The Wrong Twin | Page 7

the eyes of the Wilbur twin even as
they gloated on the bribe. The ordeal would be fearful. He was to
become a thing--not a girl and still not a boy--a thing somehow
shameful. At last the alternative came to him.
"You change with her," he said, brightening. "My pants got a tear here
on the side, and my waist ain't so clean as yours."
"Now don't begin that!" said his brother, firmly. "We don't want a lot of

silly arguments about it, do we? Look at all the money we'll have!"
"Your clothes are the best," said the girl. "I must be filthy and ragged.
Oh, please hurry!" Then to Merle: "Do unbutton my waist. Start it at
the top and I can finish."
Gingerly he undid the earliest buttons on that narrow back of checked
gingham, and swiftly the girl completed the process to her waist. Then
the waist was off her meagre shoulders and she stepped from the hated
garment. The Wilbur twin was aghast at her downright methods. He
had a feeling that she should have retired for this change. How was he
to know that an emergency had lifted her above prejudices sacred to the
meaner souled? But now he raised a new objection, for beneath her
gown the girl had been still abundantly and intricately clad, girded,
harnessed.
"I can't ever put on all those other things," he declared, indicating the
elaborate underdressing.
"Very well, I'll keep 'em on under the pants and waist till I get to the
great city," said the girl, obligingly. "But why don't you hurry?"
She tossed him the discarded dress. He was seized with fresh panic as
he took the thing.
"I don't like to," he said, sullenly.
"Look at all the money we'll have!" urged the brother.
"Here," said the girl, beguilingly, "when you've done it I'll give you two
long sucks of my lemon candy."
She took the enticing combination from Merle and held it fair before
his yearning eyes; the last rite of a monstrous seduction was achieved.
The victim wavered and was lost. He took the dress.
"Whistle if any one comes," he said, and withdrew behind the
headstone of the late Jonas Whipple. He--of the modest sex--would not

disrobe in public. At least it was part modesty; in part the circumstance
that his visible garments were precisely all he wore. He would not
reveal to this child of wealth that the Cowans had not the habit of
multifarious underwear. Over the headstone presently came the knee
pants, the faded calico waist with bone buttons. The avid buyer seized
and apparelled herself in them with a deft facility. The Merle twin was
amazed that she should so soon look so much like a boy. From behind
the headstone came the now ambiguous and epicene figure of the
Wilbur twin, contorted to hold together the back of his waist.
"I can't button it," he said in deepest gloom.
"Here!" said the girl.
"Not you!"
It seemed to him that this would somehow further degrade him. At least
another male should fasten this infamous thing about him. When the
buttoning was done he demanded the promised candy and lemon. He
glutted himself with the stimulant. He had sold his soul and was taking
the price. His wrists projected far from the gingham sleeves, and in
truth he looked little enough like a girl. The girl looked much more like
a boy. The further price of his shame was paid in full.
"I'd better take charge of it," said Merle, and did so with an air of large
benevolence. "I just don't know what all we'll spend it for," he added.
The Wilbur twin's look of anguish deepened.
"I got a pocket in this dress to hold my money," he suggested.
"You might lose it," objected Merle. "I better keep it for us."
The girl had transferred her remaining money to the pockets which, as a
boy, she now possessed. Then she tried on the cap. But it proved to be
the cap of Merle.
"No; you must take Wilbur's cap," he said, "because you got his

clothes."
"And he can wear my hat," said the girl.
The Wilbur twin viciously affirmed that he would wear no girl's hat,
yet was presently persuaded that he would, at least when he sneaked
home. It was agreed by all finally that this would render him fairly a
girl in the eyes of the world. But he would not yet wear it. He was
beginning to hate this girl. He shot hostile glances at her as--with his
cap on her head, her hands deep in the money-laden pockets--she
swaggered and swanked before them.
"I'm Ben Blunt--I'm Ben Blunt," she muttered, hoarsely, and swung her
shoulders and brandished her thin legs to prove it.