Among them was Jonas Hardcastle, the proprietor of the place.
"What's up? What's the trouble?" he demanded, in dismay, as he viewed
the scene of the confusion.
"It's those brats of aviators, or whatever they call themselves,"
bellowed Cassell, who was purple with fury; "they attacked Dan and
me and assaulted us brutally."
The landlord looked doubtingly at the man. Then he turned to Roy.
"What are the facts?" he asked.
Roy told him unhesitatingly the whole truth. When he had concluded Jonas
Hardcastle spoke.
"You've been hanging around here too long, Jim Cassell," he said, in a
voice that quivered with indignation; "now make yourself scarce, both
you and your son. Don't annoy my guests any more."
Cassell, nursing a spot on his jaw which was rapidly growing a beautiful
plum color, lurched off without a word. His son followed. It was not
until he reached the street that he spoke. Then, in a voice that
trembled from suppressed fury, he hissed out:
"All right for you kids. You think you've played a smart trick on Dan
and me; but I'll fix you! Just watch!"
Without uttering another syllable he slouched off into the gathering
darkness, followed by his son, who bestowed a parting scowl on Roy
and Jimsy.
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