"I've enough to do, that's certain; and I suppose now you don't mean to help me with the accounts one bit?"
Bob only replies to this with a kind of grunt, and turns into the little front parlour, where the family generally sit now that the weather has grown so much hotter.
Betty follows, and sits down wearily to the account-books. Bob is evidently in an unreasonable frame of mind. Where did he get that violin? Has he promised to pay for it? If so, how will he obtain the money?
Meantime, Bob unrolls a sheet of music, marked, "Exercises for the Violin," props it upright on the table with the help of a few books, draws the violin and bow from the case, and places the instrument in position under his chin with what he considers quite a professional air. Then he takes up the bow and draws it lightly across the strings.
A horrible squeak is the result. Bob looks rather blank; Betty shudders. She has a keen ear for music, and such a discord gives her real pain.
"Out of tune," mutters Bob, and he screws up one of the little pegs to tighten the string; then he tries again. Another squeak, louder and more utterly jarring than before.
He repeats this process several times. Betty is tired and worried; she endures in silence for awhile, but suddenly her patience gives way altogether.
"Bob, what are you trying to do?" she cries sharply.
"I am tuning the violin; can't you hear?"
"Tuning! Why, you make a more abominable noise every time you touch it. What could have induced you to bring that wretched thing into the house?"