CHAPTER XXI. YEARNINGS
The next day a new ambition entered into Penrod Schofield; it washeralded by a flourish of trumpets and set up a great noise within hisbeing.
On his way home from Sunday-school he had paused at a corner to listento a brass band, which was returning from a funeral, playing a medley ofairs from "The Merry Widow," and as the musicians came down the street,walking so gracefully, the sun picked out the gold braid upon theiruniforms and splashed fire from their polished instruments. Penrodmarked the shapes of the great bass horns, the suave sculpture of theirbrazen coils, and the grand, sensational flare of their mouths. And hesaw plainly that these noble things, to be mastered, needed no more thansome breath blown into them during the fingering of a few simple keys.Then obediently they gave forth those vast but dulcet sounds whichstirred his spirit as no other sounds could stir it quite.
The leader of the band, walking ahead, was a pleasing figure, nothingmore. Penrod supposed him to be a mere decoration, and had neversympathized with Sam Williams' deep feeling about drum-majors. Thecornets, the trombones, the smaller horns were rather interesting, ofcourse; and the drums had charm, especially the bass drum, which mustbe partially supported by a youth in front; but, immeasurably above allthese, 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 sooverwhelming, with its mouth as wide as a tub; that there was somethingalmost threatening about it.
The little, elderly band-musician walked manfully as he blew his greathorn; and in that pompous engine of sound, the boy beheld a spectacleof huge forces under human control. To Penrod, the horn meant power, andthe musician meant mastery over power, though, of course, Penrod did notknow that this was how he really felt about the matter.
Grandiloquent sketches were passing and interchanging before his mind'seye--Penrod, in noble raiment, marching down the staring street,his shoulders swaying professionally, the roar of the horn he boresubmerging all other sounds; Penrod on horseback, blowing the enormoushorn and leading wild hordes to battle, while Marjorie Jones looked onfrom the sidewalk; Penrod astounding his mother and father and sisterby suddenly serenading them in the library. "Why, Penrod, where DID youlearn to play like this?"
These were vague and shimmering glories of vision rather than definiteplans for his life work, yet he did with all his will determine to ownand play upon some roaring instrument of brass. And, after all, thiswas no new desire of his; it was only an old one inflamed to take a newform. Nor was music the root of it, for the identical desire is oftenuproarious among them that hate music. What stirred in Penrod was newneither in him nor in the world, but old--old as old Adam, old as thechildishness of man. All children have it, of course: they are allanxious to Make a Noise in the World.
While the band approached, Penrod marked the time with his feet; then hefell into step and accompanied the musicians down the street, keeping asnear as possible to the little man with the big horn. There were four orfive other boys, strangers, also marching with the band, but these werelight spirits, their flushed faces and prancing legs proving that theywere merely in a state of emotional reaction to music. Penrod, on thecontrary, was grave. He kept his eyes upon the big horn, and, now andthen, he gave an imitation of it. His fingers moved upon invisible keys,his cheeks puffed out, and, from far down in his throat, he producedstrange sounds: "Taw, p'taw-p'taw! Taw, p'taw-p'taw! PAW!"
The other boys turned back when the musicians ceased to play, but Penrodmarched on, still keeping close to what so inspired him. He stayed withthe band till the last member of it disappeared up a staircase in anoffice-building, down at the business end of the street; and even afterthat he lingered a while, looking at the staircase.
Finally, however, he set his face toward home, whither he marched in aprocession, the visible part of which consisted of himself alone. Allthe way the rhythmic movements of his head kept time with his marchingfeet and, also, with a slight rise and fall of his fingers at about themedian line of his abdomen. And pedestrians who encountered him in thispreoccupation were not surprised to hear, as he passed, a few explosivelittle vocalizations: "Taw, p'taw-p'taw! TAW! Taw-aw-HAW!"
These were the outward symptoms of no fleeting impulse, but of steadfastdesire; therefore they were persistent. The likeness of the great basshorn remained upon the retina of his mind's eye, losing nothing of itsbrazen enormity with the passing of hours, nor abating, in his mind'sear, one whit of its fascinating blatancy. Penrod might have forgottenalmost anything else more readily; for such a horn has this doublecompulsion: people cannot possibly keep themselves from looking at itspossessor--and they certainly have GOT to listen to him!
Penrod was preoccupied at dinner and during the evening, now and thencausing his father some irritation by croaking, "Taw, p'taw-p'taw!"while the latter was talking. And when bedtime came for the son of thehouse, he mounted the stairs in a rhythmic manner, and p'tawed himselfthrough the upper hall as far as his own chamber.
Even after he had gone to bed, there came a revival of thesemanifestations. His mother had put out his light for him and hadreturned to the library downstairs; three-quarters of an hour hadelapsed since then, and Margaret was in her room, next to his, when acontinuous low croaking (which she was just able to hear) suddenly brokeout 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. Ifyou don't quit and go to sleep, I'll call papa up, and you'll SEE!"
The noise ceased, or, rather, it tapered down to a desultory faintcroaking which finally died out; but there can be little doubt thatPenrod's last waking thoughts were of instrumental music. And inthe morning, when he woke to face the gloomy day's scholastic tasks,something unusual and eager fawned in his face with the return ofmemory. "Taw-p'taw!" he began. "PAW!"
All day, in school and out, his mind was busy with computations--notsuch as are prescribed by mathematical pedants, but estimates of howmuch old rags and old iron would sell for enough money to buy a horn.Happily, the next day, at lunch, he was able to dismiss this problemfrom his mind: he learned that his Uncle Joe would be passing throughtown, on his way from Nevada, the following afternoon, and all theSchofield family were to go to the station to see him. Penrod would beexcused from school.
At this news his cheeks became pink, and for a moment he was breathless.Uncle Joe and Penrod did not meet often, but when they did, Uncle Joeinvariably gave Penrod money. Moreover, he always managed to do itprivately so that later there was no bothersome supervision. Last timehe had given Penrod a silver dollar.
At thirty-five minutes after two, Wednesday afternoon, Uncle Joe'strain came into the station, and Uncle Joe got out and shouted among hisrelatives. At eighteen minutes before three he was waving to them fromthe platform of the last car, having just slipped a two-dollar bill intoPenrod's breast-pocket. And, at seven minutes after three, Penrod openedthe door of the largest "music store" in town.
A tall, exquisite, fair man, evidently a musical earl, stood beforehim, leaning whimsically upon a piano of the highest polish. The sightabashed Penrod not a bit--his remarkable financial condition even madehim rather peremptory.
"See here," he said brusquely: "I want to look at that big horn in thewindow."
"Very well," said the earl; "look at it." And leaned more luxuriouslyupon the polished piano.
"I meant--" Penrod began, but paused, something daunted, while anunnamed fear brought greater mildness into his voice, as he continued,"I meant--I--How much IS that big horn?"
"How much?" the earl repeated.
"I mean," said Penrod, "how much is it worth?"
"I don't know," the earl returned. "Its price is eighty-five dollars."
"Eighty-fi--" Penrod began mechanically, but was forced to pause andswallow a little air that obstructed his throat, as the differencebetween eighty-five and two became more and more st
artling. Hehad entered the store, rich; in the last ten seconds he had becomepoverty-stricken. Eighty-five dollars was the same as eighty-fivemillions.
"Shall I put it aside for you," asked the salesman-earl, "while you lookaround the other stores to see if there's anything you like better?"
"I guess--I guess not," said Penrod, whose face had grown red. Heswallowed again, scraped the floor with the side of his right shoe,scratched the back of his neck, and then, trying to make his mannercasual and easy, "Well I can't stand around here all day," he said. "Igot to be gettin' on up the street."
"Business, I suppose?"
Penrod, turning to the door, suspected jocularity, but he found himselfwithout recourse; he was nonplussed.
"Sure you won't let me have that horn tied up in nice wrapping-paper incase you decide to take it?"
Penrod was almost positive that the spirit of this question wassatirical; but he was unable to reply, except by a feeble shake of thehead--though ten minutes later, as he plodded forlornly his homewardway, he looked over his shoulder and sent backward a few words of moroserepartee:
"Oh, I am, am I?" he muttered, evidently concluding a conversationwhich he had continued mentally with the salesman. "Well, you're doubleanything you call me, so that makes you a smart Aleck twice! Ole doublesmart Aleck!"
After that, he walked with the least bit more briskness, but not much.No wonder he felt discouraged: there are times when eighty-five dollarscan be a blow to anybody! Penrod was so stunned that he actuallyforgot what was in his pocket. He passed two drug stores, and they hadabsolutely no meaning to him. He walked all the way without spending acent.
At home he spent a moment in the kitchen pantry while the cook wasin the cellar; then he went out to the stable and began some reallypathetic experiments. His materials were the small tin funnel which hehad obtained in the pantry, and a short section of old garden hose. Heinserted the funnel into one end of the garden hose, and made it fast bywrappings of cord. Then he arranged the hose in a double, circular coil,tied it so that it would remain coiled, and blew into the other end.
He blew and blew and blew; he set his lips tight together, as he hadobserved the little musician with the big horn set his, and blewand sputtered, and sputtered and blew, but nothing of the slightestimportance happened in the orifice of the funnel. Still he blew. Hebegan to be dizzy; his eyes watered; his expression became as horribleas a strangled person's. He but blew the more. He stamped his feet andblew. He staggered to the wheelbarrow, sat, and blew--and yet the funneluttered nothing; it seemed merely to breathe hard.
It would not sound like a horn, and, when Penrod finally gave up, he hadto admit piteously that it did not look like a horn. No boy over ninecould have pretended that it was a horn.
He tossed the thing upon the floor, and leaned back in the wheelbarrow,inert.
"Yay, Penrod!"
Sam Williams appeared in the doorway, and, behind Sam, Master RoderickMagsworth Bitts, Junior.
"Yay, there!"
Penrod made no response.
The two came in, and Sam picked up the poor contrivance Penrod hadtossed upon the floor.
"What's this ole dingus?" Sam asked.
"Nothin'."
"Well, what's it for?"
"Nothin'," said Penrod. "It's a kind of a horn."
"What kind?"
"For music," said Penrod simply.
Master Bitts laughed loud and long; he was derisive. "Music!" he yipped."I thought you meant a cow's horn! He says it's a music-horn, Sam? Whatyou think o' that?"
Sam blew into the thing industriously.
"It won't work," he announced.
"Course it won't!" Roddy Bitts shouted. "You can't make it go withoutyou got a REAL horn. I'm goin' to get me a real horn some day beforelong, and then you'll see me goin' up and down here playin' it likesixty! I'll--"
"'Some day before long!'" Sam mocked. "Yes, we will! Why'n't you get itto-day, if you're goin' to?"
"I would," said Roddy. "I'd go get the money from my father right now,only he wouldn't give it to me."
Sam whooped, and Penrod, in spite of his great depression, uttered a fewjibing sounds.
"I'd get MY father to buy me a fire-engine and team o' HORSES," Sambellowed, "only he wouldn't!"
"Listen, can't you?" cried Roddy. "I mean he would most any time,but not this month. I can't have any money for a month beginning lastSaturday, because I got paint on one of our dogs, and he came in thehouse with it on him, and got some on pretty near everything. If ithadn't 'a' been for that--"
"Oh, yes!" said Sam. "If it hadn't 'a' been for that! It's alwaysSUMPTHING!"
"It is not!"
"Well, then, why'n't you go GET a real horn?"
Roddy's face had flushed with irritation.
"Well, didn't I just TELL you--" he began, but paused, while the renewalof some interesting recollection became visible in his expression. "Why,I COULD, if I wanted to," he said more calmly. "It wouldn't be a newone, maybe. I guess it would be kind of an old one, but--"
"Oh, a toy horn!" said Sam. "I expect one you had when you were threeyears old, and your mother stuck it up in the attic to keep till you'redead, or sumpthing!"
"It's not either any toy horn," Roddy insisted. "It's a reg'lar horn fora band, and I could have it as easy as anything."
The tone of this declaration was so sincere that it roused the lethargicPenrod.
"Roddy, is that true?" he sat up to inquire piercingly.
"Of course it is!" Master Bitts returned. "What you take me for? I couldgo get that horn this minute if I wanted to."
"A real one--honest?"
"Well, didn't I say it was a real one?"
"Like in the BAND?"
"I said so, didn't I?"
"I guess you mean one of those little ones," said Penrod.
"No, sir!" Roddy insisted stoutly; "it's a big one! It winds around in abig circle that would go all the way around a pretty fat man."
"What store is it in?"
"It's not in any store," said Roddy. "It's at my Uncle Ethelbert's. He'sgot this horn and three or four pianos and a couple o' harps and--"
"Does he keep a music store?"
"No. These harps and pianos and all such are old ones--awful old."
"Oh," said Sam, "he runs a second-hand store!"
"He does not!" Master Bitts returned angrily. "He doesn't do anything.He's just got 'em. He's got forty-one guitars."
"Yay!" Sam whooped, and jumped up and down. "Listen to Roddy Bittsmakin' up lies!"
"You look out, Sam Williams!" said Roddy threateningly. "You look outhow you call me names!"
"What name'd I call you?"
"You just the same as said I told lies. That's just as good as callin'me a liar, isn't it?"
"No," said Sam; "but I got a right to, if I want to. Haven't I, Penrod?"
"How?" Roddy demanded hotly. "How you got a right to?"
"Because you can't prove what you said."
"Well," said Roddy, "you'd be just as much of one if you can't provewhat I said WASN'T true."
"No, sir! You either got to prove it or be a liar. Isn't that so,Penrod.
"Yes, sir," Penrod ruled, with a little importance, "that's the way itis, Roddy."
"Well, then," said Roddy, "come on over to my Uncle Ethelbert's, andI'll show you!"
"No," said Sam. "I wouldn't walk over there just to find out sumpthingI already know isn't so. Outside of a music store there isn't anybody inthe world got forty-one guitars! I've heard lots o' people TALK, but Inever heard such a big l--"
"You shut up!" shouted Roddy. "You ole--"
Penrod interposed.
"Why'n't you show us the horn, Roddy?" he asked. "You said you could getit. You show us the horn and we'll believe you. If you show us the horn,Sam'll haf to take what he said back; won't you, Sam?"
"Yes," said Sam, and added. "He hasn't got any. He went and told a--"
Roddy's eyes were bright with rage; he breathed noisily.
"I haven't?" he cried. "You just wait here, and I'll show you!"
And he ran furiously from the stable.
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