Four o'clock
Clint could n't keep his mind on his book , try as he might . Through the open window came sounds from the grid-irons and ball-field ; shouts , the honking of Manager Black 's horn , the cries of the coaches and players , the crack of bat and ball where the Nine was holding Fall practice ; even , now and then , the voices of the tennis players far down the field . He tried closing the window , but that made the room hot and stuffy , and he opened it again . Four o'clock sounded and he was still dawdling . Then footsteps sounded on the stairs , the door of Number 13 opened and shut , and a minute or two later the wailing of Penny Durkin 's violin broke onto the silence of the deserted dormitory . That ought to have ended Clint 's chances of study , it seemed , but , oddly enough , after he had listened for five minutes or so , his eyes sought the page in front of him and then -- well , then it was more than an hour later , the violin was silent and someone was knocking on his door ! Clint gazed with surprise on the pencilled notes adorning the margins of the pages , from them to the open lexicon , from that to the pencil in his hand .