Left alone, Penrod's practice became less ardent; he needed the stimulus of an auditor. With the horn upon his lap he began to rub the greenish brass surface with a rag. He meant to make this good ole two-dollar horn of his LOOK like sumpthing!
Presently, moved by a better idea, he left the horn in the stable and went into the house, soon afterward appearing before his mother in the library.
"Mamma," he said, complainingly, "Della won't--"
But Mrs. Schofield checked him.
"Sh, Penrod; your father's reading the paper."
Penrod glanced at Mr. Schofield, who sat near the window, reading by the last light of the early sunset.
"Well, I know it," said Penrod, lowering his voice. "But I wish you'd tell Della to let me have the silver polish. She says she won't, and I want to--"
"Be quiet, Penrod, you can't have the silver polish."
"But, mamma--"
"Not another word. Can't you see you're interrupting your father.
Go on, papa."
Mr. Schofield read aloud several despatches from abroad, and after each one of them Penrod began in a low but pleading tone:
"Mamma, I want--"
"SH, Penrod!"
Mr. Schofield continued to read, and Penrod remained in the room, for he was determined to have the silver polish.
"Here's something curious," said Mr. Schofield, as his eye fell upon a paragraph among the "locals."
"What?"