he had ever listened to. "It--it's a fiddle, isn't it?" he demanded.

Amy nodded. "More respectfully, a violin. More correctly a viol-_din._
(The joke is not new.) What you are listening to with such evident
delight are the sweet strains of Penny Durkin's violin." Amy looked at
the alarm clock which decorated a corner of his chiffonier. "Penny is
twelve minutes ahead of time. He's not supposed to play during
study-hour, you see, and unless I'm much mistaken he will be so informed
before the night is much--"

"_Hey, Penny! Cut it out, old top_!"

From somewhere down the corridor the anguished wail floated, followed an
instant later by sounds counterfeiting the howling of an unhappy dog.
Threats and pleas mingled.

"Penny! For the love of Mike!"

"Set your watch back, Penny!"

"Shut up, you idiot! Study's not over!"

"Call an officer, please!"

But Pennington Durkin was making too much noise on his instrument to
hear the remonstrances at first, and it was not until some impatient
neighbour sallied forth and pounded frantically at the portal of Number
13 that the wailing ceased. Then,

"What is it?" asked Durkin mildly.