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.
"Hah!" he cried. "Hear that? I guess _I_ can't play this good ole
horn! Oh, no!"
During his capers, Sam captured the horn. But Sam had not made
the best of his opportunities as an observer of bands; he thrust
the mouthpiece deep into his mouth, and blew until his expression
became one of agony.
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