Before Tom could reply, Mac stopped, and, with a sneer, exclaimed:
“Ef you uns go campin’, I reckon ye’ll walk. I own the boat—don’t furgit that. Boat an’ ingine, too.”
The countenances of both Tom and Hal fell in despair. Hal started toward the retreating Mac. Mrs. Allen stopped him instantly.
“Hal,” she said firmly, “if you evah have anything moah to do with that wafh trash, please don’t come neah ouah home again. You understand, Tom?” she added. Both boys nodded their heads. Tom tried to smooth matters over.
“All right, mothah. If theah was wrong done, it was Mac—not Bob.” Then he tried to smile. “I reckon that’ll be about all o’ the Anclote Club.”
Expressions of keen disappointment marked the faces of all the boys. Left to themselves, they would, undoubtedly, have fought the quarrel to a finish, and then shaken hands all around rather than give up their beloved organization. Even Mac felt this. The young rowdy was lingering at the gate. He took a step back into the yard.
“Mrs. Allen,” began Mac, half apologetically, “I shorely didn’t know he was the boy ’at drug me from the bay. I’m sorry—”
“Mac,” Mrs. Allen answered, without relenting, “it’ll take moah than words to show me you ah fit to associate with gentlemen. I shall instruct mah son to have no futhah intercourse with you.”