They came all too soon to a gate giving upon the public road and the world of the living who make remarks about strange sights they witness.  Still it was a quiet street, and they were accorded no immediate reception.  There stood the pony cart of Miss Juliana, and this, she made known, they were to enter.  It was a lovely vehicle, drawn by a lovely fat pony, and the Wilbur twin had often envied those privileged to ride in it.  Never had he dreamed so rich a treat could be his.  Now it was to be his, but the thing was no longer a lovely pony cart; it was a tumbril ­worse than a tumbril, for he was going to a fate worse than death.

The shameful skirt flopped about his bare legs as he awkwardly clambered into the rear seat beside the sex-muddled creature in a boy’s suit and a girl’s hat.  Miss Juliana and the godly Merle in the front seat had very definitely drawn aloof from the outcasts.  They chatted on matters at large in the most polite and social manner.  They quite appeared to have forgotten that their equipage might attract the notice of the vulgar.  When from time to time it actually did this the girl held her head brazenly erect and shot back stare for stare, but the Wilbur twin bowed low and suffered.

Sometimes it would merely be astounded adults who paused to regard them, to point canes or fingers at them.  But again it would be the young who had never been disciplined to restrain their emotions in public.  Some of these ran for a time beside the cart, with glad cries, their clear, ringing voices raised in comments of a professedly humorous character.  Under Juliana’s direction the cart did not progress too rapidly.  At one crossing she actually stopped the thing until Ellis Bristow, who was blind, had with his knowing cane tapped a safe way across the street.  The Wilbur twin at this moment frankly rejoiced in the infirmity of poor Ellis Bristow.  It was sweet relief not to have him stop and stare and point.  If given the power at this juncture he would have summarily blinded all the eyes of Newbern Center.

Up shaded streets they progressed, leaving a wake of purest joy astern.  But at last they began the ascent of West Hill, that led to the Whipple New Place, leaving behind those streets that came alive at their approach.  For the remainder of their dread progress they would elicit only the startled regard of an occasional adult farmer.

“What’ll she do to us?” The Wilbur twin mumbled this under cover of sprightly talk from the front seat.  His brother at the moment was boasting of his scholastic attainments.  He had, it appeared, come on amazingly in long division.

“She won’t do a thing!” replied his companion in shame.  “Don’t you be afraid!”

“I am afraid.  But I wouldn’t be afraid if I had my pants on again,” explained the Wilbur twin, going accurately to the soul of his panic.

“I’ll do it next time,” said the girl.  “I’ll hurry.  I won’t stop at any old graveyard.”

“Graveyard!” uttered the other, feelingly.  “I should say not!” Never again was he to think of such places with any real pleasure.

“All she wants,” explained the girl ­“she wants to talk up in her nose like she was giving a lecture.  She loves to.  She’ll make a vile scene.”

Now they were through an imposing gate of masonry, and the pony languidly drew them along a wide driveway toward the Whipple mansion, an experience which neither of the twins had ever hoped to brave; but only one of them was deriving any pleasure from the social elevation.  The Merle twin looked blandly over the wide expanse of lawn and flower beds and tenderly nursed shrubs, and then at the pile of red brick with its many windows under gay-striped awnings, and its surmounting white cupola, which he had often admired from afar.  He glowed with rectitude.  True, he suffered a brother lost to all sense of decent human values, but this could not dim the lustre of his own virtue or his pleasant suspicion that it was somehow going to be suitably rewarded.  Was he not being driven by a grand-mannered lady up a beautiful roadway past millions of flowers and toward a wonderful house?  It paid to be good.

The Wilbur twin had ceased to regard his surroundings.  He gazed stolidly before him, nor made the least note of what his eyes rested upon.  He was there, helpless.  They had him!

The cart drew up beside steps leading to a wide porch shaded by a striped awning.

“Home at last,” cooed Miss Juliana with false welcome.

A loutish person promptly abandoned a lawn mower in the near distance and came to stand by the head of the languid pony.  He grinned horribly, and winked as the two figures descended from the rear of the cart.  For a moment, halting on the first of the steps, the Wilbur twin became aware that just beyond him, almost to be grasped, was a veritable rainbow curved above a whirling lawn sprinkler.  And he had learned that a rainbow is a thing of gracious promise.  But probably they have to be natural rainbows; probably you don’t get anything out of one you make yourself.  Even as he looked, the shining omen vanished, somewhere shut off by an unseen power.

“This way, please,” called Miss Juliana, cordially, and he followed her guiltily up the steps to the shaded porch.

The girl had preceded her.  The Merle twin lingered back of them, shocked, austere, deprecating, and yet somehow bland withal, as if these little affairs were not without their compensating features.

The bowed Wilbur twin was startled by a gusty torrent of laughter.  With torturing effort, he raised his eyes to a couple of elderly male Whipples.  One sat erect on a cushioned bench, and one had lain at ease in a long, low thing of wicker.  It was this one who made the ill-timed and tasteless demonstration that was still continuing.  Ultimately the creature lost all tone from his laughter.  It went on, soundless but uncannily poignant.  Such was the effect that the Wilbur twin wondered if his own ears had been suddenly deafened.  This Whipple continued to shake silently.  The other, who had not laughed, whose face seemed ill-modelled for laughing, nevertheless turned sparkling eyes from under shelving brows upon Juliana and said in words stressed with emotion:  “My dear, you have brightened my whole day.”

The first Whipple, now recovered from his unseemly paroxysm, sat erect to study the newcomers in detail.  He was a short, round-chested man with a round moon face marked by heavy brows like those of the other.  He had fat wrists and stout, blunt fingers.  With a stubby thumb he now pushed up the outer ends of the heavy brows as if to heighten the power of his vision for this cherished spectacle.

“I seem to recognize the lad,” he murmured as if in privacy to his own hairy ears.  “Surely I’ve seen the rascal about the place, perhaps helping Nathan at the stable; but that lovely little girl ­I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting her before.  Come, sissy” ­he held out blandishing arms ­“come here, Totte, and give the old man a kiss.”

Could hate destroy, these had been the dying words of Sharon Whipple.  But the Wilbur twin could manage only a sidelong glare insufficient to slay.  His brother giggled until he saw that he made merry alone.

“What?  Bless my soul, the minx is sulky!” roared the wit.

The other Whipple intervened.

“What was our pride and our joy bent upon this time?” he suavely demanded.  “I take it you’ve thwarted her in some new plot against the public tranquillity.”

“The young person you indicate,” said Juliana, “was about to leave her home forever ­going out to live her own life away from these distasteful surroundings.”

“So soon?  We should be proud of her!  At that tender age, going out to make a name for herself!”

“I gather from this very intelligent young gentleman here that she had made the name for herself before even starting.”

“It was Ben Blunt,” remarked the young gentleman, helpfully.

“Hey!” Sharon Whipple affected dismay.  “Then what about this young girl at his side?  Don’t tell me she was luring him from his home here?”

“It will surprise you to know,” said Juliana in her best style, “that this young girl before you is not a girl.”

Both Whipples ably professed amazement.

“Not a girl?” repeated the suave Whipple incredulously.  “You do amaze me, Juliana!  Not a girl, with those flower-like features, those starry eyes, that feminine allure?  Preposterous!  And yet, if he is not a girl he is, I take it, a boy.”

“A boy who incited the light of our house to wayward courses by changing clothes with her.”

The harsher Whipple spoke here in a new tone.

“Then she browbeat him into it.  Scissors and white aprons ­yes, I know her!”

“He didn’t seem browbeaten.  They were smoking quite companionably when I chanced upon them.”

“Smoking!  Our angel child smoking!”

This from Sharon Whipple in tones that every child present knew as a mere pretense of horror.  Juliana shrugged cynically.

“They always go to the bad after they leave their nice homes,” she said.

“Children should never smoke till they are twenty-one, and then they get a gold watch for it,” interjected the orator, Merle.  He had felt that he was not being made enough of.  “It’s bad for their growing systems,” he added.

“And this?” asked Gideon Whipple, indicating the moralist.

“The brother of that” ­Juliana pointed.  “He did his best in the way of advice, I gather, but neither of the pair would listen to him.  He seems to be safely conservative, but not to have much influence over his fellows.”

“Willing to talk about it, though,” said Sharon Whipple, pointedly.

The girl now glowered at each of them in turn.

“I don’t care!” she muttered.  “I will, too, run away!  You see!”

“It’s what they call a fixed idea,” explained Juliana.  “She doesn’t care and she will, too, run away.  But where is Mrs. Harvey?”

“Poor soul!” murmured Sharon.  “Think what a lot she’s missed already!  Do call her, my dear!”

Juliana stepped to the doorway and called musically into the dusky hall:  “Mrs. Harvey!  Mrs. Harvey!  Come quickly, please!  We have something lovely to show you!”

The offenders were still to be butchered to make a Whipple holiday.

“Coming!” called a high voice from far within.

The Wilbur twin sickeningly guessed this would be the cruel stepmother.  Real cruelty would now begin.  Beating, most likely.  But when, a moment later, she stood puzzling in the doorway, he felt an instant relief.  She did not look cruel.  She was not even bearded.  She was a plump, meekly prettyish woman with a quick, flustered manner and a soft voice.  She brought something the culprits had not found in their other judges.

“Why, you poor, dear, motherless thing!” she cried when she had assured herself of the girl’s identity, and with this she enfolded her.  “I’d like to know what they’ve been doing to my pet!” she declared, aggressively.

“The pet did it all to herself,” explained Gideon Whipple.

“I will, too, run away!” affirmed the girl, though some deeper conviction had faded from the threat.

“Still talking huge high,” said Sharon.  “But at your age, my young friend, running away is overchancy.”  Mrs. Harvey Whipple ignored this.

“Of course you will ­run away all you like,” she soothed.  “It’s good for people to run away.”  Then she turned amazingly to the Wilbur twin and spoke him fair as a fellow human.  “And who is this dear little boy?  I just know he was kind enough to change clothes with you so you could run away better!  And here you’re keeping him in that dress when you ought to know it makes him uncomfortable ­doesn’t it, little boy?”

The little boy movingly ogled her with a sidelong glance of gratitude for what at the moment seemed to be the first kind words he had ever heard.

“You have her give me back my pants!” said he.  Then for the first time he faced his inquisitors eye to eye.  “I want my own pants!” he declared, stoutly.  Man spoke to man there, and both the male Whipples stirred guiltily; feeling base, perhaps, that mere sex loyalty had not earlier restrained them.

“Indeed, you blessed thing, you shall have them this moment!” said the cruel stepmother.  “You two march along with me.”

“And not keep them till Harvey D. comes home?” It was the implacable Juliana.

“Well” ­Mrs. Harvey considered ­“I’m sure he would adore to see the little imps, but really they can’t stand it any longer, can you, dears?  It would be bad for their nerves.  We’ll have to be satisfied with telling him.  Come along quickly!”

“I will, too, run away!”

The girl flung it over her shoulder as she swaggered into the hall.  The Wilbur twin trod incessantly on her heels.

“Wants his pants!” murmured Sharon Whipple.  “Prunes and apricots!  Wants his pants!”

“Mistake ever to part with ’em,” observed Gideon.  “Of course she browbeat him.”

“My young friend here tells me she bribed him,” explained Juliana.

“She gave him a lot of money and I’m keeping it for him,” said her self-possessed young friend, and he indicated bulging pockets.

“Looted her bank,” said Juliana.

“Forehanded little tike,” said Sharon, admiringly.  “And smart!  She can outsmart us all any day in the week!”

In a dim upper bedroom in the big house Wilbur Cowan divested himself of woman’s raiment for probably the last time in his life.  He hurried more than he might have, because the room was full of large, strange, terrifying furniture.  It was a place to get out of as soon as he could.  Two buttons at the back of the dress he was unable to reach, but this trifling circumstance did not for more than a scant second delay his release.  Then his own clothes were thrust in to him by the stepmother, who embarrassingly lingered to help him button his own waist with the faded horseshoes to the happily restored pants.

“There, there!” she soothed when he was again clad as a man child, and amazingly she kissed him.

Still tingling from this novel assault, he was led by the woman along a dim corridor to a rear stairway.  Down this they went, along another corridor to a far door.  She brought him to rest in a small, meagrely furnished but delightfully scented room.  It was scented with a general aroma of cooked food, and there were many shelves behind glass doors on which dishes were piled.  A drawer was opened, and almost instantly in his ready hands was the largest segment of yellow cake he had ever beheld.  He had not dreamed that pieces of cake for human consumption could be cut so large.  And it was lavishly gemmed with fat raisins.  He held it doubtfully.

“Let’s look again,” said the preposterous woman.  She looked again, pushing by a loose-swinging door to do it, and returned with a vast area of apple pie, its outer curve a full ninety degrees of the circle.  “Now eat!” said the woman.

She was, indeed, a remarkable woman.  She had not first asked him if he were hungry.

“I’m much obliged for my pants and this cake and pie,” said the boy, so the woman said, “Yes, yes,” and hugged him briefly as he ate.

Not until he had consumed the last morsel of these provisions and eke a bumper of milk did the woman lead him back to that shaded porch where he had lately been put to the torture.  But now he was another being, clad not only as became a man among men but inwardly fortified by food.  If stepmothers were like this he wished his own father would find one.  The girl with her talk about cruelty ­he still admired her, but she must be an awful liar.  He faced the tormenting group on the porch with almost faultless self-possession.  He knew they could not hurt him.

“Well, well, well!” roared Sharon Whipple, meaning again to be humorous.  But the restored Wilbur eyed him coldly, with just a faint curiosity that withered the humorist in him.  “Well, well!” he repeated, but in dry, businesslike tones, as if he had not meant to be funny in the first place.

“I guess we’ll have to be going now,” said the Wilbur twin.  “And we must leave all that money.  It wouldn’t be honest to take it now.”

The Merle twin at this looked across at him with marked disfavour.

“Nonsense!” said Miss Juliana.

“Nonsense!” said Sharon Whipple.

“Take it, of course!” said Gideon Whipple.

“He’s earned it fairly,” said Juliana.  She turned to Merle.  “Give it to him,” she directed.

This was not as Merle would have wished.  If the money had been earned he was still willing to take care of it, wasn’t he?

“A beggarly pittance for what he did,” said Gideon Whipple, warmly.

“Wouldn’t do it myself for twice the amount, whatever it is,” said Sharon.

Very slowly, under the Whipple regard, the Merle twin poured the price of his brother’s shame into his brother’s cupped hands.  The brother felt religious at this moment.  He remembered seriously those things they told you in Sunday-school ­about a power above that watches over us and makes all come right.  There must be something in that talk.

The fiscal transaction was completed.  The twins looked up to become aware that their late confederate surveyed them from the doorway.  Her eyes hinted of a recent stormy past, but once more she was decorously apparelled.

“Your little guests are leaving,” said the stepmother.  “You must bid them good-bye.”

Her little guests became statues as the girl approached them.

“So glad you could come,” she said, and ceremoniously shook the hand of each.  The twins wielded arms rigid from the shoulder, shaking twice down and twice up.  “It has been so pleasant to have you,” said the girl.

“We’ve had a delightful time,” said the Merle twin.

The other tried to echo this, but again his teeth were tightly locked, and he made but a meaningless squeak far back in his throat.  He used this for the beginning of a cough, which he finished with a decent aplomb.

“You must come again,” said the girl, mechanically.

“We shall be so glad to,” replied the Merle twin, glancing a bright farewell to the group.

The other twin was unable to glance intelligently at any one.  His eyes were now glazed.  He stumbled against his well-mannered brother and heavily descended the steps.

“You earned your money!” called Sharon Whipple.

The Wilbur twin was in advance, and stayed so as they trudged down the roadway to the big gate.  With his first free breath he had felt his importance as the lawful possessor of limitless wealth.

“Bright little skeesicks,” said Sharon Whipple.

“But the brother is really remarkable,” said Gideon ­“so well-mannered, so sure of himself.  He has quite a personality.”

“Other has the gumption,” declared Sharon.

“I’ve decided to have one of them for my brother,” announced the girl.

“Indeed?” said Gideon.

“Well, everybody said I might have a brother, but nobody does anything about it.  I will have one of those.  I think the nice one that doesn’t smoke.”

“Poor motherless pet!” murmured the stepmother, helplessly.

“A brother is not what you need most at this time,” broke in Juliana.  “It’s a barber.”

Down the dusty road over West Hill went the twins, Wilbur still forcefully leading.  His brother was becoming uneasy.  There was a strange light in the other’s eyes, an unwonted look of power.  When they were off the hill and come to the upper end of shaded Fair Street, Merle advanced to keep pace beside his brother.  The latter’s rate of speed had increased as they neared the town.

“Hadn’t I better take care of our money for us?” he at last asked in a voice oily with solicitude.

“No, sir!”

The “sir” was weighted with so heavy an emphasis that the tactful Merle merely said “Oh!” in a hurt tone.

“I can take care of my own money for me,” added the speeding capitalist, seeming to wish that any possible misconception as to the ownership of the hoard might be definitely removed.

“Oh,” said Merle again, this being all that with any dignity he could think of to say.  They were now passing the quiet acre that had been the scene of the morning’s unpleasantness.  Their pails, half filled with berries, were still there, but the strangely behaving Wilbur refused to go for them.  He eyed the place with disrelish.  He would not again willingly approach that spot where he had gone down into the valley of shame.  Reminded that the pails were not theirs, he brutally asked what did he care, adding that he could buy a million pails if he took a notion to.  But presently he listened to reason, and made reasonable proposals.  The Merle twin was to go back to the evil place, salvage the pails, leave them at the Penniman house, and hasten to a certain confectioner’s at the heart of the town, where a lavish reward would be at once his.  After troubled reflection he consented, and they went their ways.  The Merle twin sped to the quiet nook where Jonas Whipple had been put away in 1828, and sped away from there as soon as he had the pails.  Not even did he bend a moment above the little new-made grave where lay a part of all that was mortal of Patricia Whipple.  He disliked graveyards on principle, and he wished his reward.

Wilbur Cowan kept his quick way down Fair Street.  He had been lifted to pecuniary eminence, and incessantly the new wealth pressed upon his consciousness.  The markets of the world were at his mercy.  There were shop windows outside which he had long been compelled to linger in sterile choosing.  Now he could enter and buy, and he was in a hurry to be at it.  Something warned him to seize his golden moment on the wing.  The day was Saturday, and he was pleasantly thrilled by the unwonted crowds on River Street, which he now entered.  Farm horses were tethered thickly along hitching racks and shoppers thronged the marts of trade.  He threaded a way among them till he stood before the establishment of Solly Gumble, confectioner.  It brought him another thrill that the people all about should be unaware of his wealth ­he, laden with unsuspected treasure that sagged cool and heavy on either thigh, while they could but suppose him to be a conventionally impoverished small boy.

He tried to be cool ­to calculate sanely his first expenditure.  But he contrived an air of careless indecision as he sauntered through the portals of the Gumble place and lingered before the counter of choicest sweets, those so desirable that they must be guarded under glass from a loftily sampling public.

“Two of those and two of those and one of them!”

It was his first order, and brought him, for five cents, two cocoanut creams, two candied plums, and a chocolate mouse.  He stood eating these while he leisurely surveyed the neighbouring delicacies.  Vaguely in his mind was the thought that he might buy the place and thereafter keep store.  His cheeks distended by the chocolate mouse and the last of the cocoanut creams, he now bartered for a candy cigar.  It was of brown material, at the blunt end a circle of white for the ash and at its centre a brilliant square of scarlet paper for the glow, altogether a charming feat of simulation, perhaps the most delightful humoresque in all confectionery.  It was priced at two cents, but what was money now?

Then, his eye roving to the loftier shelves, he spied remotely above him a stuffed blue jay mounted on a varnished branch of oak.  This was not properly a part of the Gumble stock; it was a fixture, technically, giving an air to the place from its niche between two mounting rows of laden shelves.

“How much for that beautiful bird for my father?” demanded the nouveau riche.

His words were blurred by the still-resistant chocolate mouse, and he was compelled to point before Solly Gumble divined his wish.  The merchant debated, removing his skullcap, smoothing his grizzled fringe of curls, fitting the cap on again deliberately.  Then he turned to survey the bird, seemingly with an interest newly wakened.  It was indeed a beautiful bird, brilliantly blue, with sparkling eyes; a bit dusty, but rarely desirable.  The owner had not meant to part with it; still, trade was trade.  He meditated, tapping his cheek with a pencil.

“How much for that beautiful bird for my father?”

He had swallowed strenuously and this time got out the words cleanly.

“Well, now, I don’t hardly know.  My Bertha had her cousin give her that bird.  It’s a costly bird.  I guess you couldn’t pay such a price.  I guess it would cost a full half dollar, mebbe.”

He had meant the price to be prohibitive, and it did shock the questioner, opulent though he was.

“Well, mebbe I will and mebbe I won’t,” he said, importantly.  “Say, you keep him for me till I make my mind up.  If anybody else comes along, don’t you sell him to anybody else till I tell you, because prob’ly I’ll simply buy him.  My father, he loves animals.”

Solly Gumble was impressed.

“Well, he’s a first-class animal.  He’s been in that one place goin’ on five years now.”

“Give me two of those and two of those and one of them,” said the Wilbur twin, pointing to new heart’s desires.

“Say, now, you got a lot of money for a little boy,” said Solly Gumble, not altogether at ease.  This might be a case of embezzlement such as he had before known among his younger patrons.  “You sure it’s yours ­yes?”

“Ho!” The Wilbur twin scorned the imputation.  He was not going to tell how he had earned this wealth, but the ease of his simple retort was enough for the practical psychologist before him.  “I could buy all the things in this store if I wanted to,” he continued, and waved a patronizing hand to the shelves.  “Give me two of those and two of those and one of them.”

Solly Gumble put the latest purchase in a paper bag.  Here was a patron worth conciliating.  The patron sauntered to the open door to eat of his provender with lordly ease in the sight of an envious world.  Calmly elate, on the cushion of advantage, he scanned the going and coming of lesser folk who could not buy at will of Solly Gumble.  His fortune had gone to his head, as often it has overthrown the reason of the more mature indigent.  It was thus his brother found him, and became instantly troubled at what seemed to be the insane glitter of his eyes.

He engulfed an entire chocolate mouse from his sticky left hand and with his right proffered the bag containing two of those and two of those and one of them.  Merle accepted the boon silently.  He was thrilled, yet distrustful.  Until now his had been the leading mind, but his power was gone.  He resented this, yet was sensible that no resentment must be shown.  His talent as a tactician was to be sorely tested.  He gently tried out this talent.

“Winona says you ought to come home to dinner.”

The magnate replied as from another world.

“I couldn’t eat a mouthful,” he said, and crowded a cocoanut cream into an oral cavity already distended by a chocolate mouse.

“She says, now, you should save your money and buy some useful thing with it,” again ventured the parasite.  It was the sign of a nicely sensed acumen that he no longer called it “our” money.

“Ho!  Gee, gosh!” spluttered the rich one, and that was all.

“What we going to have next?” demanded the wise one.

“I’ll have to think up something.”  He did not invite suggestions and none were offered.  Merle nicely sensed the arrogance of the newly rich.  “I know,” said the capitalist at length ­“candy in a lemon.”

“One for each?”

“Of course!” It was no time for petty economies.

Solly Gumble parted with two lemons and two sticks of spirally striped candy of porous fabric.  Then the moneyed gourmet dared a new flight.

“Two more sticks,” he commanded.  “You suck one stick down, then you put another in the same old lemon,” he explained.

“I must say!” exclaimed Merle.  It was a high moment, but he never used strong language.

When the candy had been imbedded in the lemons they sauntered out to the street, Merle meekly in the rear, the master mind still coerced by brute wealth.  They paused before other shop windows, cheeks hollowed above the savory mechanism invented by Patricia Whipple.  Down one side of River Street to its last shop, and up the other, they progressed haltingly.  At many of the windows the capitalist displayed interest only of the most academic character.  At others he made sportive threats.  Thus before the jewellery shop of Rapp Brothers he quite unnerved Merle by announcing that he could buy everything in that window if he wanted to ­necklaces and rings and pins and gold watches ­and he might do this.  If, say, he did buy that black marble clock with the prancing gold horse on it, would Merle take it home for him?  He had no intention of buying this object ­he had never found clocks anything but a source of annoyance ­but he toyed with the suggestion when he saw that it agitated his brother.  Thereafter at other windows he wilfully dismayed his brother by pretending to consider the purchase of objects in no sense desirable to any one, such as boots, parasols, manicure sets, groceries, hardware.  He played with the feel of his wealth, relishing the power it gave him over the moneyless.

And then purely to intensify this thrill of power he actually purchased at the hardware shop and carelessly bestowed upon the mendicant brother an elaborate knife with five blades and a thing which the vender said was to use in digging stones out of horses’ feet.  Merle was quite overcome by this gift, and neither of them suspected it to be the first step in the downfall of the capitalist.  The latter, be it remembered, had bought and bestowed the knife that he might feel more acutely his power over this penniless brother, and this mean reward was abundantly his.  Never before had he felt superior to the Merle twin.

But the penalties of giving are manifold, and he now felt a novel glow of sheer beneficence.  He was a victim to the craze for philanthropy.  Too young to realize its insidious character, he was to embark upon a ruinous career.  Ever it is the first step that costs.  That carelessly given knife ­with something to dig stones out of a horse’s foot ­was to wipe out, ere night again shrouded Newbern Center, a fortune supposed to be as lasting as the eternal hills that encircled it.

They again crossed River Street, and stopped in front of the Cut-Rate Pharmacy.  The windows of this establishment offered little to entice save the two mammoth chalices of green and crimson liquor.  But these were believed to be of fabulous value.  Even the Cut-Rate Pharmacy itself could afford but one of each.  Inside the door a soda fountain hissed provocatively.  They took lemon and vanilla respectively, and the lordly purchaser did not take up his change from the wet marble until he had drained his glass.  He had become preoccupied.  He was mapping out a career of benevolence, splendid, glittering, ostentatious ­ruinous.

In a show case near the soda fountain his eye rested upon an object of striking beauty, a photograph album of scarlet plush with a silver clasp, and lest its purpose be misconstrued the word “Album” writ in purest silver across its front.  Negotiations resulting in its sale were brief.  The Merle twin was aghast, for the cost of this thing was a dollar and forty-nine cents.  Even the buyer trembled when he counted out the price in small silver and coppers.  But the result was a further uplift raising him beyond the loudest call of caution.  The album was placed in the ornate box ­itself no mean bibelot ­and wrapped in paper.

“It’s for Winona,” the purchaser loftily explained to his white-faced brother.

“I must say!” exclaimed the latter, strongly moved.

“I’m going to buy a beautiful present for every one,” added the now fatuous giver.

“Every one!” It was all Merle could manage, and even it caused him to gulp.

“Every one,” repeated the hopeless addict.

And even as he said it he was snared again, this time by an immense advertising placard propped on the counter.  It hymned the virtues of the Ajax Invigorator.  To the left sagged a tormented male victim of many ailments meticulously catalogued below, but in too fine print for offhand reading by one in a hurry.  The frame of the sufferer was bent, upheld by a cane, one hand poignantly resting on his back.  The face was drawn with pain and despair.  “For twenty years I suffered untold agonies,” this person was made to confess in large print.  It was heartrending.  But opposite the moribund wretch was a figure of rich health, erect, smartly dressed, with a full, smiling face and happy eyes.  Surprisingly this was none other than the sufferer.  One could hardly have believed them the same, but so it was.  “The Ajax Invigorator made a new man of me,” continued the legend.  There were further details which seemed negligible to the philanthropist, because the pictured hero of the invigorator already suggested Judge Penniman, the ever-ailing father of Winona.  The likeness was not wholly fanciful.  True, the judge was not so abject as the first figure, but then he was not so obtrusively vigorous as the second.

“A bottle of that,” said Wilbur, and pointed to the card.

The druggist thrust out a bottle already wrapped in a printed cover, and the price, as became a cut-rate pharmacy, proved to be ninety-eight cents.

A wish was now expressed that the advertising placard might also be taken in order that Judge Penniman might see just what sort of new man the invigorator would make of him.  But this proved impracticable; the placard must remain where it stood for the behoof of other invalids.  But there were smaller portraits of the same sufferer, it seemed, in the literature inclosing the bottle.  It was the Merle twin who carried the purchases as they issued from the pharmacy.  This was fitting, inevitable.  The sodden philanthropist must have his hands free to spend more money.

They rested again at the Gumble counter ­and now they were not alone.  The acoustics of the small town are faultless, and the activities of this spendthrift had been noised abroad.  To the twins, as two of those and two of those and one of them were being ordered, came four other boys to linger cordially by and assist in the selections.  Hospitality was not gracefully avoidable.  The four received candy cigars and became mere hangers-on of the rich, lost to all self-respect, fawning, falsely solicitous, brightly expectant.  Chocolate mice were next distributed.  The four guests were now so much of the party as to manifest quick hostility to a fifth boy who had beamingly essayed to be numbered among them.  They officiously snubbed and even covertly threatened this fifth boy, who none the less lingered very determinedly by the host, and was presently rewarded with sticky largesse; whereupon he was accepted by the four, and himself became hostile to another aspirant.

But mere candy began to cloy ­Solly Gumble had opened the second box of chocolate mice ­and the host even abandoned his reenforced lemon, which was promptly communized by the group.  He tried to think of something to eat that wouldn’t be candy, whereupon mounted in his mind the pyramid of watermelons a block down the street before the Bon Ton Grocery.

“We’ll have a watermelon,” he announced in tones of quiet authority, and his cohorts gurgled applause.

They pressed noisily about him as he went to the Bon Ton.  They remembered a whale of a melon they had seen there, and said they would bet he never had enough money to buy that one.  Maybe he could buy a medium-sized one, but not that.  All of them kept a repellent manner for any passing boy who might be selfishly moved to join them.  The spendthrift let them babble, preserving a rather grim silence.  The whale of a melon was indeed a noble growth, and its price was thirty-five cents.  The announcement of this caused a solemn hush to fall upon the sycophants; a hush broken by the cool, masterful tones of their host.

“I’ll take her,” he said, and paid the fearful price from a still weighty pocket.  To the stoutest of the group went the honour of bearing off the lordly burden.  They turned into a cool alley that led to the rear of the shops.  Here in comparative solitude the whale of a melon could be consumed and the function be unmarred by the presence of volunteer guests.

“Open her,” ordered the host, and the new knife was used to open her.

She proved to be but half ripe, but her size was held to atone for this defect.  A small, unripe melon would have been returned to the dealer with loud complaining, but it seemed to be held that you couldn’t expect everything from one of this magnitude.  It was devoured to the rind, after which the convives reclined luxuriously upon a mound of excelsior beside an empty crate.

“Penny grabs!” cried the host with a fresh inspiration, and they cheered him.

One of the five volunteered to go for them and the money-drunken host confided the price of three of them to him.  The messenger honorably returned, the pennygrabs were bisected with the new knife, and all of them but Merle smoked enjoyably.  He, going back to his candy and lemon, admonished each and all that smoking would stunt their growth.  It seemed not greatly to concern any of them.  They believed Merle implicitly, but what cared they?

Now the messenger in buying the pennygrabs had gabbled wildly to another boy of the sensational expenditures under way, and this boy, though incredulous, now came to a point in the alley from which he could survey the fed group.  The remains of the whale of a melon were there to convince him.  They were trifling remains, but they sufficed, and the six fuming halves of pennygrabs were confirmatory.  The scout departed rapidly, to return a moment later with two other boys.  One of the latter led a dog.

The three newcomers, with a nice observance of etiquette, surveyed the revellers from a distance.  Lacking decent provocation, they might not approach a group so plainly engaged upon affairs of its own ­unless they went aggressively, and this it did not yet seem wise to do.  The revellers became self-conscious under this scrutiny.  They were moved to new displays of wealth.

“I smelled ’em cookin’ bologna in the back room of Hire’s butcher shop,” remarked the bringer of the pennygrabs.  “It smelt grand.”

The pliant host needed no more.  He was tinder to such a spark.

“Get a quarter’s worth, Howard,” and the slave bounded off, to return with a splendid rosy garland of the stuff, still warm and odorous.

Again the new knife of Merle was used.  The now widely diffused scent of bologna reached the three watchers, and appeared to madden one of them beyond any restraint of good manners.  He sauntered toward them, pretending not to notice the banquet until he was upon it.  He was a desperate-appearing fellow ­dark, saturnine, with a face of sullen menace.

“Give us a hunk,” he demanded.

He should have put it more gently.  He should have condescended a little to the amenities, for his imperious tone at once dried a generous spring of philanthropy.  He was to regret this lack of a mere superficial polish that would have cost him nothing.

“Ho!  Go buy it like we did!” retorted the host, crisply.

“Is that so?” queried the newcomer with rising warmth.

“Yes, sat’s so!”

“Who says it’s so?”

“I say it’s so!”

This was seemingly futile; seemingly it got them nowhere, for the newcomer again demanded:  “Is that so?”

They seemed to have followed a vicious circle.  But in reality they were much farther along, for the mendicant had carelessly worked himself to a point where he could reach for the half circle of bologna still undivided, and the treasure was now snatched from this fate by the watchful legal owner.

“Hold that!” he commanded one of his creatures, and rose quickly to his feet.

“Is that so?” repeated the unimaginative newcomer.

“Yes, that’s so!” affirmed the Wilbur twin once again.

“I guess I got as much right here as you got!”

This was a shifty attempt to cloud the issue.  No one had faintly questioned his right to be there.

“Ho!  Gee, gosh!” snapped the Wilbur twin, feeling vaguely that this was irrelevant talk.

“Think you own this whole town, don’t you?” demanded the aggressor.

“Ho!  I guess I own it as much as what you do!”

The Wilbur twin knew perfectly that this was not the true issue, yet he felt compelled to accept it.

“For two beans I’d punch you in the eye.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” Each of the disputants here took a step backward.

“Yes, I would, would you!” This was a try at mockery.

“Yes, you would not!”

“Yes, I would!”

“You’re a big liar!”

The newcomer at this betrayed excessive rage.

“What’s that?  You just say that again!” He seemed unable to believe his shocked ears.

“You heard what I said ­you big liar, liar, liar!”

“You take that back!”

Here the newcomer flourished clinched fists and began to prance.  The Wilbur twin crouched, but was otherwise motionless.  The newcomer continued to prance alarmingly and to wield his arms as if against an invisible opponent.  Secretly he had no mind to combat.  His real purpose became presently clear.  It was to intimidate and confuse until he should be near enough the desired delicacy to snatch it and run.  He was an excellent runner.  His opponent perceived this ­the evil glance of desire and intention under all the flourish of arms.  Something had to be done.  Without warning he leaped upon the invader and bore him to earth.  There he punched, jabbed, gouged, and scratched as they writhed together.  A moment of this and the prostrate foe was heard to scream with the utmost sincerity.  The Wilbur twin was startled, but did not relax his hold.

“You let me up from here!” the foe was then heard to cry.

The Wilbur twin watchfully rose from his mount, breathing heavily.  He seized his cap and drew it tightly over dishevelled locks.

“I guess that’ll teach you a good lesson!” he warned when he had breath for it.

The vanquished Hun got to his feet, one hand over an eye.  He was abundantly blemished and his nose bled.  His sense of dignity had been outraged and his head hurt.

“You get the hell and gone out of here!” shouted the Wilbur twin, quite as if he did own the town.

“I must say!  Cursing and swearing!” shrilled the Merle twin, but none heeded him.

The repulsed enemy went slowly to the corner of the alley.  Here he turned to recover a moment of dignity.

“You just wait till I catch you out some day!” he roared back with gestures meant to terrify.  But this was his last flash.  He went on his way, one hand still to the blighted eye.

Now it developed that the two boys who had waited the Hun had profited cunningly by the brawl.  They had approached at its beginning ­a fight was anybody’s to watch ­they had applauded its denouement with shrill and hearty cries, and they now felicitated the victor.

“Aw, that old Tod McNeil thinks he can fight!” said one, and laughed in harsh derision.

“I bet this kid could lick him any day in the week!” observed his companion.

This boy, it was now seen, led a dog on a rope, a half-grown dog that would one day be large.  He was now heavily clad in silken wool of richly mixed colours ­brown, yellow, and bluish gray ­and his eyes were still the pale blue of puppyhood.

Both newcomers had learned the unwisdom of abrupt methods of approaching this wealthy group.  They conducted themselves with modesty; they were polite, even servile, saying much in praise of the warrior twin.  The one with the dog revealed genius for this sort of thing, and insisted on feeling the warrior’s muscle.  The flexed bicep appeared to leave him aghast at its hardness and immensity.  He insisted that his companion should feel it, too.

“Have some bologna?” asked the warrior.  He would doubtless have pressed bologna now on Tod McNeil had that social cull stayed by.

“Oh!” said the belated guests, surprised at the presence of bologna thereabouts.

They uttered profuse thanks for sizable segments of the now diminished circle.  It was then that the Wilbur twin took pleased notice of the dog.  He was a responsive animal, grateful for notice from any one.  Receiving a morsel of the bologna he instantly engulfed it and overwhelmed the giver with rough but hearty attentions.

“Knows me already,” said the now infatuated Wilbur.

“Sure he does!” agreed the calculating owner.  “He’s a smart dog.  He’s the smartest dog ever I see, and I seen a good many dogs round this town.”

“Have some more bologna,” said Wilbur.

“Thanks,” said the dog owner, “just a mite.”

The dog, receiving another bit, gave further signs of knowing the donor.  No cynic was present to intimate that the animal would instantly know any giver of bologna.

“What’s his name?” demanded Wilbur.

The owner hesitated.  He had very casually acquired the animal but a few hours before; he now attached no value to him, and was minded to be rid of him, nor had the dog to his knowledge any name whatever.

“His name is Frank,” he said, his imagination being slow to start.

“Here, Frank!  Here, Frank!” called Wilbur, and the dog leaped for more bologna.

“See, he knows his name all right,” observed the owner, pridefully.

“I bet you wouldn’t sell him for anything,” suggested Wilbur.

“Sell good old Frank?” The owner was painfully shocked.  “No, I couldn’t hardly do that,” he said more gently.  “He’s too valuable.  My little sister just worships him.”

The other guests were bored at this hint of commerce.  They had no wish to see good money spent for a dog that no one could eat.

“He don’t look to me like so much of a dog,” remarked one of these.  “He looks silly to me.”

The owner stared at the speaker unpleasantly.

“Oh, he does, does he?  I guess that shows what you know about dogs.  If you knew so much about ’em like you say I guess you’d know this kind always does look that way.  It’s ­it’s the way they look,” he floundered, briefly, but recovered.  “That’s how you can tell ’em,” he concluded.

The Wilbur twin was further impressed, though he had not thought the dog looked silly at all.

“I’ll give you a quarter for him,” he declared bluntly.

There was a sensation among the guests.  Some of them made noises to show that they would regard this as a waste of money.  But the owner was firm.

“Huh!  I bet they ain’t money enough in this whole crowd to buy that dog, even if I was goin’ to sell him!”

The wishful Wilbur jingled coins in both pockets.

“I guess he wouldn’t be much of a fighting dog,” he said.

“Fight!” exploded the owner.  “You talk about fight!  Say, that’s all he is ­just a fighter!  He eats ’em alive, that’s all he does ­eats ’em!” This was for some of them not easy at once to believe, for the dog’s expression was one of simpering amiability.  The owner seemed to perceive this discrepancy.  “He looks peaceful, but you git him mad once, that’s all!  He’s that kind ­you got to git him mad first.”  This sounded reasonable, at least to the dog’s warmest admirer.

“Yes, sir,” continued the owner, “you’ll be goin’ along the street with George here ­”

“George who?” demanded a skeptical guest.

For a moment the owner was disconcerted.

“Well, Frank is his right name, only my little sister calls him George sometimes, and I get mixed.  Anyway, you’ll be goin’ along the street with Frank and another dog’ll come up and he’s afraid of Frank and mebbe he’ll just kind of clear his throat or something on account of feeling nervous and not meaning anything, but Frank’ll think he’s growling, and that settles it.  Eats ’em alive!  I seen some horrible sights, I want to tell you!”

“Give you thirty-five cents for him,” said the impressed Wilbur.

“For that there dog?” exploded the owner ­“thirty-five cents?” He let it be seen that this jesting was in poor taste.

“I guess he wouldn’t be much of a watchdog.”

“Watchdog!  Say, that mutt watches all the time, day and night!  You let a burglar come sneaking in, or a tramp or someone ­wow!  Grabs ’em by the throat, that’s all!”

“Fifty cents!” cried the snared Cowan twin.  Something told the owner this would be the last raise.

“Let’s see the money!”

He saw it, and the prodigy, Frank, sometimes called George by the owner’s little sister, had a new master.  The Wilbur twin tingled through all his being when the end of the rope leash was placed in his hand.

A tradesman now descried them from the rear door of his shop.  He saw smoke from the relighted pennygrabs and noted the mound of excelsior.

“Hi, there!” he called, harshly.  “Beat it outa there!  What you want to do ­set the whole town afire?”

Of course nothing of this sort had occurred to them, but only Merle answered very politely, “No, sir!” The others merely moved off, holding the question silly.  Wilbur Cowan stalked ahead with his purchase.

“I hate just terrible to part with him,” said the dog’s late owner.

“Come on to Solly Gumble’s,” said Wilbur, significantly.  He must do something to heal this hurt.

The mob followed gleefully.  The Wilbur twin was hoping they would meet no other dog.  He didn’t want good old Frank to eat another dog right on the street.

Back in Solly Gumble’s he bought lavishly for his eight guests.  The guests were ideal; none of them spoke of having to leave early, though the day was drawing in.  And none of the guests noted that the almost continuous stream of small coin flowing to the Gumble till came now but from one pocket of the host.  Yet hardly a guest but could eat from either hand as he chose.  It was a scene of Babylonian profligacy ­even the late owner of Frank joined in the revel full-spiritedly, and it endured to a certain moment of icy realization, suffered by the host.  It came when Solly Gumble, in the midst of much serving, bethought him of the blue jay.

“I managed to save him for you,” he told the Wilbur twin, and reached down the treasure.  With a cloth he dusted the feathers and tenderly wiped the eyes.  “A first-class animal for fifty cents,” he said ­“and durable.  He’ll last a lifetime if you be careful of him ­keep him in the parlour just to be pretty.”

The munching revellers gathered about with interest.  There seemed no limit to the daring of this prodigal.  Then there came upon the Wilbur twin a moment of sinister calculation.  A hand sank swiftly into a pocket and brought up a scant few nickels and pennies.  Amid a thickening silence he counted these remaining coins.

Then in deadly tones he declared to Solly Gumble, “I only got forty-eight cents left!”

“Oh, my!  I must say!  Spent all his money!” shrilled the Merle twin on a note of triumph that was yet bitter.

“Spent all his money!” echoed the shocked courtiers, and looked upon him coldly.  Some of them withdrew across the store and in low tones pretended to discuss the merits of articles in another show case.

“I guess you couldn’t let me have him for forty-eight cents,” said the Wilbur twin hopelessly.

Solly Gumble removed his skullcap, fluffed his scanty ring of curls, and drew on the cap again.  His manner was judicial but not repellent.

“Mebbe I could ­mebbe I couldn’t,” he said.  “You sure you ain’t got two cents more in that other pocket, hey?”

The Wilbur twin searched, but it was the most arid of formalities.

“No, sir; I spent it all.”

“Spent all his money!” remarked the dog seller with a kind of pitying contempt, and drew off toward the door.  Two more of the courtiers followed as unerringly as if trained in palaces.  Solly Gumble bent above the counter.

“Well, now, you young man, you listen to me.  You been a right good customer, treating all your little friends so grand, so I tell you straight ­you take that fine bird for forty-eight cents.  Not to many would I come down, but to you ­yes.”

Wilbur Cowan, overcome, mumbled his thanks.  He was alone at the counter now, Merle having joined the withdrawn courtiers.

“I’m a fair trader,” said Solly Gumble.  “I can take ­I give.  Here now!” And amazingly he extended to the penniless wreck a large and golden orange, perhaps one of the largest oranges ever grown.

The recipient was again overcome.  He blushed as he thanked this open-handed tradesman.  Then with his blue jay, his orange, his dog, he turned away.  Now he first became aware of the changed attitude of his late dependents.  It did not distress him.  It seemed wholly natural, this icy withdrawal of their fellowship.  Why should they push about him any longer?  He was, instead, rather concerned to defend his spendthrift courses.

“Spent all his money!” came a barbed jeer from the Merle twin.

The ruined one stalked by him with dignity, having remembered a fine speech he had once heard his father make.

“Oh, well,” he said, lightly, “easy come, easy go!”

The Merle twin still bore the album and the potent invigorator that was to make a new man of Judge Penniman.  His impoverished brother carried the blue jay, looking alert and lifelike in the open, the mammoth orange, gift for Mrs. Penniman ­he had nearly forgotten her ­and tenderly he led the dog, Frank.  Not to have all his money again would he have parted with his treasures and the memory of supreme delights.  Not for all his squandered fortune would he have bartered Frank, the dog.  Frank capered at his side, ever and again looking up brightly at his new master.  Never had so much attention been shown him.  Never before had he been confined by a leash, as if he were a desirable dog.

Opposite the Mansion House, Newbern’s chief hotel, Frank gave signal proof of his intelligence.  From across River Street he had been espied by Boodles, the Mansion House dog, a creature of dusty, pinkish white, of short neck and wide jaws, of a clouded but still definite bull ancestry.  Boodles was a dog about town, wearing many scars of combat, a swashbuckler of a dog, rough-mannered, raffish; if not actually quarrelsome, at least highly sensitive where his honour was concerned.  He made it a point to know every dog in town, and as he rose from a sitting posture, where he had been taking the air before his inn, it could be observed that Frank was new to him ­certainly new and perhaps objectionable.  He stepped lightly halfway across the now empty street and stopped for a further look.  He seemed to be saying, “Maybe it ain’t a dog, after all.”  But the closer look and a lifted nose wrinkling into the breeze set him right.  He left for a still closer look at what was unquestionably a dog.

The Wilbur twin became concerned for Boodles.  He regarded him highly.  But he knew that Boodles was a fighter, and Frank ate them up.  He commanded Boodles to go back, but though he had slowed his pace and now halted a dozen feet from Frank, the cannibal, Boodles showed that he was not going back until he had some better reason.  Violence of the cruellest sort seemed forward.  But perhaps Frank might be won from his loathly practice.

“You, Frank, be quiet, sir!” ordered Wilbur, though Frank had not been unquiet.  “Be still, sir!” he added, and threatened his pet with an open palm.  But Frank had attention only for Boodles, who now approached, little recking his fate.  The clash was at hand.

“Be still, sir!” again commanded Wilbur in anguished tones, whereupon the obedient Frank tumbled to lie upon his back, four limp legs in air, turning his head to simper up at Boodles, who stood inquiringly above him.  Boodles then sniffed an amiable contempt and ran back to his hotel.  Frank strained at his leash to follow.  His proud owner thought there could be few dogs in all the world so biddable as this.

The twins went on.  Merle was watching his chance to recover that spiritual supremacy over the other that had been his until the accident of wealth had wrenched it from him.

“You’ll catch it for keeping us out so late,” he warned ­“and cursing and fighting and spending all your money!”

The other scarce heard him.  He walked through shining clouds far above an earth where one catches it.