The leader of the band, walking ahead, was a pleasing figure,
nothing more. Penrod supposed him to be a mere decoration, and
had never sympathized with Sam Williams' deep feeling about
drum-majors. The cornets, the trombones, the smaller horns were
rather interesting, of course; and the drums had charm,
especially the bass drum, which must be partially supported by a
youth in front; but, immeasurably above all these, what
fascinated Penrod was the little man with the monster horn. There
Penrod's widening eyes remained transfixed--upon the horn, so
dazzling, with its broad spaces of brassy highlights, and so
overwhelming, with its mouth as wide as a tub; that there was
something almost threatening about it.
The little, elderly band-musician walked manfully as he blew his
great horn; and in that pompous engine of sound, the boy beheld a
spectacle of huge forces under human control. To Penrod, the horn
meant power, and the musician meant mastery over power, though,
of course, Penrod did not know that this was how he really felt
about the matter.
Grandiloquent sketches were passing and interchanging before his
mind's eye--Penrod, in noble raiment, marching down the staring
street, his shoulders swaying professionally, the roar of the
horn he bore submerging all other sounds; Penrod on horseback,
blowing the enormous horn and leading wild hordes to battle,
while Marjorie Jones looked on from the sidewalk; Penrod
astounding his mother and father and sister by suddenly
serenading them in the library.
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