“Yes.  It wasn’t so bad.  He had a patch over it.  Still, it was sort of funny to hear him talking about clean playing!”

Clint was given a clear bill of health the next day and went back to practice with a silk bandage around his knee.  He was given light work and sat on the bench again while the second played two twelve-minute periods against the ’varsity substitutes.  It seemed to him that Robbins fairly outplayed himself that afternoon, but he failed to take into consideration that his rival was pitted against substitutes or that his own state of mind was rather pessimistic.  Practice ended early and after a shower and a rub Clint ambled across to Torrence feeling rather dispirited.  The dormitory seemed pretty empty and lonesome as he entered the corridor.  Even Penny Durkin’s violin was silent, which was a most unusual condition of affairs for that hour of the afternoon.  Clint slammed his door behind him, tossed his cap in the general direction of the window-seat and flopped morosely into a chair at the table.  He had plenty of work to do, but after pulling a book toward him and finding his place he slammed it shut again and pushed it distastefully away.  He wished Amy would come back, and looked at his watch.  It was only a little after half-past four, though, and Amy, who was probably playing tennis, would scarcely stop as long as he was able to distinguish the balls.  Perhaps it was the absence of the customary wailing of the next door violin that put Penny Durkin in mind.  Clint had never been in Penny’s room, nor ever said more than two dozen words to him except on the occasion of Penny’s encounter with Harmon Dreer, but just now Clint wanted mightily to talk to someone and so he decided to see if Penny was in.  At first his knock on the door of Number 13 elicited no answer, and he was turning away when a doubtful “Come in” reached him from beyond the closed portal.  When he entered Penny was seated on the window-seat at the far end of the room doing something to his violin.

“Hello,” he said not very graciously.  Then, giving the newcomer a second glance, he added:  “Oh, that you, Thayer?  I thought it was Mullins.  Come on in.”

“Thought maybe you were dead,” said Clint flippantly, “and dropped in to see.”

“Dead!” questioned Penny vaguely.

“Yes, I didn’t hear the violin, you know.”

“Oh, I see.”  There was a moment’s silence.  Then Penny said very soberly:  “It isn’t me that’s dead; it’s the violin.”

“Something gone wrong?” asked Clint, joining the other at the window and viewing the instrument solicitously.  Penny nodded.

“I guess it’s a goner,” he muttered.  “Look here.”  He held the violin out for Clint’s inspection and the latter stared at it without seeing anything wrong until Penny sadly indicated a crack which ran the full length of the brown surface.

“Oh, I see,” said Clint.  “Too bad.  Will it hurt it much?”

Penny viewed him in surprise.  “Hurt it!  Why, it spoils it!  It’ll never have the same tone, Thayer.  It—­it’s just worthless now!  I was pretty”—­there was a catch in Penny’s voice—­fond of this old feller.”