The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [314]
Studs watched the priest move solemnly forward and disappear behind the stands. He looked up at Gorman with growing respect at the way the Judge was handling this crisis.
“Has a doctor been called?”
“One’s on the way here.”
“Here, sir, I’m a doctor,” a candidate called.
“Will you kindly go back there immediately?”
“This way, doctor.”
“I want to ask you gentlemen to take a solemn and serious oath never to divulge one word of what has happened here this afternoon to any outsider. I ask this of you in fraternal spirit for the good of our Order, which is bigger than any of us individually.”
“Yes, fellows, we got to show the master-of-ceremonies here that we’re with him. Now, are we or aren’t we? We are,” McCarthy said.
“Raise your right hands with me, please, gentlemen, and silently pronounce a vow of secrecy... Thank you, thank you, gentlemen. This mustn’t get into the newspapers, be-smirching the name of the Order of Christopher.”
“Judge, Mr. Joyce has died,” a voice called from the rear.
V
“In the light of what has happened here this afternoon, I believe that it will be necessary to postpone this initiation until a less tragic time. But before I dismiss you, I must ask a guaranty from you of your secrecy and of your sincerity in joining the Order of Christopher, and I believe that under the very unusual circumstances of this afternoon I am fully justified in asking this of you in the name of the Order. The most convincing testimony of your spirit and attitude toward the Order of which I can think is that you prove yourself willing to shed your blood for the Order. I am going to ask one of you to volunteer for this act which will be accepted symbolically as that of the entire group.”
Studs fastened his eyes on Gorman’s hawk-like nose. Since he had flopped once already, all he had done was cheer. And damn it, Studs Lonigan was one made to stand out and make others cheer for him and not always to do the cheering. A zeal of martyrdom, which he had not experienced so acutely since one Friday afternoon during his fourth-grade year at Saint Patrick’s while Father Roney was talking on the early martyrs, swept through him. Watching the Judge, he knew that he had to volunteer. And he couldn’t get out of his mind the thought that Joyce out there was dead, and that the police might come, and they would all be on the witness stand. They had to stand by the Order now, too.
“Gentlemen, let me repeat that this is very grave and serious, and I ask you to reflect before volunteering. I do not want this to be an impulsive act, no matter how noble or self-sacrificing. I want it to be an act that is the product of reflection. Think carefully! We are asking that one of you offer, as a sacrifice to the Order of Christopher, a pint of his blood in symbolic proof of your seriousness to accept all the responsibilities that will be incumbent upon you as members. This may result in serious, even fatal, con-sequences. I am fully conscious of the gravity of this request, and I am prompted to make it in the name of our Order only because of the tragic events of this afternoon.”
Studs turned pallid; his head became light. He saw himself dying as a result of this sacrifice. He wondered why this sacrifice of a pint of blood should be necessary, but his emotions swept this question out of his mind. He saw himself dying for the Order of Christopher, and the idea of himself becoming the martyred hero of this surprising afternoon gave him a sad thrill. He wanted to raise his hand. But he couldn’t very well, in his condition, afford to lose that much blood. He asked himself where was his guts? Guts would carry him through it alive. Here was a chance to show the real stuff in him, such as he had never gotten in his whole life.
“This act must be absolutely voluntary. We want to know whether or not you are prepared to pay for the privileges of membership with something dearer