“No,” said Sam. “I wouldn't walk over there just to find out sumpthing I already know isn't so. Outside of a music store there isn't anybody in the world got forty-one guitars! I've heard lots o' people TALK, but I never heard such a big l--” “You shut up!” shouted Roddy. “You ole--” Penrod interposed. “Why'n't you show us the horn, Roddy?” he asked. “You said you could get it. You show us the horn and we'll believe you. If you show us the horn, Sam'll haf to take what he said back; won't you, Sam?” “Yes,” said Sam, and added. “He hasn't got any. He went and told a--” Roddy's eyes were bright with rage; he breathed noisily. “I haven't?” he cried. “You just wait here, and I'll show you!” And he ran furiously from the stable. CHAPTER XXII. THE HORN OF FAME “Bet he won't come back!” said Sam. “Well, he might.” “Well, if he does and he hasn't got any horn, I got a right to call him anything I want to, and he's got to stand it. And if he doesn't come back,” Sam continued, as by the code, “then I got a right to call him whatever I like next time I ketch him out.” “I expect he'll have SOME kind of ole horn, maybe,” said Penrod. “No,” the skeptical Sam insisted, “he won't.” But Roddy did. Twenty minutes elapsed, and both the waiting boys had decided that they were legally entitled to call him whatever they thought fitting, when he burst in, puffing; and in his hands he bore a horn. It was a “real” one, and of a kind that neither Penrod nor Sam had ever seen before, though they failed to realize this, because its shape was instantly familiar to them. No horn could have been simpler: it consisted merely of one circular coil of brass with a mouthpiece at one end for the musician, and a wide-flaring mouth of its own, for the noise, at the other. But it was obviously a second-hand horn; dents slightly marred it, here and there, and its surface was dull, rather greenish. There were no keys; and a badly faded green cord and tassel hung from the coil. Even so shabby a horn as this electrified Penrod. It was not a stupendous horn, but it was a horn, and when a boy has been sighing for the moon, a piece of green cheese will satisfy him, for he can play that it is the moon. “Gimme that HORN!” Penrod shouted, as he dashed for it. “YAY!” Sam cried, and sought to wrest it from him. Roddy joined the scuffle, trying to retain the horn; but Penrod managed to secure it. With one free hand he fended the others off while he blew into the mouthpiece. “Let me have it,” Sam urged. “You can't do anything with it. Lemme take it, Penrod.” “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.