Monty rolled over and drew the covers over his head and tried to think about football and what his chance of playing against Mount Morris was and whether he could learn to play as well as Caner if he tried very hard every day. But those frightful wails from the piccolo would not be forgotten. Once someone pounded at the door and said uncomplimentary things, but Alvin kept on blowing. Finally Monty raised himself and looked across at the alarm clock. It was ten minutes of ten. He wondered if Alvin could last ten minutes longer. Then he wondered if he could! He had had a pretty strenuous afternoon and was dog-tired and wanted to sleep, but sleep with that noise in his ears was impossible. He stood it five minutes longer, getting more and more nervous, and then swung himself out of bed.
“It grieves me, Standart,” he said seriously, “but I’ve stood all I can of it. Chuck it now.”
“When I get good and ready,” was the defiant reply. But Alvin watched his roommate from the corner of his eye, nevertheless, and at Monty’s first step in his direction whipped the piccolo out of sight.
“If you play another sob on the fool thing,” said Monty, “I’ll chuck it out the window or break it across my knee. I’m tired and I want to sleep.”
Alvin made no promise. He only stared insolently. Monty went back to bed.
“Tweet, tweet, twe-e-et! Tweet, Tu-u-u-weet!”
“Snakes!” Monty reached the floor standing, with the bedclothes wreathed around him. “I told you, Standart. Now I’ll show you!”
“Keep away from me!” snarled the other.
But Monty rushed and, in spite of Alvin’s blows, held him helpless. “You had fair warning,” he muttered. “Let go of it! I’ll break it if you don’t!”