“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.”