The likeness of
the great bass horn remained upon the retina of his mind's eye,
losing nothing of its brazen enormity with the passing of hours,
nor abating, in his mind's ear, one whit of its fascinating
blatancy. Penrod might have forgotten almost anything else more
readily; for such a horn has this double compulsion: people
cannot possibly keep themselves from looking at its
possessor--and they certainly have GOT to listen to him!
Penrod was preoccupied at dinner and during the evening, now and
then causing his father some irritation by croaking, "Taw,
p'taw-p'taw!" while the latter was talking. And when bedtime came
for the son of the house, he mounted the stairs in a rhythmic
manner, and p'tawed himself through the upper hall as far as his
own chamber.
Even after he had gone to bed, there came a revival of these
manifestations. His mother had put out his light for him and had
returned to the library downstairs; three-quarters of an hour had
elapsed since then, and Margaret was in her room, next to his,
when a continuous low croaking (which she was just able to hear)
suddenly broke out into loud, triumphal blattings:
"TAW, p'taw-p'taw-aw-HAW! P'taw-WAW-aw! Aw-PAW!"
"Penrod," Margaret called, "stop that! I'm trying to write
letters.
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