ond 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