Fr. Francis J. Finn - Harry Dee: Or Working it Out

Harry Dee or working it out

Fr. Francis J. Finn, S.J.

Copyright 1892 by Benziger Brothers, New York, Printers to the Holy Apostolic See. Reprinted from the Eleventh Edition by TAN Books and Publishers, Inc. in 2000.

Library of Congress Control No.: 00-131554

Cover illustrations by Margaret Ethier; reproduced courtesy of the Headmaster of St. Mary's Academy and College, St. Mary's, Kansas, publisher of the former Crusade Magazine, in which the illustrations first appeared.

Cover design by Peter Massari.

THE TOM PLAYFAIR SERIES

"Father Finn's Famous Three"

Tom Playfairor Making a Start

Percy Wynnor Making a Boy of Him

Harry Deeor Working It Out

The Set of 3

TAN BOOKS AND PUBLISHERS, INC.
P.O. Box 424
Rockford, Illinois 61105

2000

"In a moment he arose with the child supported on his arm."Page 112.

PUBLISHER'S PREFACE.

S INCE this volume bears no Preface by Fr. Finn, unlike its predecessors in this illustrious seriesto wit, Tom Playfair and Percy Wynnthe present Publishers make bold to supply the lack by this humble effort.

First of all, it will not have escaped the reader's attention that Fr. Finn's vocabulary is not identical to that in use today. Certain terms, in fact, have quite fallen out of use or have even changed in their common meaning since the 1890's, when Fr. Finn wrote. One thinks, for instance, of the words "college," "wag," and "bawl." But if, upon encountering such terms herein, the reader will consult that venerable volume known as the "dictionary," particularly noticing the secondary and tertiary meanings given, we trust that any confusion will be dispelled.

Secondly, we think that it will not be out of place to suggest that the author has put into the mouth of Tom Playfair his own ideal regarding Catholic literature for youth. We read Tom's comment on page 240 of Harry Dee: "I'll tell you an idea I've had for years.... What we want just now is a good Catholic magazine for boys and girls. Instead of having Catholic writers growl at the books boys read, we must get them to write something that they will read instead.... Our writers ought to go to work and give us the American Catholic boy: he is the best boy in the world.... One good Catholic story will do more than a dozen volumes of snarling against books that boys ought not to read."

Does such a magazine exist today? And if not, could one be started? We leave these questions to be pondered and explored by Fr. Finn's young reading public.

Finally, we note what is, no doubt, Fr. Finn's own opinion regarding the character of Tom Playfair at the conclusion of Harry Dee, the final volume of the trilogy. This opinion comes from the pen of Percy Wynn and appears on page 246 herein: "He's an American saint." Recalling that Tom began the series by sassing his elders and evading his duties, one cannot but trust that there is hope today for other imperfect specimens of American youth. Similarly, one cherishes the possibility that Tom will help inspire his new readers toward becoming something most desirable and very much needed today: young American saints.

THE PUBLISHERS
July 19, 2000

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HARRY DEE.

CHAPTER I.

IN WHICH I FEEL COMPELLED TO TALK MUCH ABOUT MY EARLY YEARS, AND TAKE A JOURNEY INTO THE COUNTRY TO SPEND CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN A VERY MYSTERIOUS HOUSE.

I HOPE the reader may not be bored; but I find it necessary to begin my story with a great deal about my insignificant self. I am not the hero; and yet, owing to a strange run of circumstances, am so wrapped up with the characters and events which are to figure in my narrative that I find it impossible to make any sort of a beginning without telling somewhat of my own early history.

And, to begin with, the reader must know that when still a very small boy I succeeded in throwing my father and mother into a state of terror by an extraordinary piece of conduct. One night my mother, who had a habit of stealing to my little bed to tuck me in securely and repeat her goodnight kiss, found my bed empty. Not a little startled, she instituted a diligent search, and to her horror discovered me walking, fast asleep, up and down our garden walk.

Of course the family doctor was called in at once. He asked me all sorts of questions and made me so nervous that I put an end to the examination by bursting into tears.

"Madam," he at length said in grave tones to my mother, "you needn't be at all alarmed at Harry's somnambulistic propensities; he'll probably grow out of them. It's ain fact, it's an idiosyncrasy."

For which he charged the usual fee.

The doctor's learned opinion of my case was on the point of bringing my distress to a climax, when my father led me from the room, and informed me that "somnambulistic propensities" merely meant that I had a tendency to walk in my sleep, and that its being an idiosyncrasy of mine was another way of saying that it was very odd on my part to do so.

"But," added my father, "you needn't bother about it. Some people snore in their sleep; others talk in their sleep; that's the sort of idiosyncrasy they have. Yours is to walk."

My father's way of putting it not only dispelled my alarm, but even made me somewhat proud of myself. I at once looked upon sleep-walking as an accomplishment. Even at this moment I cannot without smiling recall my conversation with Willie Styles, a very small boy with very large eyes, who lived within a few doors of us.

"Willie," I began, hastening over to his house, "do you snore in your sleep?"

"No," said Willie.

"Do you talk in your sleep?"

"No."

"Do you walk in your sleep?"

"No."

I looked on him with something akin to contempt as I added, "Willie, you haven't got any iddy-sink-racing."

"What!" gasped Willie.

"I can walk in my sleep, Willie, and that's an iddy-sink-racing."

Proud both of the fact and the declaration, I departed to communicate the news to our cook and house-maid, leaving Willie in a state of perplexity not to be described.

The doctor's opinion, however, did not reassure my mother. Thenceforth she rested but little at night. Seated in an arm-chair beside my bed, she would clasp my little hand in hers and sleep as best she might. Night after night she took her station beside me, and with sweet sadness do I remember how often that soft, caressing mother's hand would gently stroke my brow; how often the mild, sweet face of my mother would bend down to mine as I awoke with a start from some troubled dream, and how, as her loving eyes fixed themselves on me, her lips would touch my cheek, while her soothing voice would charm my dream-haunted fancies into peace.

One morningit was in my ninth yearI awoke bright and early, and, as was my custom, kissed the hand that clasped mine. But the hand I had ever found so gentle, so quick to answer my slightest touch, was cold and irresponsive. I raised my eyes to my mother's face; the smile I knew and loved so well still lingered about her features. But there was something in her face which I had never seen before, a weird beauty not of this world, which caused me to leap from my bed and clasp her in my arms and call her name. My dear mother gave me no answer. God had called her away.