The sorrow of Penny’s young life was that, although he had made innumerable attempts, he could not succeed in the formation of a school orchestra.  There was a Glee Club and a Musical Society, the latter composed of performers on the mandolin, banjo and guitar, but no one would take any interest in Penny’s project.  Or no one save a fellow named Pillsbury.  Pillsbury played the bass viol, and once a week or so he and Penny got together and spent an entranced hour.  Time was when such meetings took place in Penny’s room or in Pillsbury’s room, but popular indignation put an end to that.  Nowadays they took their instruments to the gymnasium and held their chamber concerts in the trophy room.  Amy one day drew Clint’s attention to a fortunate circumstance.  This was that, while there was a connecting door between Number 14 and Number 15, there was none between Number 14 and Number 13.  That fact, Amy declared, rendered their room fairly habitable when Penny was pouring out his soul.  “It’s lucky in another way,” he added, staring darkly at the buff-coloured wall that separated them from Number 13.  “If that door was on this side I’d have broken it open long ago and done murder!”

Clint laughed and inquired:  “Who rooms on the other side?”

“Schuman and Dreer.”  The contemptuous tone of his reply caused Clint to ask: 

“Anything wrong with them?”

“Oh, Schuman’s all right, I guess, but Dreer’s a pill.”  There was a wealth of contempt in the word “pill” as Amy pronounced it, and Clint asked innocently what a “pill” was.

“A pill,” replied Amy, “is—­is—­well, there are all sorts of pills.  A fellow who toadies to the instructors is a pill.  A fellow who is too lazy to play football or baseball or tennis or anything else and pretends the doctor won’t let him is a pill.  A fellow who has been to one school and got fired and then goes to another and is always shooting off his mouth about how much better the first school is is the worst kind of pill.  And that’s the kind Harmon Dreer is.  He went to Claflin for a year and a half and then got into some sort of mess and was expelled.  Then the next Fall he came here.  This is his second year here and he’s still gabbing about how much higher class Claflin is and how much better they do everything there and—­oh, all that sort of rot.  I told him once that if the fellows at Claflin were so much classier than we are I could understand why they didn’t let him stay there.  He didn’t like it.  He doesn’t narrate his sweet, sad story to me any more.  If he ever does I’m likely to forget that I’m a perfect gentleman.”