CHAPTER VII
The ensuing week was marked for the Cowan-Penniman household bysensational developments. To Dave Cowan on Monday morning, standing athis case in the _Advance_ office, nimbly filling his stick with type,following the loosely written copy turned in by Sam Pickering, theeditor, had portentously come a messenger from the First National Bankto know if Mr. Cowan could find it convenient that day to give Harvey D.Whipple a few moments of his time. Dave's business life had hitherto notincluded any contact with bankers; he had simply never been in a bank.The message left him not a little disturbed.
The messenger, Julius Farrow, a bookkeeper, could answer no questions.He knew only that Harvey D. had been very polite about it, and if Davecouldn't find it convenient to-day he was to say when he might find itconvenient to have a conference. Dave felt relieved at hearing the word"conference." A mere summons to a strange place like a bank might besinister, but a polite invitation to a conference at his convenience wasdifferent. He put down his half-filled stick. He had been at work on the_Advance_ locals for the Wednesday paper, two and three-line items totell of the trivial going and coming of nobodies which he was wont toset up with an accompaniment of satirical comment on small-townactivities. He had broken off in the midst of perpetuating in breviertype the circumstance that Adelia May Simsbury was home from normalschool over Sunday to visit her parents, Rufus G. Simsbury and wife,north of town.
"I'll go with you," Dave told Julius Farrow. "I can always find a littletime for bankers. I never kept one waiting yet, and I won't begin now.Ask any of em--they'll tell you I come when called."
Julius looked puzzled, but offered no comment. Dave doffed his greeneye-shade and his apron of striped ticking, hastily dampened his handsin the tin washbasin and wiped them on a roller towel rich in historicassociations. He spent a moment upon his hair before a small, wavy, anddiagonally cracked mirror, put on his blue cutaway coat and his derbyhat and called, "Back in five minutes, Sam," casually into the open doorof another room, where Sam Pickering wrestled with a fearless editorialon the need of better street lighting. It seemed to Dave that fiveminutes would amply suffice for any talk a banker might be needing withhim.
In the back office of the First National Bank he was presently ensconcedat a shining table of mahogany across from Harvey D. Whipple and hisfather--the dubious trousers and worn shoes hidden beneath the table sothat visibly he was all but well dressed.
"Smoke?" asked Gideon, and proffered an open cigar case.
"Thanks," said Dave, "I'll smoke it later."
He placed a cigar in the upper left-hand pocket of the eminently plaidwaistcoat from whence already protruded the handle of a toothbrush and afountain pen. He preened his moustache, smoothed his hair, waited.
Harvey D. coughed in a promising manner, set a wire basket of paperssquare with the corners of the table, and began.
"We have been thinking, Mr. Cowan, my father and I--you see--"
He talked on, but without appeasing Dave's curiosity. Something aboutDave's having boys, he gathered, and about the Whipples not having them;but it occurred to Dave again and again as Harvey wandered on that thiswas a discrepancy not in his power to correct. Once a monstroussuspicion startled him--this conference, so called, was shaping intonothing less than a proposal on behalf of the person he had socarelessly saluted the day before. It was terrifying; he grew cold withpure fright. But that was like some women--once show them a littleattention, they expected everything!
Gideon Whipple mercifully broke in while Harvey D. floundered upon aninconclusive period. Gideon was not nervous, and saw little need forstrategy with this rather vagabondish fellow.
"In short, Mr. Cowan, my son offers to adopt that boy of yours--make himhis own son in name--and opportunities and advantages--his own son."
So it was only that! Dave drew a long, pleasant breath and wiped hisbrow. Then he took a pencil from the table and began to draw squares andtriangles and diamond patterns upon a pad of soft paper that lay athand.
"Well--I don't know." His eyes followed the pencil point. Nor did heknow until it presently developed that the desired adoption was of theMerle twin. He had supposed, without debate, that they would be meaningthe other. "You mean Merle," he said at last on some leading ofGideon's.
"To be sure!" said Harvey D., as if there could have been no question ofanother.
"Oh, him!" said Dave--there was relief in his tone. "You're sure youmean him?"
"But of course!" said Harvey D., brightening.
"All right," said Dave. He felt they were taking the wrong twin, but hefelt also that he must not let them see this--they might then want theother. "All right, I'll agree to that. He's a bright boy; it ought to bea good thing for him."
"Ought to be!" quoted Harvey D. with humorous warmth. "But, of course,it will be! You realize what it will mean for him--advantages,opportunities, education, travel, family, a future!--the Whippleestate--but, of course, we feel that under our training he will be acredit to us. He will be one of us--a Whipple in name and in fact."
Dave Cowan ceased to draw angled designs on his pad; he now drewcircles, ovals, ellipses, things fluent with curves.
"All right," he said, "I'm willing, I want to do the best I can for theboy. I'm glad you feel he's the right one for you. Of course the otherboy--well, they're twins, but he's different."
"We are certain you will never regret it," said Harvey D., warmly.
"We feel that you are wise to agree," said Gideon. "So then--"
"Papers to sign?" said Dave.
"Our lawyer will have them to-morrow," said Harvey D.
"Good!" said Dave.
He was presently back at his case, embalming for posterity the knowledgethat Grandma Milledge was able to be out again these sunny days after ahard tussle with her old enemy sciatica. But before passing to the nextitem he took Gideon's choice cigar from the upper waistcoat pocket,crumpled it, rubbed it to fine bits between the palms of his hands, andfilled the calabash pipe with its debris. As he smoked he looked out thewindow that gave on River Street. Across the way was the yellow brickstructure of the bank he had just left. He was seeing a future presidentof that sound institution, Merle Whipple, born Cowan. He was glad theyhadn't wanted the other one. The other one would want to be somethingmore interesting surely than a small-town bank president. Have him learna good loose trade and see the world--get into real life! But they'd hadhim going for a minute--when the only meaning he could get from HarveyD.'s roundabout talk was that the old girl of yesterday hadmisunderstood his attentions. That would have been a nice fix to findhimself in! But Merle was off his mind; he would become a real Whippleand some day be the head of the family. Funny thing for a Cowan to fallinto! He turned to his dusty case and set up the next item on his yellowcopy paper.
"Rumour hath it that Sandy Seaver's Sunday trips out of town meanbusiness, and that a certain bright resident of Geneseo will shortlybecome Mrs. Sandy."
He paused again. All at once it seemed to him that the Whipples had beenhasty. They would get to thinking the thing over and drop it; nevermention it to him again. Well, he was willing to let it drop. Hewouldn't mention it again if they didn't. He would tell no one.
* * * * *
Nor did he speak of it until the following evening, after the Whippleshad surprisingly not only mentioned it again but had operated in thelittle bank office, under the supervision of Squire Culbreth, a simplemechanism of the law which left him the legal father of but one son.Then he went to astonish the Pennimans with his news, only to find thatWinona had secretively nursed it even longer than he had. Mrs. Pennimanhad also been told of the probability of this great event, but,nevertheless, wept gently when Dave certified to her its irrevocableconsummation. Only Judge Penniman remained to be startled; and he, beingirritated that others had enjoyed a foreknowledge guiltily withheld fromhim, chose to pretend that he, too, had been mysteriously enlightened.He had, he said, seen the thing coming. He became at the supper table acrea
ture of gnawing and baffled curiosity which he must hide by boastingan intimate acquaintance with Whipple motives and intentions. Heintimated that but for his advice and counsel the great event might nothave come about. The initiative had been his, though certain otherpeople might claim the credit. Of course he hadn't wanted to talk aboutit before. He guessed he could keep a close mouth as well as the nextone.
The Merle twin at this momentous meal sat as one enthroned, receivingtribute from fawning subjects. His name was already Merle Whipple, andhe was going to have a pony to ride, and he would come sometimes to seethem. His cordial tolerance of them quite overcame Mrs. Penniman again.She had to feign an errand to the kitchen stove, and came back droppingthe edge of her apron from her eyes. Winona was exalted; she felt thather careful training of the child had raised him to this eminence, andshe rejoiced in it as a tribute to her capacity. Her labours had beenrichly rewarded. Dave Cowan alone seemed not to be enough impressed bythe honours heaped upon his son. He jestingly spoke of him as a crownprince. He said if you really had to stay in a small town you might aswell be adopted by the Whipples as any one else.
The Wilbur twin was abashed and puzzled. The detail most impressing himseemed to be that, having no longer a brother, he would cease to be atwin. His life long he had been made intensely conscious of being atwin--he was one of a pair--and now suddenly, he gathered, he wassomething whole and complete in himself. He demanded assurance on thispoint.
"Then I'm not going to be a twin any longer? I mean, I'm not going to beone of a twins? It won't change my name, too, will it?"
His father enlightened him.
"No, there's still a couple of Cowans left to keep the name going. Wewon't have to be small-towners unless we want to," he added.
He suspected that the Wilbur twin felt slighted and hurt at being passedover, and would be needing comfort. But it appeared that the severedtwin felt nothing of that sort. He was merely curious--not wounded orenvious.
"I wouldn't want to change to a new name," he declared. "I'd forget andgo back to the old one."
He wanted to add that maybe his new dog would not know him under anothername, but he was afraid of being laughed at for that.
"Merle never forgets," said Winona. "He will be a shining credit to hisnew name." She helped the chosen one to more jelly, which he acceptedamiably. "And he will be a lovely little brother to Patricia Whipple,"she fondly added.
This left the Wilbur twin cold. He would like to have a pony, but hewould not wish to be Patricia Whipple's brother. He now recalled herunpleasantly. She was a difficult person.
"Give Merle another bit of the steak, Mother," urged Judge Penniman.
The judge had begun to dwell upon his own new importance. This thingmade him by law a connection of the Whipple family, didn't it? He, RufusTyler Penniman, had become at least a partial Whipple. He reflectedpleasantly upon the consequences.
"Will he go home to-night?" suddenly demanded the Wilbur twin, pointingat his brother so there should be no mistake. The Merle twin seemedalready a stranger to him.
"Not to-night, dear, but in a few days, I would suppose." It sent Mrs.Penniman to the stove again.
"I don't just know when I will go," said the Merle twin, surveying areplenished plate. "But I guess I'll give you back that knife you boughtme; I probably won't need it up there. I'll probably have plenty ofbetter knives than that knife."
The Wilbur twin questioned this, but hid his doubt. Surely there couldbe few better knives in the whole world than one with a thing to digstones out of horses' feet. Anyway, he would be glad to have it, and wasglad the promise had been made before witnesses.
After supper on the porch Dave Cowan in the hammock picked chords andscraps of melody from his guitar, quite as if nothing had happened.Judge Penniman, in his wicker chair, continued to muse upon certainpleasant contingencies of this new situation. It had occurred to himthat Dave Cowan himself would be even more a Whipple than any Penniman,and would enjoy superior advantages inevitably rising from thiscircumstance.
"That family will naturally want to do something for you, too, Dave," hesaid at last.
"Do something for me?" Dave's fingers hung waiting above the strings.
"Why not? You're the boy's father, ain't you? Facts is facts, no matterwhat the law says. You're his absolute progenitor, ain't you? Well, youliving here in the same town, they'll naturally want you to be somebody,won't they?"
"Oh!" Dave struck the waiting chord. "Well, I am somebody, ain't I?"
The judge waved this aside with a fat, deprecating hand.
"Oh, in that way! Of course, everybody's somebody--every living,breathing soul. But what I'm getting at--they'll naturally try to makesomething out of you, instead of just being kind of a no-account trampprinter."
"Ha! Is that so, old small-towner?"
"Shouldn't wonder if they'd want to take you into the bank,mebbe--cashier or something, or manage one of the farms or factories, orset you up in business of some kind. You might git to be president ofthe First National."
"They might make you a director, too, I suppose."
"Well, you can snicker, but stranger things have happened."
The judge reflected, seeing himself truly a bank director, wearing hissilk hat and frock coat every day--perhaps playing checkers with HarveyD. in the back office at quiet moments. Bank directing would surely be asuitable occupation for an invalid. Dave muted the vibrant strings witha hand.
"Listen, Old Flapdoodle! I wouldn't tie myself up in this one-horsebunch of hovels, not if they'd give me the bank and all the money in itand all the Whipple farms and throw in the post office and the jail andthe depot. Get that?"
"Ho! Sour grapes!" returned the judge, stung to a biting wit by thecoarse form of address. But Dave played music above the taunt.
* * * * *
Nevertheless, he was not wholly surprised the following day when,politely invited to another conference at the bank, old Gideon Whipple,alone there, put the matter of his future somewhat after the manner ofJudge Penniman, though far less crudely. Old Gideon sat across thetable from him, and after Dave had put a cigar in his upper left-handwaistcoat pocket he became considerate but pointed.
"My son and I have been talking, Mr. Cowan, and we agree that somethingis due you as the boy's father. We want to show you everyconsideration--show it liberally. You seem to have led rather an--shallwe say an unsettled life up to this time? Not that it's anything to becriticised; you follow your own tastes, as every man should. But itoccurred to us that you might care to feel more settled in some stableoccupation where you could look forward to a solid future--all that sortof thing."
Dave nodded, waiting, trying to word the talk the old man and his sonwould have had about him. Harvey Whipple would have been troubled at thenear presence of the father of his new son as a mere journeyman printer.Undoubtedly the two would have used the phrase the judge had used--theywould want him to make something of himself.
"So we've felt," went on Gideon, "that you might care to engage in somebusiness here in Newbern--establish yourself, soundly and prosperously,as it were, so that your son, though maturing under differentcircumstances, would yet feel a pride in your standing in the community.Of course, this is tentative--I'm sounding you, only. You may have quiteother ideas. You may have laid out an entirely different future foryourself in some other field. But I wanted to let you know that we standready to finance liberally any business you would care to engage in,either here or elsewhere. It isn't that we are crudely offering youmoney. I wish you to understand that. But we offer you help, both inmoney and counsel and influence. In the event of your caring toestablish yourself here, we would see that your foundation wassubstantial. I think that says what I wanted to say."
During much of this Dave Cowan had been musing in a lively manner uponthe other's supposition that he should have laid out a future forhimself. He was amused at the notion. Of course he had laid out afuture, but not the sort a Whipple would lay out
. He was already livinghis future and found it good. Yet he felt the genuine good will of theold man, and sought words to reject his offer gracefully. He must notput it so bluntly as he had to Judge Penniman. The old man would not beable to understand that no bribe within human reach would tempt him toremain in Newbern Center; nor did he wish to be established on a soundbasis anywhere else. He did not wish to be established at all.
"I'm much obliged," he said at last, "but I guess I won't trouble youand your son in any way. You see, I kind of like to live round and seethings and go places--I don't know that I can explain it exactly."
"We have even thought you might like to acquire the journal on which youare now employed," said Gideon. "We understand it can be bought; westand ready to purchase it and make it over to you."
"Any country newspaper can always be bought any time," said Dave. "Theirowners always want to sell, and it's mighty kind of you and your son,but--well, I just couldn't settle down to be a country editor. I'd gocrazy," he confessed in a sudden burst of frankness, and beaming uponGideon; "I'd as soon be shut in jail."
"Or anything else you might think of," said Gideon, cordially, "notnecessarily in this town."
"Well, I'd rather not; I guess I'm not one to have responsibilities; Iwouldn't have an easy minute spending your money. I wouldn't ever beable to feel free with it, not the way I feel with my own. I guess Ijust better kind of go my own way; I like to work when I want to andstop when I want to, and no one having any right to ask me what I quitfor and why don't I keep on and make something of myself. I guess it'sno good your trying to help me in any way. Of course I appreciate it andall that. It was kindly thought of by you. But--I hope my boy will be acredit to you just the same."
The conference closed upon this. Dave left it feeling that he had easedhis refusal into soft, ambiguous phrases; but old Gideon, reporting toHarvey D., said: "That chap hates a small town. What he really wanted totell me was that he wouldn't settle down here for all the money in theworld. He really laughed at me inside for offering him the chance. Hepities us for having to stay here, I do believe. And he wouldn't talk oftaking money for any enterprise elsewhere, either. He's eitherindependent or shiftless--both, maybe. He said," Gideon laughednoiselessly, "he said he wouldn't ever be able to feel free with ourmoney the way he does with his own."
* * * * *
The Whipples, it proved, would be in no indecent haste to remove theirnew member from his humbler environment. On Wednesday it was conveyed toWinona that they would come for Merle in a few days, which left thePenniman household and the twins variously concerned as to the precisemeaning of this phrase. It sounded elastic. But on Thursday Winona wasable to announce that the day would be Saturday. They would come forMerle Saturday afternoon. She had been told this distinctly by Mrs.Harvey D. Though her informant had set no hour, Winona thought it wouldbe three o'clock. She believed the importance of the affair demanded thesetting of an exact hour, and there was something about three o'clockthat commended itself to her. From this moment the atmosphere of thePenniman house was increasingly strained. There were preparations. Theslender wardrobe of the crown prince of the Whipple dynasty was put inperfect order, and two items newly added to it by the direction of DaveCowan. The boy must have a new hat and new shoes. The judge pointed outto the prodigal father that these purchases should rightly be made withWhipple money. Dave needn't buy shoes and hats for Merle Whipple anymore than he need buy them for any other Whipple, but Dave hadstubbornly squandered his own money. His boy wasn't going up to the bighouse like a ragamuffin.
It came to the Wilbur twin that these days until Saturday were like thedays intervening in a house of death until the funeral. He becameincreasingly shy and uncomfortable. It seemed to him that his brotherhad passed on, as they said, his mortal remains to be disposed of onSaturday at three o'clock. Having led a good life he would go to heaven,where he would have a pony and a thousand knives if he wanted them. Thestrain in the house, the excitement of Winona, the periodic, furtiveweeping of Mrs. Penniman, the detached, uplifted manner of the chieffigure, all confirmed him in this impression. Even Judge Penniman, whohad been wont to speak of "them twins," now spoke of "that boy," meaningbut the Wilbur twin.
By two o'clock of the momentous Saturday afternoon the tension was atits highest. Merle, dressed in his Sunday clothes, trod squeakily in thenew shoes, which were button shoes surpassing in elegance any he hadhitherto worn. As Dave Cowan had remarked, they were as good shoes asWhipple money would ever buy him. And the new hat, firm of line and richin texture, a hat such as no boy could possibly wear except on Sunday,unless he were a very rich boy, reposed on the centre table in theparlour. Winona, flushed and tightly dressed, nervously altered thearrangement of chairs in the parlour, or remembered some belonging ofthe deceased that should go into the suitcase containing his freshlystarched blouses. Mrs. Penniman, also flushed and tightly dressed,affected to busy herself likewise with minor preparations for thedeparture, but this chiefly afforded her opportunities for quiet weepingin secluded corners. After these moments of relief she would becomeelaborately cheerful, as if the occasion were festal. Even the judgegrew nervous with anticipation. In his frock coat and striped graytrousers he walked heavily from room to room, comparing the clock withhis watch, forgetting that he was not supposed to walk freely exceptwith acute suffering. Merle chattered blithely about how he would comeback to see them, with unfortunate effects upon Mrs. Penniman.
The Wilbur twin knew this atmosphere. When little Georgie Finkboner haddied a few months before, had he not been taken to the house of mourningand compelled to stay through a distressing funeral? It was like thatnow, and he was uncomfortable beyond endurance. Twice Winona hadreminded him that he must go and put on his own Sunday clothes--nothingless than this would be thought suitable. He had said he would, but haddawdled skillfully and was still unfitly in bare feet and the shabbygarments of a weekday. He knew definitely now that he was not going tobe present at this terrible ceremony.
He had no doubt there would be a ceremony--all the Whipples arriving intheir own Sunday clothes, maybe the preacher coming with them; and theywould sit silently in the parlour the way they did at the Finkbonerhouse, and maybe the preacher would talk, and maybe they would sing orpray or something, and then they would take Merle away. He was not to beblamed for this happily inaccurate picture; he was justified by thebehaviour of Winona and her mother. And he was not going to be there! Hewouldn't exactly run away; he felt a morbid wish to watch the thing ifhe could be apart from it; but he was going to be apart. He rememberedtoo well the scene at the Finkboner house--and the smell of tuberoses.Winona had unaccustomed flowers in the parlour now--not tuberoses, butalmost as bad. Until a quarter to three he expertly shuffled and dawdledand evaded. Then Winona took a stand with him.
"Wilbur Cowan, go at once and dress yourself properly! Do you expect toappear before the Whipples that way?"
He vanished in a flurry of seeming obedience. He went openly through thefront door of the little house into the side yard, but paused not untilhe reached its back door, where he stood waiting. When he guessed he hadbeen there fifteen minutes he prepared to change his lurking place.Winona would be coming for him. He stepped out and looked round thecorner of the little house, feeling inconsequently the thrill of ascout among hostile red Indians as described in a favoured romance.
The lawn between the little house and the big house was free ofsearchers. He drew a long breath and made a swift dash to furtherobscurity in the lee of the Penniman woodshed. He skirted the end ofthis structure and peered about its corner, estimating the distance tothe side door. But this was risky; it would bring him in view of akitchen window whence some busybody might observe him. But there was anopen window above him giving entrance to the woodshed. He leaped tocatch its sill and clambered up to look in. The woodshed was vacant ofPennimans, and its shadowy silence promised security. He dropped fromthe window ledge. There was no floor beneath, so that the drop wasgreater than h
e had counted on. He fell among loose kindling wood withmore noise than he would have desired, quickly rose, stumbled in thedusk against a bucket half filled with whitewash, and sprawled againinto a pile of soft coal.
"Gee, gosh!" he muttered, heartily, as he rose a second time.
Both the well-spread pallor of the whitewash and the sable sprinkling ofcoal dust put him beyond any chance of a felicitous public appearance.But he was safe in a dusky corner. He remained there, breathing heavily.At last he heard Winona call him from the Penniman porch. Twice shecalled; then he knew she would be crossing to the little house to knowwhat detained him. He heard her call again--knew that she would besearching the four rooms over there. She wouldn't think of the woodshed.He sat there a long while, steadily regarding the closed screen doorthat led to the kitchen, ready to mingle deceptively with the coalshould any one appear.
At last he heard a bustle within the house. There were hurried steppingsto and fro by Winona and her mother, the heavy tread of the judge, amurmur of high voices. The Whipples must have come, and every one wouldbe at the front of the house. He crept from his corner, climbed to thefloor from where it had been opened for wood and coal, and went softlyto the kitchen door. He listened a moment through the screen, thenentered and went noiselessly up the back stairs. Coming to the head ofthe front stairway, he listened again. There were other voices in front,and he shrank to the wall. He gathered that only the Whipple stepmotherand Patricia had come--no other Whipples, no preacher. It might not havebeen so bad. Still he didn't want to be there.
They were at the front door now, headed for the parlour. Someone pausedat the foot of the stairs, and in quick alarm he darted along the halland into an open door. He was in the neat bedroom of Winona,shortbreathed, made doubly nervous by boards that had creaked under histread. He stood listening. They were in the parlour, a babble of voicescoming up to him; excited voices, but not funeral voices. His eyes rovedthe chamber of Winona, where everything was precisely in its place. Hemapped out a dive under her bed if steps came up the stairs. He heardnow the piping voice of Patricia Whipple.
"It's like in the book about Ben Blunt that was adopted by a kind oldgentleman and went up from rags to riches."
This for some reason seemed to cause laughter below.
He heard, from Winona: "Do try a piece of Mother's cake. Merle, dear,give Mrs. Whipple a plate and napkin."
Cake! Certainly nothing like cake for this occasion had been intimatedto him! They hadn't had cake at the Finkboners. Things might have beendifferent, but they had kept still about cake. He listened intently,hearing laughing references to Merle in his new home. Then once moreWinona came to the front door and called him.
"Wilbur--Wil-bur-r-r! Where can that child be!" he heard her demand. Shewent to the back of the house and more faintly he heard her again callhis name--"Wilbur, Wil-bur-r-r!" Then, with discernible impatience, moreshortly, "Wilbur Cowan!" He was intently regarding a printed placardthat hung on the wall beside Winona's bureau. It read:
A gentleman makes no noise; a lady is serene.--Emerson.
He remained silent. He was not going to make any noise. At length hecould hear preparations for departure.
"Merle, dear, your hat is on the piano--Mother, hand him his hat--I'llbring 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 steppedlightly to a window and became also a watcher. Ahead walked PatriciaWhipple and her new brother. The stepmother and Mrs. Penniman followed.Then came Winona with the suitcase, which was of wicker. Judge Pennimanlumbered ponderously behind. At the hitching post in front was the ponycart and the fat pony of sickening memory. Merle was politely helpingthe step-mother to the driver's seat. It was over. But the watchersuddenly recalled something.
In swift silence, descending the stairs, he entered the parlour. On astand beneath the powerful picture of the lion behind real bars was afrosted cake of rare beauty. Three pieces were gone and two more werecut. On top of each piece was the half of a walnut meat. He tenderlyseized one of these and stole through the deserted house, throughkitchen and woodshed, out to the free air again. Back of the woodshed hesat down on the hard bare ground, his back to its wall, looking into thegarden where Judge Penniman, in the intervals of his suffering, raised afew vegetables. It was safe seclusion for the pleasant task in hand. Hegloated rapturously over the cake, eating first the half of the walnutmeat, which he carefully removed. But he thought it didn't taste right.
He now regarded the cake itself uncertainly. It was surely perfectcake. He broke a fragment from the thin edge and tasted it almostfearfully. 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 noplace for even the choicest cake. He wondered about it in something likepanic, staring at it in puzzled consternation. There was the choicething and he couldn't eat it. Then he became aware that his eyes werehot, the lids burning; and there came a choking, even though he nolonger had any cake in his mouth. Suddenly he knew that he couldn't eatthe cake because he had lost his brother--his brother who had passed on.He gulped alarmingly as the full knowledge overwhelmed him. He waswishing that Merle had kept the knife, even if it wasn't such a goodknife, so he would have something to remember him by. Now he would havenothing. He, Wilbur, would always remember Merle, even if he was nolonger 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'svoice was changing, and his bark was now a promising baritone. His ownertried to whistle, but made poor work of this, so he called, "Here,Frank! Here, Frank!" reckless of betraying his own whereabouts. Hisvoice was not clear, it still choked, but it carried; Frank camebounding to him. He had a dog left, anyway--a good fighting dog. Hiseyes still burned, but they were no longer dry, and his gulps wereperiodic, threatening a catastrophe of the most dreadful sort.
Frank, the dog, swallowed the cake hungrily, eating it with a terribleease, as he was wont to eat enemy dogs.
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