conscientiously close his books.

The termination of that hour was almost invariably announced by the
dismal squawking of Penny Durkin's fiddle. Sometimes it was to be heard
in the afternoon, but not always, for Penny was a very busy youth. He
was something of a "shark" at lessons, was a leading light in the
Debating Circle and conducted a second-hand business in all sorts of
things from a broken tooth-mug to a brass bed. Penny bought and sold and
traded and, so rumour declared, made enough to nearly pay his tuition
each year. If you wanted a rug or a table or a chair or a picture or a
broken-down bicycle or a pair of football pants you went to Penny, and
it was a dollar to a dime that Penny either had in his possession, or
could take you to someone else who had, the very thing you were looking
for. If you paid cash you got it reasonably cheap--or you did if you
knew enough to bargain craftily--and if you wanted credit Penny charged
you a whole lot more and waited on you promptly for the instalment at
the first of each month. And besides these activities Penny was a
devoted student of music.

He was an odd-looking fellow, tall and thin, with a lean face from which
a pair of pale and near-sighted eyes peered forth from behind
rubber-rimmed spectacles. His hair was almost black and was always in
need of trimming, and his garments--he seldom wore trousers, coat and
vest that matched--always seemed about to fall off him. Clint's first
glimpse of Penny came one afternoon. The door of Number 13 was open as
Clint returned to his room after football practice and lugubrious
sounds issued forth. It was very near the supper hour and Penny's room
was lighted only by the rays of the sinking sun. Against the window
Clint saw him in silhouette, his hair wildly ruffled, his violin under
his chin, his bow scraping slowly back and forth as he leaned