off of ’em straight-away; but—but he’d sooner take all their lip than my help. He were proper mad wi’ me. An’ now he’s gone, an’ I don’t know where. Is he ’feared. Father Denis? He—he ain’t jus’ got all the pluck a feller needs these days, yer see.”
“You know why he has gone,” said Father Denis, gravely.
“I don’t,” said Ted, bluntly. “Would I be askin’ if I did?”
“Is there wan ov us does not know from what the ould man said that ut is your own blame or his, Ted Douglas? An’ yer own heart tells ye that ut is not tu yersilf.”
Ted’s eyes darkened. Then he straightened, speaking slowly.
“You’re tongueing wi’ the pack, too, are you? All right. It was me as tuk it—never Jimmie. The boys know. I told them. An’ now I tell you.”
Father Denis fumbled with his pipe, laid it down, and spoke huskily.
“Throth! ye nade not thry that fulish game on wid me, bhoy. Ut was wan or the other ov ye, Ted, an’ ut was him. I know ut ahl from his own mouth. He did ut, an’ he wud shift the blame ontu yersilf because ye have shamed him befure his mates, Ted Douglas.”
The strong young face opposite was blank. The big hard hands groped on the table cover. Father Denis glanced toward the shadowed
