"Valuable relic missing," Mr. Schofield read. "It was reported at police headquarters to-day that a 'valuable object had been stolen from the collection of antique musical instruments owned by E. Magsworth Bitts, 724 Central Avenue. The police insist that it must have been an inside job, but Mr. Magsworth Bitts inclines to think it was the work of a negro, as only one article was removed and nothing else found to be disturbed. The object stolen was an ancient hunting-horn dating from the eighteenth century and claimed to have belonged to Louis XV, King of France. It was valued at about twelve hundred and fifty dollars."
Mrs. Schofield opened her mouth wide. "Why, that IS curious!" she exclaimed.
She jumped up. "Penrod!"
But Penrod was no longer in the room.
"What's the matter?" Mr. Schofield inquired.
"Penrod!" said Mrs. Schofield breathlessly. "HE bought an old horn--like one in old hunting-pictures--yesterday! He bought it with some money Uncle Joe gave him! He bought it from Roddy Bitts!"
"Where'd he go?"
Together they rushed to the back porch.
Penrod had removed the lid of the cistern; he was kneeling beside it, and the fact that the diameter of the opening into the cistern was one inch. less than the diameter of the coil of Louis the Fifteenth's hunting-horn was all that had just saved Louis the Fifteenth's hunting-horn from joining the drowned trousers of Herman.
Such was Penrod's instinct, and thus loyally he had followed it.
. . . He was dragged into the library, expecting anything whatever. The dreadful phrases of the newspaper item rang through his head like the gongs of delirium: "Police headquarters!" "Work of a negro!" "King of France!" "Valued at about twelve hundred and fifty dollars!"
Eighty-five dollars had dismayed him; twelve hundred and fifty was unthinkable. Nightmares were coming to life before his eyes.
But a light broke slowly; it came first to Mr. and Mrs.
Schofield, and it was they who illuminated Penrod. Slowly, slowly, as they spoke more and more pleasantly to him, it began to dawn upon him that this trouble was all Roddy's.
And when Mr. Schofield went to take the horn to the house of Mr. Ethelbert Magsworth Bitts, Penrod sat quietly with his mother.
Mr. Schofield was gone an hour and a half. Upon his solemn return he reported that Roddy's father had been summoned by telephone to bring his son to the house of Uncle Ethelbert. Mr. Bitts had forthwith appeared with Roddy, and, when Mr. Schofield came away, Roddy was still (after half an hour's previous efforts) explaining his honourable intentions. Mr. Schofield indicated that Roddy's condition was agitated, and that he was having a great deal of difficulty in making his position clear.
Penrod's imagination paused outside the threshold of that room in Mr. Ethelbert Magsworth Bitts' house, and awe fell upon him when he thought of it. Roddy seemed to have disappeared within a shrouding mist where Penrod's mind refused to follow him.
"Well, he got back his ole horn!" said Sam after school the next afternoon. "I KNEW we had a perfect right to call him whatever we wanted to! I bet you hated to give up that good ole horn, Penrod."
But Penrod was serene. He was even a little superior.
"Pshaw!" he said. "I'm goin' to learn to play on sumpthing better'n any ole horn. It's lots better, because you can carry it around with you anywhere, and you couldn't a horn."
"What is it?" Sam asked, not too much pleased by Penrod's air of superiority and high content. "You mean a jew's-harp?"
"I guess not! I mean a flute with all silver on it and everything. My father's goin' to buy me one."
"I bet he isn't!"
"He is, too," said Penrod; "soon as I'm twenty-one years old."
