“No!” said Roddy. “Let ME! My goodness! Ain't I got any right to blow my own horn?”
They pressed upon Penrod, who frantically fended and frantically blew. At last he remembered to compress his lips, and force the air through the compression.
A magnificent snort from the horn was his reward. He removed his lips from the mouthpiece, and capered in pride.
“Hah!” he cried. “Hear that? I guess I can't play this good ole horn! Oh, no!”
During his capers, Sam captured the horn. But Sam had not made the best of his opportunities as an observer of bands; he thrust the mouthpiece deep into his mouth, and blew until his expression became one of agony.
“No, no!” Penrod exclaimed. “You haven't got the secret of blowin' a horn, Sam. What's the use your keepin' hold of it, when you don't know any more about it 'n that? It ain't makin' a sound! You lemme have that good ole horn back, Sam. Haven't you got sense enough to see I know how to PLAY?”
Laying hands upon it, he jerked it away from Sam, who was a little piqued over the failure of his own efforts, especially as Penrod now produced a sonarous blat—quite a long one. Sam became cross.
“My goodness!” Roddy Bitts said peevishly. “Ain't I ever goin' to get a turn at my own horn? Here you've had two turns, Penrod, and even Sam Williams—”
Sam's petulance at once directed itself toward Roddy partly because of the latter's tactless use of the word “even,” and the two engaged in controversy, while Penrod was left free to continue the experiments which so enraptured him.
“Your own horn!” Sam sneered. “I bet it isn't yours! Anyway, you can't prove it's yours, and that gives me a right to call you any—”