away from what was uppermost in her mind-O'Day's we

ne to a very dull and useless knife, and I am greatly sharpened up. After all, I think we both agree that it is rather difficult to keep anything bright very long unless you rub it against someth

"Well, what do ye think of him? Have I told ye too much? Did ye ever know the beat of a man like that, livin' in a place like this a

the fire, then looked at John as if about to seek some further enlig

His l

es

y-not one since h

come to

r a s

does not matter; somebody or something has hurt him, and he has gone off to die by himself. In

cate antennae of his hands m

t. Pitiful, really; and the worst thing about it is that you can't help him, for his secret wil

you?" said John, who had sat tilted back against the wall and

by crooked. John?"

vin' his own full of bricks, carting off instead some I keep on storage for my customers, full of God knows what!-but somethin' that's worth money, or they wouldn't have me

sayin' that of ye without somethin' to back it up, and that's what'll happen to ye if ye don't mend your manners. Can't ye see, Father, that Mr. Felix O'Day is the real thing, and no sham about hi

light family squall-never very long nor ser

information. What do you think of him, Father? What's he up to, anyhow? There ain't any of '

king down at Kitty, his hands clasped behind

ndle-and I don't c

worry, John Clea

es she know ab

ways knows about every go