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.
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