Ozzie B. was his twin brother—his “after clap”—as Archie B. called him. He was timid, uncertain, pious and given to tears—“bo'hn on a wet Friday”—as Archie B. had often said. He was always the effect of Archie B.'s cause, the illustration of his theorem, the solution of his problem of mischief, the penalty of his misdemeanors.
Presently Ozzie B. came in sight, hatless and driving his cows along, but sobbing in that hiccoughy way which is the final stage of an acute thrashing.
No one saw more quickly than Archie B., and he knew instantly that his brother had met Jud Carpenter, on his way back to the mill.
“He's caught my lickin' ag'in,” said Archie B., indignantly—“it's a pity he looks so much like me.”
It was true, and Ozzie B. stood and dug one toe into the ground, and sobbed and wiped his eyes on his shirt sleeve, and told how, in spite of his explanations and beseechings, the Whipper-in had met him down the road and thrashed him unmercifully.
“Ozzie B.,” said his brother, “you make me tired all over and in spots. I hate for as big a fool as you to look like me. Whyncher run—whyncher dodge him?”
“I—I—wanted ter do my duty,” sobbed Ozzie B. “Maw tole me ter drive—drive the cows right up the road—”
Archie B. surveyed him with fine scorn:
“When the Devil's got the road,” said Archie B., “decent fo'ks had better take to the wood. I'd fixed him an' his ole dorg, an' now you come along an' spile it all.”
He made a cross mark in the road and spat on it. Then he turned with his back to the cross, threw his hat over his head and said slowly: “Venture pee wee under the bridge! bam—bam—bam!”