ushions, tables, pictures,
golf clubs, rugs and all sorts of things advertised for sale, while one
chap sought a purchaser for "a stuffed white owl, mounted on a branch,
slightly moth-eaten. Cash or exchange for books."

Steve laughed. "What do you know about that?" he asked. "Say, why don't
we look at some of the things, Tom? Maybe we could save money. Let's
call on Mr. Durkin and look at his Morris chair, eh?"

"All right. Come ahead. Anything else we want?"

"I don't suppose we could pick up a cushion that would fit our
window-seat, but we might. I'll write down some of the names and rooms."

"We might buy the white owl, Steve. Ever think you'd like a white owl?"

"Not with moths in it, thanks," replied Steve. There was pen and ink on
the ledge outside the window of the physical director's office and Steve
secured paper by tearing a corner from one of the notices. When he had
scribbled down the addresses that sounded promising they set off for
Torrence Hall. Number 13 was on the second floor, and as they drew near
it their ears were afflicted by most dismal sounds.

"Wha-what's that?" asked Tom in alarm.

"Fiddle," laughed Steve. "Wonder if it's Mr. Durkin."

The wailing sounds ceased as Steve knocked and a voice called "Come in!"
When they entered they saw a tall, lank youth standing in front of a
music-rack close to the window. He held a violin to his chin and waved
his bow in greeting.

"Hi!" he said. "Sit down and I'll be right with you. I've got one bit
here that's been bothering me for an hour." He turned back to his music,
waved his bow in the air, laid it across the strings and drew forth
sounds that made the visitors squirm in the chairs they had taken. One
excruciating wail after another came from the tortured instrument, the
lank youth bending absorbedly over the notes in the failing light and
apparently quite oblivious to the presence of the others. Finally, with
a sigh of satisfaction, he laid his bow on the ledge of the stand, stood
his violin in a corner of the window-seat and turned to the visitors.

He was an odd-looking chap, tall and thin, with a long, lean face under
a mop of black hair that was badly in need of trimming. His near-sighted
eyes blinked from behind the round lenses of a pair of rubber-rimmed
spectacles and his rather nondescript clothes seemed on the point of
falling off of him.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said politely, "but it's getting dark
and I did want to get