The owners of the two caps had jumped away with an alacrity born of experience, and had started to run. They looked back and stopped.
"Hello!" they cried, together, in surprise. "Is wh—wh—what, Ch—Ch—Charlie?"
"Twins," Sally answered in triumph; "aren't you?"
The twins nodded. "C—c—course we are," said one. "Any—any—any—b—ody know that."
"Wh—wh—what's your n—n—name?" asked the other.
"And wh—wh—who's Ch—Ch—Charlie?"
"My name is Sally Ladue," replied Sally, "and Charlie's my brother." Charlie popped his head above the fence. "We've come," she continued, thinking that she might save the twins the painful process of speech, "we've come to live here."
"W—w—with P—P—Patty H.?" asked one of the twins, in a hoarse whisper.
It was impossible for any one who was not very familiar with them to tell whether it was the same twin who had spoken last or the other one; and Sally had taken her eyes off them when she spoke of Charlie.
"With Uncle John and Cousin Martha," she answered. "I've never called her Patty H. and I don't think it's very respectful."