They were orphans, and had their home with an illiterate stepfather, whose early mistake of punishing one child for the fault of the other raised the first barrier between them. The guilty boy was amused at the mistake; but the victim, smarting with pain and a sense of injustice, could not appreciate the humor of the situation, and waited for a reversal of conditions, which, not happening immediately, he brought about by a deliberate offense and an accusation of the other.
Then followed reprisal met with reprisal and in time each boy hated the other with a hatred that dominated all other emotions, and, inspired by previous grievance, would hesitate at no dishonorable and unboyish trick whereby he might create trouble for him. It was genuine community of soul; for it manifested itself in other and more pleasing ways, and without mutual prompting. If one felt like playing hooky, the other felt the impulse, and they would come together; but only to separate with snarls. If one liked another boy, the twin shared the liking; and, conversely, each disliked the enemy of the other, though never to the point of defending him. They fought each other often; but never was victory given to either. Each battle was a draw, and supremacy could not be established; for neither would surrender until the other was ready to.
So conditioned, physically, mentally, and morally, the cumulative effect of the vicarious suffering of each brought them to the murder mind when, at nineteen, they fell in love with the same maiden. The episode need only be mentioned. They made love in the same way, and the maiden repulsed each with the same catholic impartiality. Neither might have won her alone; but both thought so, and in the furious battle with fists, stones, and clubs that followed they received injuries which, with the stepfatherly horse-whipping that came to them, laid them up for a week. Had they been endowed with a sense of humor, or had they been separated long enough to acquire one, they might have been spared the soul-consuming malignancy that now possessed them; as it was, each rose from bed while hardly able to walk, and, resolved to get away from the other, ran away from home, stowing away in the same ship, a three-skysail yarder bound to Sydney.
These things I learned from the maiden referred to, whose father commanded the big ship, and from later inquiry in their native village. From now on, however, they were more or less under my immediate attention; for I was second mate of that ship.
Mr. Butterell, the first mate, hauled Bill out of the paint locker about the same time that I found Tom in the lazarette, and we brought the two together under the break of the poop for the captain's inspection and decision. It was plain from their faces as they eyed each other that neither had expected to find the other on board; but, after glaring at each other for a moment, they assumed a moody indifference, which left them only for an instant when a low voice on the poop above said, "Why, Papa! The Landon boys!"
I was surprised myself—though agreeably so—for I did not know that Mabel was to make the voyage with us, and, looking up to where she stood with her father, I received a nod and a smile.
A little here, in parenthesis, about myself. I was twenty-four, and had sailed four voyages with Captain Merwin, the last two as second mate, mainly to keep in touch with this girl who, as a child of fourteen, had been my shipmate on the first. And because of this I felt a secret disappointment that the captain had not signed me first mate on this occasion instead of second; for I had entertained a youthful hope and ambition to present myself to her as her father's first officer when we met again. But the highly efficient, handsome, and self-confident Mr. Butterell had forestalled me in this; though I did not dream at the time that he would also forestall me with Mabel, or that the two loutish stowaways had attempted to.
They were tall, well built, and with a look of crafty intelligence in their faces, which, with their embarrassment and their ill-fitting clothes, bespoke the village loafer. Only by these clothes could they be told apart. They were exactly alike, each with the same red hair, high cheekbones, and squinting green eyes, and each chewed tobacco and spat on the deck in a way to bring disapproval to the face of the gray old skipper.
"You are stowaways," he said, "and, as my daughter informs me, brothers, from my own home town. Why have you done this?"
"To get away from him," grunted Tom, jerking his thumb toward Bill. "I hate him like so much pizen."