“I don’t believe the men who wrote the stuff really understood it,” said Clint.

“Oh, they understood a little of it, all right.  They could sign their names, probably.  The only consolation I find is this, Clint.  A couple of hundred years from now, when everyone is talking Esperanto or some other universal language, the kids will have to study English.  Can’t you see them grinding over the Orations of William Jennings Bryan and wondering why the dickens anyone ever wanted to talk such a silly language?  That’s when we get our revenge, Clint.  We won’t be around to see it, but it’ll be there.”

Clint had to smile at the picture Amy drew, but he didn’t find as much consolation as Amy pretended to, and Xenophon didn’t come any easier.  He was heartily glad when the study-hour came to an end and he could 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 near-sightedly over the sheet of music spread on the rack before him.  The strains that issued from the instrument were awful, but there was something fine in the player’s absorption and obvious content, and what had started out as a laugh of amusement changed to a sympathetic smile as Clint tiptoed on to his own door.