“You’d better,” he announced. “You’re goin’ to be expelled from the club.”
“Who cares?” exclaimed Sammy. “My ma told me I got to quit anyway, ’cause I’m goin’ to go away an’ sail my new boat.” To save further embarrassment, Sammy added: “I got to go now. Peg Leg’s goin’ to lend me one of his bass lines.”
The consensus of opinion concerning the sailboat was that it was a hastily improvised figment of the imagination. The boast, however, was enough to insure Sammy’s expulsion, which was done instantly and somewhat informally. Collecting what remained of the beloved toys, the members of the club, dejected, dispirited and genuinely alarmed over the possible result of Old Chris’s promised action, took immediate council.
There was a suggestion that, it being only four o’clock, there was yet time for a swim. But this idea seemed to meet with no favor. On the other hand it was just possible that Marshal Walter might be on the look-out near the railroad bridge. Just then one of the boys, glancing toward the dam, saw three ominous looking Goosetowners who were evidently returning to their stamping grounds.
“Who’s afraid of Old Chris,” exclaimed Wart Ware promptly. “I got some errands to do at home.”
The defeated lads instantly set out at a good pace toward the bridge. They were not surprised when they failed to find Sammy Addington in Peg Leg Warner’s company, nor little more so when Peg told them that his big bass didn’t weigh over a pound and a half. At the town end of the bridge—happily Marshal Walter was not in sight—the subdued club members separated and as a precautionary measure made their way home singly.
Art Trevor saw fit to approach his own home by way of the alley. In the garage he did the best he could to make himself presentable and then he fell to his aeroplane plans. At five thirty o’clock, with assumed gayety, he rushed around to the front porch. As he expected, his mother was there.
“Arthur,” she said at once, “Marshal Walter has been here and told me what happened this afternoon. Are you hurt?”