MR. TREVOR’S MYSTERIOUS INVITATION
Mr. Trevor, Art’s father, had been for six weeks attending to legal
business in London. For several days his return had been eagerly
anticipated. Art’s only hope lay in his father’s jovial disposition,
his love of outdoor sports and, above all, his unusual interest in the
pleasures of boys. In this respect Mr. Trevor was different from most
men. He would leave his office to umpire a game of ball between school
nines when he could not find time to witness a professional game.
Through the dinner hour Mrs. Trevor did not speak of the fight. By that
Art knew he was approaching a crisis. Up to this time, his mother had
never hesitated to discipline him for shortcomings. Each minute his
depression deepened. The meal over, he made no attempt to leave the
house. When his mother took up the evening paper Art retired to a far
corner of the porch with a magazine.
Now and then he would glance at the hall clock. While he looked the
third time the deep gong sounded seven. He took a deep breath――only one
more hour.
Art had no way of knowing what had befallen his friends. Not a boy had
passed the house. If Old Walter had visited all the boys’ homes, Art
suspected that more than one domestic tragedy must have been enacted
already.
Just as the twilight began to make reading difficult, Art heard a slow
and familiar footstep. It was Alex Conyers. But the low-spirited boy on
the porch neither looked up nor gave salutation. Alex walked slowly as
if burdened with troubles of his own. At the lawn step he looked up,
seemed to hesitate, and then passed on.
“Alexander,” called Mrs. Trevor in a low voice, “is that you?”
“Yes’m.”
“I’d like to see you.”
Connie, hat in hand, ascended the steps with the liveliness of a
pallbearer. He glanced toward the end of the porch where Art sat,
apparently engrossed in his magazine.
“Were you with Arthur this afternoon?” asked Mrs. Trevor quietly but
pointedly.
“Yes’m,” looking intently across the street.
“Did Marshal Walter speak to your parents?”
“Yes’m,” slowly and with another furtive look toward his chum.
“What did your father think about it?”
“He said he wished I was younger so he could strap me.”
Mrs. Trevor did not smile. Then to Connie’s consternation, he knew that
Mrs. Trevor was wiping a tear from her cheek.
“But that wasn’t all,” Connie added hastily. “He told me how he had
hoped I wouldn’t grow up like that. I told him I was sorry,” and
Connie’s voice quivered a little. “Anyway I can’t go near the river
again this summer――fishin’ nor swimmin’ nor nothin’.”
“With whom were you fighting?” went on Mrs. Trevor.
At this question Connie twisted his cap, looked up in confusion and
then at the floor in silence.
“You don’t want to tell?”
“No’m.”
“Didn’t Marshal Walter ask you?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you going to tell him when he does?”
“No’m.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause he might take ’em up.”
“And you think you are right?”
“What good’d it do? If he arrested ’em an’ the judge fined ’em they’d
have to go to jail.”
“Well, you seem to like to associate with them. You boys appear to
enjoy their society. You could all be together.”
“Together?” repeated Connie in an alarmed voice, while Art’s magazine
fell to the floor.
“Certainly,” went on Mrs. Trevor. “The marshal says he is going to
ask the mayor if he shouldn’t arrest all of you. I suppose that means
you’ll all be put in jail.”
Connie adjusted his collar. “I think I’ve got to go now, Mrs. Trevor,”
he said at last. “It’s getting late.”
“Good night, Alexander,” replied Mrs. Trevor softly. “I feel sorry for
you and your friends.”
As Connie departed, with neither word nor look for his pal in disgrace,
Mrs. Trevor started down the steps.
“I’m going to the train, Arthur, to meet your father.”
“Shan’t I come with you?” Art asked.
“No. I want to meet your father alone and prepare him for the
reception you have arranged for him.”
This was the last straw. When a little later the repentant Art heard
the hollow blasts of the eight-o’clock express he was stretched on a
couch in the living room. There was a lump in his throat and he felt as
if he had lost every interest in life.
Connie’s talk had not made Art’s troubles lighter. Art realized that
his pal’s disgrace and punishment was due to himself more than to
Connie. Finally, to relieve his troubled conscience, he set his teeth
together and hurried to the telephone. Art called up the Conyers home
and Alex’s father answered the telephone.
“This is Arthur Trevor, Mr. Conyers,” Art hastily began, “an’ I want
to tell you what we did to-day. Yes, our fightin’. Well, Connie ain’t
to blame like I am. But you don’t understand. He ain’t a scrapper an’
he didn’t want to go an’ he tried to keep the gang from goin’. If we’d
done like he wanted, there wouldn’t nothin’ ’a’ happened. But I egged
him on. Yes, I know I’d oughtn’t an’ it was my fault. Connie argued
ever’ way to keep us out o’ trouble an’ we just pulled him in. An’
that ain’t all. He wouldn’t ’a’ got into no fight himself at all if he
hadn’t tried to keep me from fightin’. An’ then they jumped on his back
an’ he had to scrap. It was my fault all through.”
There was some conversation, Mr. Conyers’ part of which seemed to
indicate that he wasn’t at all certain of Alexander’s innocence, even
in part. Then he appeared to give Art a few words of advice and the
interview ended. There was no suggestion that Connie’s punishment would
be made lighter.
Art heard voices outside just then, and bracing himself as well as he
could, he went out to greet his father. At sight of the latter the
boy forgot the coming interview, and threw himself into his parent’s
arms. Then, in the joy of his father’s return, Art grabbed the bags
and led the way gayly into the house. His father was as smiling and
good-natured as usual.
As the excitement of the home-coming lessened into questions and
answers, the little family returned to the porch. There was not a word
of rebuke for the boy. Mr. Trevor began at once a narration of his
troubles and experiences and the neighbors began to drop in.
Not one of them referred to the catastrophe of the afternoon――although
many of the visitors were parents of the humiliated young aviators.
When Mrs. Trevor at last suggested refreshments (which she had prepared
for the occasion) and Art was called upon to assist in the serving, the
boy never performed a home service more willingly. He began to hope he
might not be wholly put out of his parents’ regard.
About eleven o’clock the last visitor withdrew and Mrs. Trevor went
into the house. A premonition came over the boy and he started after
his mother.
“Arthur,” called Mr. Trevor. “I want to see you.”
The choke came back into Art’s throat. He retraced his steps as bravely
as he could.
“Arthur, your mother has told me all that took place this afternoon.
Have you anything to say about it?”
“I suppose not, sir. Except, I’m sorry.”
“Was your trip over the river prearranged? That is, did you go
expecting a fight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you were one of the leaders?”
“Yes, sir. I reckon I was _the_ leader.”
“What was your object?”
“We were goin’ to hold an aeroplane meet an’ the Goosetowners dared us.”
“Sit down,” said Mr. Trevor. As Art did so his father faced him.
“Arthur,” he went on, “I suppose you are expecting some punishment?”
“I suppose so; I reckon I deserve it.”
“I’m not going to punish you. However, you have hurt your mother and
me.”
Art’s eyes opened wide. “We have been proud of you. We have been
counting on you to grow into a high-grade young man. This weakness
disappoints us more than you know.”
“I didn’t think I was weak,” replied Art. “I fought fair an’ square.
An’ they started the trouble.”
“That’s always the town tough’s excuse,” replied Mr. Trevor, raising
his hand in protest. “It’s what the saloon brawler tells you. He’s
always in the right of it.”
“Well,” said Art, trying to win a little sympathy, “I’m sorry I’m such
a disappointment.”
“I’m glad you’re sorry,” responded his father. “It would be a heavy
blow to our hopes for your future if we thought you were going to grow
up to be a tough.”
“You always told me to be brave,” urged Art, rather hopelessly.
“Exactly,” said his father. “I’d be proud to see you defend your mother
from the attack of a thief. I’d be glad to see you risk your life to
save that of another. But would it be brave to goad a lunatic into a
frenzy that you might punish him for assaulting you?”
“These kids ain’t lunatics,” answered Art.
“Of course not,” exclaimed his father. “But they are deficient
intellectually. They have no precise standards of right and wrong.
These poor boys have never had the advantage of the training you have
had. Instead of trying to help them you have only dropped to their
level. Like stray dogs, kicked about by misfortune, they snarl at every
passer-by. Is it kindness to throw yourself in their path to be snarled
at?”
It was an elaborate figure of speech and Art did not, perhaps, get its
full meaning. But he thought it was safe to answer “No, sir,” which he
did very humbly. Then breaking down completely he added: “You’d better
lick me, father. I got ever’body in trouble. Connie tried to stop me
but I got him in. An’ he’s been punished. You’d better lick me.” Even
the sound of his son blowing his nose vigorously did not seem to move
Mr. Trevor.
“Why should I punish you?” resumed Mr. Trevor thoughtfully. “You are
old enough to know right from wrong.”
“Do you think I’m really bad?” asked Art huskily. “I didn’t know I was
so much worse than the other kids.”
“That’s it, Arthur,” answered his father. “As I get older I begin to
wonder why so many boys seem to take more pleasure in being vicious
than in being frank and generous. But,” and he almost sighed, “it seems
boys have always been that way.” Then frankly he added: “I was. I was
bad. I wasted my time. Nothing you have done to-day was beyond me when
I was your age. Later I had to pay for it and dearly. But I knew no
better. There was no one to advise me. I neglected school. I formed
habits that I was years in breaking. Your mother and I have told you,
often told you, that a helping hand to those below you and respect for
those above you are the two things worth while. Can’t you realize that
we know?”
By this time Art was almost in a state of collapse.
“I’m goin’ to try,” he managed to sob.
“Boys are boys,” his father resumed after a time. “Perhaps you are no
better and no worse than your chums. Perhaps it is our fault――their
fathers and mothers. I feel that I have been wrong. We have all allowed
you boys to drift. You’ve got to do something, you’ve got to be busy in
a good direction, or you’ll go in a bad direction. I’m going to do more
for you if I can.”
“What do you mean?” asked the surprised Art.
“To-morrow is Sunday,” continued his father. “I want you to invite all
your chums to our house for tea. I’d like to talk to them.”
“What about?” broke in Art somewhat alarmed. “I guess they’ve all been
talked to already.”
“Ask them to tea at five o’clock,” repeated his father. “I’m not going
to scold them or preach to them.”
“All of them?” asked Art.
“All the members of your club.”
“I don’t think I can ask one of ’em.” The boy hesitated. “Sammy
Addington’s been expelled.”
“What for?”
“We didn’t think he fought fair.”
“What did he do?”
“He had a rock and he slugged a boy.”
“Ask him first. And be sure he comes. This is not a club meeting,” said
Mr. Trevor.
“Father,” exclaimed the boy leaning forward as a new wave of fear swept
over him, “you ain’t goin’ to punish me before all the boys, are you?”
“My son,” replied Mr. Trevor placing his hand on one of Art’s, “I think
you have had all the punishment you’ll need. I hardly know whether it
would be right to say I’m going to forget what you’ve done, but I’m
going to forgive you.”
As Art’s head fell upon his father’s knees his mother stepped from
the dark hallway and took the distressed lad in her arms. At the same
moment his father, a little disturbed himself, handed the boy a small
mahogany box.
“Now that we understand ourselves, Arthur,” he announced, “here is a
little present for our ‘new’ boy. It is an English watch. I hope it
will always recall this day and be a sign of our new confidence in our
only boy.”