The Wrong Twin

by Harry Leon Wilson

A gentleman makes no noise; a lady is serene.—Emerson.

He remained silent. He was not going to make any noise. At length he could hear preparations for departure.

"Merle, dear, your hat is on the piano—Mother, hand him his hat—I'll bring his suitcase."

"Well, I'll be sure to come back to see you all some day."

"Yes, now don't forget us—no, we mustn't let him do that."

They were out on the porch, going down the walk. The listener stepped lightly to a window and became also a watcher. Ahead walked Patricia Whipple and her new brother. The stepmother and Mrs. Penniman followed. Then came Winona with the suitcase, which was of wicker. Judge Penniman lumbered ponderously behind. At the hitching post in front was the pony cart and the fat pony of sickening memory. Merle was politely helping the step-mother to the driver's seat. It was over. But the watcher suddenly recalled something.

In swift silence, descending the stairs, he entered the parlour. On a stand beneath the powerful picture of the lion behind real bars was a frosted cake of rare beauty. Three pieces were gone and two more were cut. On top of each piece was the half of a walnut meat. He tenderly seized one of these and stole through the deserted house, through kitchen and woodshed, out to the free air again. Back of the woodshed he sat down on the hard bare ground, his back to its wall, looking into the garden where Judge Penniman, in the intervals of his suffering, raised a few vegetables. It was safe seclusion for the pleasant task in hand. He gloated rapturously over the cake, eating first the half of the walnut meat, which he carefully removed. But he thought it didn't taste right.

He now regarded the cake itself uncertainly. It was surely perfect cake. He broke a fragment from the thin edge and tasted it almost fearfully. It wasn't going right. He persisted with a larger fragment, but upon this he was like to choke; his mouth was dry and curiously no place for even the choicest cake. He wondered about it in something like panic, staring at it in puzzled consternation. There was the choice thing and he couldn't eat it. Then he became aware that his eyes were hot, the lids burning; and there came a choking, even though he no longer had any cake in his mouth. Suddenly he knew that he couldn't eat the cake because he had lost his brother—his brother who had passed on. He gulped alarmingly as the full knowledge overwhelmed him. He was wishing that Merle had kept the knife, even if it wasn't such a good knife, so he would have something to remember him by. Now he would have nothing. He, Wilbur, would always remember Merle, even if he was no longer a twin, but Merle would surely forget him. He had passed on.

Over by the little house he heard the bark of Frank, the dog. Frank's voice was changing, and his bark was now a promising baritone. His owner tried to whistle, but made poor work of this, so he called, "Here, Frank! Here, Frank!" reckless of betraying his own whereabouts. His voice was not clear, it still choked, but it carried; Frank came bounding to him. He had a dog left, anyway—a good fighting dog. His eyes still burned, but they were no longer dry, and his gulps were periodic, threatening a catastrophe of the most dreadful sort.

Frank, the dog, swallowed the cake hungrily, eating it with a terrible ease, as he was wont to eat enemy dogs.