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?”