Читать книгу Candles' Beams - Francis J. Finn - Страница 8

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During the last week of October, a distressing thing came to pass. Penholders, pencils, pennies and what not could no longer with safety be left in the classroom. A thief had arisen amongst us.

In vain did I, in the catechism class and at other opportune moments, dilate on the terrible effects of thieving; the one person I was trying to reach was unaffected.

Young Hogarth, a daily Communicant, suggested a novena; Edward Stevens offered, in private, to act as a detective. He seemed to have the idea that a false moustache and a wig would ensure him success.

I became down-hearted. Somehow, it seemed to me my hold upon the fourth grade was slipping. The discipline was all I could desire; but the boys were no longer responsive to my suggestions. At night, my sleep was broken. Brother Mark, our kind Superior, noticed my distress, and asked the cause.

“I’m afraid, Brother, I’ve put my foot in it. I’ve given one scolding in which I went too far, and since that time there’s some sort of a veil between me and the boys. They like me yet, I think; but they are a little more distant.”

“To know your fault is by way of atoning for it, Brother John. Keep up your courage; you’ll get your power back before you know it. Just see how long you can get on without scolding—you know God has given you an over sharp tongue—and you’ll have them running to your whistle as before.”

“But that’s not all. Perhaps I should have told you before, but I found it hard to bring myself to it—there’s a thief in the class—one, if not more.”

“Have you no clue?”

“Absolutely none.”

“And you suspect no one?”

“I dare not. There’s not a boy in the class who on the face of it would seem to be capable of such a thing.”

Brother Mark pressed his hands to his forehead, and remained thus for almost a minute.

“One thing is sure,” he presently said. “It is quite possible to have a young thief in a class where a teacher is doing the very best sort of work. You have no reason, therefore, to feel discouraged. Keep your eyes open, and you’ll get the culprit; and when you do, act as you think proper. You have my permission to give him a whipping he will remember to the last day of his life.”

The days passed; the thieving continued. One afternoon, on my way home from the classroom, I remembered that I had left a set of tasks in my desk. Returning and reaching the classroom door, I recalled that I had lent Brother Ambrose my keys. Young and athletic as I am, the solution was easy. Reaching to the lower frame work of the transom, I drew myself up. And—

Francis, the boy who a month ago was my imitator—Francis was going from desk to desk, appropriating papers, pencils, and all manner of small objects. Dropping from my awkward position, I threw myself against the door, bursting the lock at the first attack. Francis jumped violently, and seeing who I was fell into the nearest seat, throwing his face downward on the desk. And there I stood looking at him, amazed, frightened. What was I to do? What could I do?

“God help me!” I cried internally. And I needed God’s help in the face of this tragedy of youth.

“Francis,” I said at length, and my voice, I observed, sounded strange and unnatural, “empty your pockets.”

Without raising his head, the unhappy boy, using only his right hand, threw out upon the desk an assortment of odds and ends—amongst them fifteen pennies, a nickel and a dime.

I glanced from these things to the boy; his breathing was labored. I glanced at the ill-gotten goods again, and hardened my heart. That is, I tried to. It had been borne in upon me from reading and practical experience that there is an almost infallible means of curing a thief caught young—a sound, almost merciless whipping. My mind was made up. I would thrash that boy as I had never thrashed any boy, I would thrash him as he had never been thrashed before, and in all likelihood would never be thrashed again.

“Francis, hold up your head.”

The boy obeyed, and I was gazing upon a face which was to me absolutely unreadable. The eyes were cast down, the mouth closed tightly, the face set in hard lines; and yet it was quivering with some emotion which might be sorrow or anger or hatred; which was it?

As I looked down, my intended method of reforming a thief ceased to appear so simple.

“Francis,” I continued after a period of dark doubt—a period during which I earnestly prayed for light—“go through that pile of stuff and take out what is honestly yours.”

Quickly the small fingers played among the pile of articles; so quickly, so deftly, that I was asking myself whether I was gazing upon fingers which in after years would exercise their deftness in the picking of locks and the opening of safes.

It was a cool day, but I felt the perspiration breaking out upon my face. I could see the fear upon the features of Francis, I could feel the panic writ upon my own. Nevertheless, I felt I must go on to my horrible, self-imposed task.

“Have you stolen much more besides this?”

The boy bowed his head in assent.

“Can’t you speak?”

“Yes, Brother.” The words were low; but oh, the infinite sadness in the tones!

“Francis, my boy, you would not have thought of doing such a thing as stealing last September.”

The boy raised his eyes and looked me full in the face.

“I should say not,” he exclaimed fervently.

A sudden light shot through my soul, and then a sudden bewilderment. The light was illuminating. Francis Reardon would not have turned to stealing had it not been for that ill-timed and worse-worded scolding of mine. The bewilderment was: Am I too a sharer in the guilt of this young thief?

Here was a heart, once mine, to be won again.

“Now, my boy,” I said, “I had made up my mind when I caught you, to give you a trouncing you would never forget. But I’m not going to do it.”

Francis turned eyes of wonder and of frank incredulity upon me.

“And more than that: no one else—no Brother, no boy, no relation even—will ever learn from me that Francis Reardon was a thief. The only one else who will ever know it will be your confessor, and him you will tell yourself.”

All of a sudden, the tears came dashing from the boy’s eyes; with equal suddenness he began to cry, in the literal sense of that word.

“Keep quiet, Francis; you will be heard.”

The boy moderated the expression of his grief, but his sobs, suppressed though they were, were heart-rending. I waited in silence and in fear. Oh, how I dreaded making a false step!

“The reason I am not going to whip you, Francis,” I resumed at length, “is that somehow I feel that I’m just as much of a thief as you. I don’t think you understand what I mean just at present, but you will understand some day.”

Whether he understood or not is beyond me; but in answer to this, he arose, grasped my right hand, and fell upon his knees.

“O, Brother, I’m sorry! Forgive me! and I’ll do anything you say.”

“Stand up, Francis. Indeed, I forgive you from my heart, and I want you to forget that awful scolding I gave you.”

“Brother, I’ll try to be what you want me to be.”

And then I told Francis to make out an exact inventory of every thing he had stolen, and, as quickly as possible, to bring the articles back to me. From sentiment we had come down to business; and in a few minutes everything was fairly arranged. The only difficulty was in the matter of the money. Francis had spent it.

“I’ll advance the eighty-three cents myself,” I said, “and you can pay me in instalments.”

Next day, accordingly, I was able to announce to the class,—

“There is no thief in this room; and those boys who have lost pens, paper, pennies, or anything else, will kindly see me at recess, and get what belongs to them.”