“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.