Those Extraordinary Twins. Марк Твен

of that. Well, come along, maybe we can get some sleep, but I don’t know, I’m so shook up with what we’ve been through.”

      The stranger had made an impression on the boys, too. They had a word of talk as they were getting to bed. Henry, the gentle, the humane, said:

      “I feel ever so sorry for it, don’t you, Joe?”

      But Joe was a boy of this world, active, enterprising, and had a theatrical side to him:

      “Sorry? Why, how you talk! It can’t stir a step without attracting attention. It’s just grand!”

      Henry said, reproachfully:

      “Instead of pitying it, Joe, you talk as if – ”

      “Talk as if what? I know one thing mighty certain: if you can fix me so I can eat for two and only have to stub toes for one, I ain’t going to fool away no such chance just for sentiment.”

      The twins were wet and tired, and they proceeded to undress without any preliminary remarks. The abundance of sleeve made the partnership coat hard to get off, for it was like skinning a tarantula; but it came at last, after much tugging and perspiring. The mutual vest followed. Then the brothers stood up before the glass, and each took off his own cravat and collar. The collars were of the standing kind, and came high up under the ears, like the sides of a wheelbarrow, as required by the fashion of the day. The cravats were as broad as a bankbill, with fringed ends which stood far out to right and left like the wings of a dragon-fly, and this also was strictly in accordance with the fashion of the time. Each cravat, as to color, was in perfect taste, so far as its owner’s complexion was concerned – a delicate pink, in the case of the blond brother, a violent scarlet in the case of the brunette – but as a combination they broke all the laws of taste known to civilization. Nothing more fiendish and irreconcilable than those shrieking and blaspheming colors could have been contrived. The wet boots gave no end of trouble – to Luigi. When they were off at last, Angelo said, with bitterness:

      “I wish you wouldn’t wear such tight boots, they hurt my feet.”

      Luigi answered with indifference:

      “My friend, when I am in command of our body, I choose my apparel according to my own convenience, as I have remarked more than several times already. When you are in command, I beg you will do as you please.”

      Angelo was hurt, and the tears came into his eyes. There was gentle reproach in his voice, but, not anger, when he replied:

      “Luigi, I often consult your wishes, but you never consult mine. When I am in command I treat you as a guest; I try to make you feel at home; when you are in command you treat me as an intruder, you make me feel unwelcome. It embarrasses me cruelly in company, for I can see that people notice it and comment on it.”

      “Oh, damn the people,” responded the brother languidly, and with the air of one who is tired of the subject.

      A slight shudder shook the frame of Angelo, but he said nothing and the conversation ceased. Each buttoned his own share of the nightshirt in silence; then Luigi, with Paine’s Age of Reason in his hand, sat down in one chair and put his feet in another and lit his pipe, while Angelo took his Whole Duty of Man, and both began to read. Angelo presently began to cough; his coughing increased and became mixed with gaspings for breath, and he was finally obliged to make an appeal to his brother’s humanity:

      “Luigi, if you would only smoke a little milder tobacco, I am sure I could learn not to mind it in time, but this is so strong, and the pipe is so rank that – ”

      “Angelo, I wouldn’t be such a baby! I have learned to smoke in a week, and the trouble is already over with me; if you would try, you could learn too, and then you would stop spoiling my comfort with your everlasting complaints.”

      “Ah, brother, that is a strong word – everlasting – and isn’t quite fair. I only complain when I suffocate; you know I don’t complain when we are in the open air.”

      “Well, anyway, you could learn to smoke yourself.”

      “But my principles, Luigi, you forget my principles. You would not have me do a thing which I regard as a sin?”

      “Oh, bosh!”

      The conversation ceased again, for Angelo was sick and discouraged and strangling; but after some time he closed his book and asked Luigi to sing “From Greenland’s Icy Mountains” with him, but he would not, and when he tried to sing by himself Luigi did his best to drown his plaintive tenor with a rude and rollicking song delivered in a thundering bass.

      After the singing there was silence, and neither brother was happy. Before blowing the light out Luigi swallowed half a tumbler of whisky, and Angelo, whose sensitive organization could not endure intoxicants of any kind, took a pill to keep it from giving him the headache.

      CHAPTER II. MA COOPER GETS ALL MIXED UP

      The family sat in the breakfast-room waiting for the twins to come down. The widow was quiet, the daughter was alive with happy excitement. She said:

      “Ah, they’re a boon, ma, just a boon! Don’t you think so?”

      “Laws, I hope so, I don’t know.”

      “Why, ma, yes you do. They’re so fine and handsome, and high-bred and polite, so every way superior to our gawks here in this village; why, they’ll make life different from what it was – so humdrum and commonplace, you know – oh, you may be sure they’re full of accomplishments, and knowledge of the world, and all that, that will be an immense advantage to society here. Don’t you think so, ma?”

      “Mercy on me, how should I know, and I’ve hardly set eyes on them yet.” After a pause she added, “They made considerable noise after they went up.”

      “Noise? Why, ma, they were singing! And it was beautiful, too.”

      “Oh, it was well enough, but too mixed-up, seemed to me.”

      “Now, ma, honor bright, did you ever hear ‘Greenland’s Icy Mountains’ sung sweeter – now did you?”

      “If it had been sung by itself, it would have been uncommon sweet, I don’t deny it; but what they wanted to mix it up with ‘Old Bob Ridley’ for, I can’t make out. Why, they don’t go together, at all. They are not of the same nature. ‘Bob Ridley’ is a common rackety slam-bang secular song, one of the rippingest and rantingest and noisiest there is. I am no judge of music, and I don’t claim it, but in my opinion nobody can make those two songs go together right.”

      “Why, ma, I thought – ”

      “It don’t make any difference what you thought, it can’t be done. They tried it, and to my mind it was a failure. I never heard such a crazy uproar; seemed to me, sometimes, the roof would come off; and as for the cats – well, I’ve lived a many a year, and seen cats aggravated in more ways than one, but I’ve never seen cats take on the way they took on last night.”

      “Well, I don’t think that that goes for anything, ma, because it is the nature of cats that any sound that is unusual – ”

      “Unusual! You may well call it so. Now if they are going to sing duets every night, I do hope they will both sing the same tune at the same time, for in my opinion a duet that is made up of two different tunes is a mistake; especially when the tunes ain’t any kin to one another, that way.”

      “But, ma, I think it must be a foreign custom; and it must be right too; and the best way, because they have had every opportunity to know what is right, and it don’t stand to reason that with their education they would do anything but what the highest musical authorities have sanctioned. You can’t help but admit that, ma.”

      The argument was formidably strong; the old lady could not find any way around it; so, after thinking it over awhile she gave in with a sigh of discontent, and admitted that the daughter’s position was probably correct. Being vanquished, she had no mind to continue the topic at that disadvantage, and was about to seek a change when a change came of itself. A footstep was heard on the stairs, and she said:

      “There-he’s coming!”

      “They,