The Daring Twins

“If you want your punishment, come and get it!”

“You’re afraid,” sneered Don.

“It isn’t that,” replied Allerton. “I haven’t my gloves here, and I dislike to soil my hands.”

Don glared at his neighbor’s spick and span apparel, and the sight of the “dandy” made him still more combative. Allerton was the biggest and strongest, perhaps; but he was nearly a year younger than Don, who had no thought of his own disadvantage. In that mood he would willingly have fought a giant.

“I dare you to come half way,” he challenged, and as the other boy hesitated, Don advanced along the muddy crossing at the corner until he was at about the middle of it. It was an old board crosswalk, and just beyond where Don stood it was so low that the thin mud of the street had spread a layer over it.

This it was that caused Allerton to hesitate. He had a natural regard for his polished shoes and carefully brushed clothes and, while fully as eager for the fray as Donald, he would have preferred a more suitable place to fight.

The taunts of young Daring, however, were not to be endured. It was really necessary to teach impolite Donald a lesson he would remember. So Allerton attempted the crossing.

When he came to the muddy section he halted.

“Come on, then!” he exclaimed.

“This is half way,” said Don. “Come on yourself.”

“You back down, do you?”

“No, I don’t back down. You’re the coward, Al.”

“Coward!”

“That’s what I said.”

It was too great an insult for Allerton to brook. With doubled fists he advanced upon the eager, slender boy awaiting him. Don staggered under a heavy blow received full upon the chin, and then his own fist shot out and struck Allerton’s chest.

To his amazement it was “a knockdown.” Young Randolph’s feet slipped on the slimy crossing and he fell backward full length in the soft mud of the road.

With a roar of rage and chagrin he scrambled to his feet, and Don planted another blow that sent him to the mud again. It was not a hard blow, by any means. It seemed as though a mere touch was sufficient, for Allerton’s feet were now so covered with mud that he could scarcely stand upon them. A push from Don sufficed to upset him, and observing the ease of the operation Don repeated his blow each time that Allerton arose, laughing gleefully at the result of his own prowess. In the heat of the encounter, however, he neglected to keep his own footing on the cleaner and safer portion of the boards, so that in one of Allerton’s falls his arm struck Don and sent him likewise sprawling in the sticky mud.

They sat up and looked at each other in bewilderment. Allerton had never been so astonished in his life as at his present misadventure, and now, as he saw one side of Don’s head plastered with mud, which filled an ear and an eye, he burst into a hearty laugh.

Don scraped the mud out of his eye, blinked at his antagonist, and laughed too.

“Guess honors are about even, Al,” he said. “I’ve had enough. Have you?”

“Plenty,” declared Allerton, making an effort to rise from the puddle. Don managed to find his feet after a severe struggle.

“My, but you’re a sight!” he exclaimed.

“So are you,” replied Allerton, cheerfully. “We both ought to be ashamed of ourselves.”

“I – I’m afraid Cousin Judith will scold.”

“Well, I’m certain to catch it, all right. So long, Don.”

“So long, Al. Let’s go down town, after we’ve dressed.”

“All right.”

Thus the fight resulted in amity; but Don was dreadfully humiliated when he had to face the Little Mother in all that mess. He took off his shoes on the porch and humbly made his way up stairs to knock at Judith’s door.

“I – I’ve fallen down in the mud,” he called to her. “May I put on my best suit?”

Miss Eliot had been a witness of the entire scrimmage from her window, and had even overheard the words that had preceded and provoked the fight. She had decided not to interfere, but now she answered in a frigid voice through the closed door:

“No, Donald. I cannot have your best suit ruined.”

“But what shall I do, Cousin Judith?”

“You must go to bed until the mud on your clothes dries and they can be properly cleaned.”

Donald stood silently in the hall, his face flushed red with humiliation. He waited a long while for Cousin Judith to speak again, but she remained silent. At last he crept away to his own room, removed the disreputable garments and examined them dolefully. Coat, trousers, shirt, stockings – all were alike plastered with thick layers of fresh mud. It would take them a long time to dry, he feared.

With a sinking heart he put on his pajamas, having first washed himself clean, and then sat down to consider his dismal fate.

“It was a pretty good fight,” he mused; “but fighting don’t seem to pay, somehow. I wish I had let Al alone. He isn’t so much of a mollycoddle, after all.”

Finally, he thought of Aunt Hyacinth, and resolving to appeal to that faithful friend he crept down into the kitchen and begged her to help him. Aunty looked the clothes over in dismay, saying:

“’Tain’t no use, Marse Don. Dat ’ar mud won’t dry ’fore mawnin’, nohow. I’ll do mah bes’, honey; but I neveh seen sich a mess in all mah bohn days!”

With this verdict Don was forced to be content. He had a notion to appeal to Cousin Judith again, but could not muster the courage. So he got a book, lay down upon his bed and passed the rest of the afternoon in abject misery.

CHAPTER XIII

PHIL MAKES A DISCOVERY

Eric came to the bank a little late on the morning following the party, but as soon as he had joined Phil at the high desk which they used in common he began to sing the praises of Marion Randolph.

“She isn’t a raving beauty, Phil,” he said, “and until now I’ve always hated the sight of any girl that wears glasses; but Marion’s a crackerjack in some ways. She’s got a wad of money, for one thing – or her old man has, and that’s just the same.”

“I suppose Mr. Randolph is a very wealthy man,” remarked Phil, who disliked to discuss Marion with his friend.

“Wealthy!” cried Eric; “why, Randolph’s the head of the big Boston bond syndicate. He’s one of the slickest financiers in this country. Look here, Phil,” turning to a page in the ledger; “just notice this entry. When Mr. Randolph came here with the family, he deposited in our bank ten thousand in cold cash. He and Mrs. Randolph may both check against the account, but you see she’s only drawn a little over a thousand dollars, so far. That’s the sort of a customer we like, and if Mr. Randolph can let ten thousand lie idle in a country bank he must have scads of money.”

Then Eric discussed the elaborate entertainment of yesterday and dwelt perpetually upon the money the Randolphs must be possessed of, until Phil was thoroughly annoyed.

“What does it matter, Eric?” he said. “Money can’t buy everything, in this world.”

“What can’t it buy?” demanded Eric, astonished.

“It can’t buy happiness, or health, or – ”

“That’s rubbish, Phil. Give a fellow plenty of money and he’s bound to be happy; he can’t help it. And as for health, money gets the best and most skillful doctors and surgeons in the land, and they’ll cure a rich man where a poor man will die. There isn’t anything, old man, that money won’t do.”