Penrod had already begun to “practice” again, and Mr. Williams, after vain appeals to be permitted to practice in turn, sank into the wheelbarrow in a state of boredom, not remarkable under the circumstances. Then Penrod contrived—it may have been accidental—to produce at one blast two tones which varied in pitch.
His pride and excitement were extreme though not contagious. “Listen, Sam!” he shouted. “How's THAT for high?”
The bored Sam made no response other than to rise languidly to his feet, stretch, and start for home.
Left alone, Penrod's practice became less ardent; he needed the stimulus of an auditor. With the horn upon his lap he began to rub the greenish brass surface with a rag. He meant to make this good ole two-dollar horn of his LOOK like sumpthing!
Presently, moved by a better idea, he left the horn in the stable and went into the house, soon afterward appearing before his mother in the library.
“Mamma,” he said, complainingly, “Della won't—”
But Mrs. Schofield checked him.
“Sh, Penrod; your father's reading the paper.”
Penrod glanced at Mr. Schofield, who sat near the window, reading by the last light of the early sunset.
“Well, I know it,” said Penrod, lowering his voice. “But I wish you'd tell Della to let me have the silver polish. She says she won't, and I want to—”