“_I_ NEVER!” shouted Roddy. “It was my horn, too, and I didn't tell any such a thing!” He paused; then, reverting to his former manner, said stubbornly, “I got to have that horn back. I GOT to!” “Why'n't you tell us what FOR, then?” Sam insisted. Roddy's glance at this persecutor was one of anguish. “I know my own biz'nuss!” he muttered. And while Sam jeered, Roddy turned to Penrod desperately. “You gimme that horn back! I got to have it.” But Penrod followed Sam's lead. “Well, why can't you tell us what FOR?” he asked. Perhaps if Sam had not been there, Roddy could have unbosomed himself. He had no doubt of his own virtue in this affair, and he was conscious that he had acted in good faith throughout--though, perhaps, a little impulsively. But he was in a predicament, and he knew that if he became more explicit, Sam could establish with undeniable logic those rights about which he had been so odious the day before. Such triumph for Sam was not within Roddy's power to contemplate; he felt that he would rather die, or sumpthing. “I got to have that horn!” he reiterated woodenly. Penrod had no intention to humour this preposterous boy, and it was only out of curiosity that he asked, “Well, if you want the horn back, where's the two dollars?” “I spent it. I bought an air-gun for a dollar and sixty-five cents, and three sodies and some candy with the rest. I'll owe you the two dollars, Penrod. I'm willing to do that much.” “Well, why don't you give him the air-gun,” asked the satirical Sam, “and owe him the rest?” “I can't. Papa took the air-gun away from me because he didn't like sumpthing I did with it. I got to owe you the whole two dollars, Penrod.” “Look here, Roddy,” said Penrod. “Don't you s'pose I'd rather keep this horn and blow on it than have you owe me two dollars?” There was something about this simple question which convinced Roddy that his cause was lost. His hopes had been but faint from the beginning of the interview. “Well--” said Roddy. For a time he scuffed the floor with his shoe. “Daw-gone it!” he said, at last; and he departed morosely. 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!