“So am I, but that’s all the good it’ll do. If they don’t put enough on you in your room they’ll tackle you outside, when you’re alone, and maybe chuck you into the river or lake, or make you walk Spanish, or force you to parade through town doing the wheelbarrow act. Oh, you’ve got to take some hazing in one form or another.”
“Well, I don’t mind getting my share. So they’re coming to-night, eh?”
“So the twin said.”
“The twin—who’s he?”
“The little fellow that brought word. I don’t know whether he was Jerry or Joe Jackson. I didn’t look closely enough to see.”
“Why, is it hard to tell?”
“Sure. They’re two brothers, Jerry and Joe. They come from some town in New Jersey. We call them the ‘Jersey Twins,’ and they look so much alike it’s hard to tell them apart. The only way you can tell is when they’re playing ball.”
“How then?”
“Why, Jerry plays right field, and Joe left. Then it’s easy to say which is which; but when they come to bat it always happens that some one on the other team makes a kick. They think we’re ringing in the same man twice, and we have to explain. That’s what I’ve heard. Of course, I’ve only been here a week.”
“Oh, then they’ve played here some time?”