The Turner Twins

CHAPTER I – INTRODUCES A PAIR OF HEROES

“Jail,” said the boy in the gray flannels.

“School,” pronounced the boy in the blue serge.

“Bet you!”

“No, sir, you owe me ten cents now. You didn’t pay up the last time.”

“It’s wrong to bet for money, Ned.”

The other set down the suitcase he was carrying and scoffed. “Yes, when you lose,” he observed, with deep sarcasm. “That’s thirty-five cents you owe me. You bet in Chicago that – ”

“That debt’s outlawed. Chicago’s in Michigan – ”

“Bet you!”

“And this is New York, and so – ”

“Mighty good thing Dad sent you to school, Laurie. Chicago’s in Illinois, you ignoramus.”

“Is it? Well, who cares?” Laurence Stenman Turner had also deposited the bag he was carrying on the brick sidewalk and was applying a lavender-bordered handkerchief to a moist brow. “Just the same, that’s a jail.”

“If that’s a jail, I’ll eat my hat,” declared the other,

“It’s not a school, though, and that’s flat,” was the prompt retort.

“Huh, that was an easy one!” Edward Anderson Turner retreated to a flat-topped stone wall bordering a well-shaded lawn and seated himself with a sigh of relief. His companion followed suit. Behind them, grass and trees and flower beds made a pleasant setting for a square gray house, half hidden from the street. Overhead a horse-chestnut tree spread low branches across the sidewalk. The quiet village street ascended gently, curving as it went, empty in both directions. Somewhere on a neighboring thoroughfare a scissors-grinder was punctuating the silence with the musical ding – dang – dong of bells. In a near-by tree a locust was making his shrill clatter. Across the way, the subject of contention, stood a large red-brick edifice, stone trimmed, many windowed, costly and unlovely. The boys viewed it silently. Then their glances fell to the two black suitcases on the curbing.

“How far did that hombre say it was to the school?” asked Ned Turner, after a minute of silence.

“Three quarters of a mile.”

“How far have we walked already?”

“Mile and a half.”

“Consequently?”

“Said hombre was a li – was unvoracious.”

“Un-ver-acious is the word, old son.”

“What do we care? We don’t own it,” replied Laurie, cheerfully. “Want to go on?”

Ned shook his head slowly. “What time have you got?” he asked.

“What time do you want?” was the flippant response.

With a sigh, Ned pulled back his left sleeve and looked at his watch. “It’s only about a quarter to twelve. We don’t have to get there until six if we don’t want to.”

“I know, but I couldn’t sit on this wall all that time! Besides, what about lunch?”

“I’m not very hungry,” was the sad reply.

“That’s the trouble with having your breakfast late.”

“That’s the trouble with eating two plates of griddle-cakes, you mean,” retorted Laurie. “Anyway, I’m hungry if you’re not. Let’s go.”

But he made no move, and they continued to dangle their shoes from the wall and gaze lazily across the shady street. The scissors-grinder’s chime died in the distance. Farther down the street the whirring of a lawn-mower competed with the locust.

“Upon a wall they sat them down,” murmured Ned, turning a challenging look on his companion.

“Lost in the wilds of Orstead Town,” added Laurie.

Ned nodded mild approval and once more silence held.

Save that one was dressed in gray and the other in blue, the two boys were strikingly alike. Each was slim of body and round of face, with red-brown hair and a short, slightly impertinent nose. Ned’s eyes were a trifle bluer than Laurie’s and he had the advantage – if advantage it was – of some five pounds of weight. But neither of these facts was apparent at first glance. Faces and hands were well browned and the pair looked extremely healthy. They were dressed neatly, with perhaps more attention to detail than is usual in lads of their age, their attire terminating at one end in well-polished brown shoes and at the other in immaculate black derbies. Their age was fifteen years, three months, and eleven days. Which, of course, leads you to the correct conclusion that they were twins.

“Maybe,” hazarded Laurie, presently, “we’ve lost our way.”

“Don’t just see how we could,” Ned objected. “The old chap at the station said we were to keep right along up Walnut Street. This is still Walnut Street, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” Laurie’s glance strayed right and left. “Must be; I don’t see any walnuts.”

“Guess the only ‘nuts’ are right here. Come on, let ’s hit the trail again.” Ned slid to his feet and took up his burden. “Why the dickens we didn’t take that carriage the fellow wanted to sell us is more than I see.”

“’Cause we needed the exercise. Also, ’cause we’re down to a dollar and fourteen cents between us – unless you ’re holding out.”

“Well, I’m not!” replied Ned, indignantly. “I paid for the breakfasts in New York – ”

“And I paid for dinner on the diner last night – ”

“Who said you didn’t?” They went on leisurely, and presently Ned continued: “Say, suppose we don’t like this ranch after we get there – then what, old son?”

Laurie considered thoughtfully. Then, “Two things we can do,” he pronounced. “No, three. We can put up with it, change it to suit us, or leave it.”

“Leave it! Yes, we can! On a dollar and fourteen cents?”

“We’ll have nearly twenty more when we cash Dad’s check and pay the term bill. Twenty dollars would take us back to New York and buy a lot of griddle-cakes, anyway.”

Laurie’s voice was partly drowned by a small delivery automobile that dashed into sight at a corner ahead and sped by with a clamor worthy of a four-ton truck. The brothers looked after it interestedly. “That’s the first sign of life we’ve seen,” said Ned. “Say, I do wish this street would stop twisting this way. First thing we know, we’ll be back at the station!”

“Bet you I’d hop the first freight then. I’ve got a hunch that we’re not going to care for Hillman’s School.”

“Speak for yourself. I am. I like this town, too. It’s pretty.”

“Oh, it’s pretty enough,” grumbled Laurie, “but it went to sleep about a century ago and hasn’t waked up since. Here’s somebody coming; let’s ask where the school is.”

“It’s just a girl.”

“What of it? She probably knows.”

The girl appeared to be of about their own age and wore a white middy dress with black trimming and a scarlet tie knotted below a V of sun-browned throat. She wore no hat and her dark hair was gathered into a single braid. As she drew near she gave the boys a quick glance of appraisal from a pair of gravely friendly brown eyes. It was Ned who shifted his suitcase to his left hand and raised his derby. It was always Ned who spoke first; after that, they alternated scrupulously.

“Would you please tell us where Hillman’s School is?” he asked.

The girl stopped and her somewhat serious face lighted with a smile. “It’s right there,” she replied, and nodded.

The boys turned to the blankness of a high privet hedge behind an iron fence. The girl laughed softly. “Behind the hedge, I mean,” she explained. “The gate is a little way around the corner there, on Summit Street.”

“Oh,” said Laurie. That laugh was contagious, and he grinned in response. “A man at the station told us it was only three quarters of a mile, but we’ve been walking for hours!”

“I guess it’s nearer a mile than three quarters,” answered the girl, slowly. She appeared to be giving the matter very serious consideration and two little thoughtful creases appeared above her nose, a small, straight nose that was bridged by a sprinkling of freckles. Then the smile came again. “Maybe it did seem longer, though,” she acknowledged, “for it’s uphill all the way; and then, you had your bags. You’re new boys, aren’t you?”

Ned acknowledged it, adding, “Think we’ll like it?”

The girl seemed genuinely surprised. “Why, of course! Every one likes it. What a perfectly funny idea!”

“Well,” said Laurie, defensively, “we’ve never tried boarding-school before, you see. Dad didn’t know anything about Hillman’s, either. He chose it on account of the way the advertisement read in a magazine. Something about ‘a moderate discipline rigidly enforced.’”

The girl laughed again. (She had a jolly sort of laugh, they decided.) “You’re – you’re twins, aren’t you?” she asked.

“He is,” replied Ned, gravely.

“Why – why, aren’t you both?” Her brown eyes grew very round and the little lines creased her nose again.

“It’s this way,” explained Laurie. “Ned was born first, and so, as there was only one of him, he wasn’t a twin. Then I came, and that made two of us, and I was a twin. You see, don’t you? It’s really quite plain.”

The girl shook her head slowly in puzzlement. “I – I’m afraid I don’t,” she answered apologetically. “You must be twins – both of you, I mean – because you both look just like both – I mean, each other!” Then she caught the sparkle of mischief in Ned’s blue eyes and laughed. Then they all laughed. After which they seemed suddenly to be very good friends, such good friends that Laurie abandoned custom and spoke out of turn.

“I suppose you know a lot of the fellows,” he said.

The girl shook her head. “N – no, not any, really. Of course, I see most of them when they come to Mother’s, but she doesn’t like me to – to know them.”

“Of course not,” approved Ned. “She’s dead right, too. They’re a pretty poor lot, I guess.”

“Oh, no, they’re not, really! Only, you see – ” She stopped, and then went on a trifle breathlessly: “I guess she wouldn’t be awfully pleased if she saw me now! I – I hope you’ll like the school.”

She nodded and went on.

“Thanks,” called Laurie. “If we don’t like it, we’ll change it. Good-by.”

“Nice kid,” observed Ned, tolerantly, as they turned the corner of the hedge. “Wonder who she is. She said most of the fellows went to her mother’s. Maybe her mother gives dancing lessons or something, eh?”

“If she does, she won’t see me,” responded his brother, firmly. “No dancing for mine.”

“Maybe it’s compulsory.”

“Maybe it’s esthetic,” retorted Laurie, derisively. “It makes no never mind. I’m agin it. This must be the place. Yes, there’s a sign.”

It was a very modest sign a-swing from a rustic post beside a broad entrance giving on to a well-kept drive. “Hillman’s School – Entrance Only,” it read. Laurie stopped in pretended alarm and laid a detaining clutch on Ned’s shoulder.

“‘Entrance Only’! Sounds as if we couldn’t ever get out again, Ned! Do you dare?”

Ned looked doubtfully through at the curving drive and the red-brick building that showed beyond the border of trees and shrubbery. Then he threw back his shoulders and set foot bravely within.

“Come, comrade, let us know the worst!”

Laurie, with a gesture of resignation, followed.

“What you durst I will likewise durst!”

CHAPTER II – THE GIRL IN THE WHITE MIDDY

When Doctor John Hyde Hillman started a modest school for boys, on the bank of the Hudson River, at Orstead, the town barely crept to the one brick building that contained dormitory and recitation-rooms. But that was nearly twenty years ago, and to-day the place is no longer isolated, but stands well inside the residence section of the village. There are four buildings, occupying most of an unusually large block. School Hall, four stories in height, is a red-brick, slate-roofed edifice, whose unloveliness has been mercifully hidden by ivy. It faces Summit Street and contains the class-rooms, the offices, and, at one end, the principal’s quarters. Flanking it are the two dormitories, East Hall and West Hall. These, while of brick too, are modern and far more attractive. Each contains sleeping-rooms to accommodate forty students, two masters’ studies, a recreation-hall, dining-room, kitchen, and service-rooms. Behind East Hall is the gymnasium, a picturesque structure of random-set stone, gray stucco, and much glass. Here, besides the gymnasium proper, is an auditorium of good size, a modest swimming-tank, locker-room and baths, and a commodious office presided over by Mr. Wells, the physical director. From the gymnasium steps one looks across an attractive, well-kept quadrangle of shaded turf, vegetable and flower gardens, and tennis-courts.

Doctor Hillman occupies an apartment at the west end of the School Hall, gained from the building by way of the school offices, and from without by way of a wide porch, vine screened in summer and glassed in winter, an outdoor living-room where, on seasonable Friday afternoons, the doctor’s maiden sister, Miss Tabitha, who keeps house for him, serves weak tea and layer-cake to all comers. Miss Tabitha, I regret to say, is known among the boys as “Tabby,” with, however, no more intention of disrespect than in alluding to the doctor as “Johnny.” Miss Tabitha’s thin body holds a warm heart, and her somewhat stern countenance belies her kindly ways.

On this fifteenth day of September, shortly after twelve o’clock, Miss Tabitha was seated on the vine-shaded porch in an erect and uncompromising attitude, her knitting-needles clicking busily. Near by, but a few moments before released from the office, the doctor was stretched in a long wicker chair, a morning paper before him. At the other end of the porch, a gate-legged table was spread for the mid-day meal, and a middle-aged colored woman – who, when it pleased her, answered to the name of Aunt Persis – shuffled in and out of sight at intervals. It was Miss Tabitha who, hearing the sound of steps on the walk, peered over her glasses and broke the silence.

“Two more of the boys are coming, John,” she announced.

The doctor grunted.

“I think they are new boys. Yes, I am sure they are. And bless my soul, John, they’re alike as two peas!”

“Alike?” The doctor rustled the paper to indicate interest. “Well, why shouldn’t they be? Probably they’re brothers. Let me see, weren’t those two boys from California brothers? Of course. Turner’s the name.”

“Well, I never saw two boys so much alike in all my born days,” Miss Tabitha marveled. “Do you suppose they can be twins, John?”

“It’s quite within the realm of probability,” was the reply. “I believe that twins do occur occasionally, even in the – er – best-regulated families.”

“Well, they certainly are twins!” Miss Tabitha laid down her work, brushed the front of her immaculate dress, and prepared to rise. “I suppose I had better go and meet them,” she added.

“I don’t see the necessity for it, my dear,” the doctor protested. “Cummins may, I think, be relied on to deal even with – er – twins.”

“Of course; but – still – California’s such a long way – and they may feel strange – or lonesome – ”

The doctor laughed gently. “Then by all means go, my dear. If you like, have them out here for a few minutes. If the resemblance between them is as striking as you seem to think, they must be worth seeing.”

When Miss Tabitha had tripped into the house, the doctor dropped his paper, stretched luxuriously, and, with a sigh of protest, sat up. He was several years younger than his sister – which is to say, in the neighborhood of forty-seven. He was a smallish man, compactly built, with a pleasant countenance on which a carefully-trimmed Vandyke beard made up to an extent for the lack of hair above. He wore shell-rimmed glasses and was very near-sighted, a fact emphasized by his manner of thrusting his head forward to eke out the deficiencies of his lenses. This trick was apparent a minute later when, following in the tripping footsteps of Miss Tabitha, the two boys emerged on the porch. They were amazingly alike, the doctor decided: same height, same breadth at hip and shoulder, same coloring, same leisurely, yet confident, ease of movement, same expression of lively curiosity twinkling through an almost depressingly respectful solemnity.

“These are the Turner boys,” announced Miss Tabitha. “This is Edward and this is – ” She halted to look doubtfully from one to the other. “Or – or perhaps this is Edward and – Dear me!”

“I’m Edward, ma’am,” said the boy in blue.

“Well, I don’t see how you can ever be certain of it!” sighed Miss Tabitha, doubtfully. “This is Doctor Hillman.”

They shook hands, and in a moment the boys found themselves seated side by side and replying to the doctor’s questions.

“You are entering with certificates from your high school principal, I believe, young gentlemen. What year were you?”

“Second, sir,” answered Ned.

“And your home is in – ”

“Santa Lucia, sir,” replied Laurie.

“California,” added Ned.

“Well, you’re quite a ways from home. Did you make the trip alone?”

“Yes, sir. Dad was coming with us as far as Chicago, but something happened so he couldn’t. We didn’t have any trouble, though.”

“Really? Well, I believe you have the distinction of residing farther away than any of your fellows here. I don’t recall any one who lives as far away as California; do you, sister?”

Miss Tabitha looked doubtful and hesitated an instant before she replied, “George Watson comes from Wyoming, I think, John.”

“So he does,” assented the doctor, gravely; “but measured in a straight line, my dear, California is slightly farther than Wyoming.”

“Is it?” asked Miss Tabitha, untroubled. “I never could remember where those western States are.”

“You remember many more important things, however. My sister, boys, fancied that she detected a certain resemblance between you, and even surmised that you might be – er – twins. Doubtless she’s mistaken.”

“No, sir,” answered Ned, more than a trace of surprise in his voice. “I mean, we are twins, sir.”

“Why, now that’s interesting! Looking closer – ” the doctor leaned forward and craned his head – “I believe I detect a certain slight similarity myself!”

There was a perceptible twinkle behind the glasses and Laurie dared a laugh, in which the doctor and Ned joined, while Miss Tabitha murmured: “Well! I should think you might!”

“I hope you are both going to like the school,” continued the doctor. “Of course, you’ll find our ways a little different, but we’ll try to make you feel at home. You are the first representatives of your State who have attended our school, and I trust that both in conduct and industry you will bring honor to it. Mr. Cornish, your hall master, will advise you in all matters pertaining to your studies, Other questions may be taken to Mr. Cummins, the school secretary, whom you have doubtless already met. But I want you always to feel at perfect liberty to come to me at any time on any matter at all. And,” added the doctor, with a twinkle, “if we fail you, there is still my sister, who, I assure you, possesses more wisdom than all of us.”

Miss Tabitha acknowledged the compliment with a little wry smile, and Ned and Laurie arose.

“Yes, sir,” said the former.

“Thank you, sir,” said Laurie.

“Luncheon is served at one in West Hall,” continued the doctor. “That’s the dormitory behind you there. Beginning with supper to-night, you will take your meals in your own hall, but only a few of the students have arrived as yet, and so only one dining-room is open. I’m very glad to have met you, young gentlemen. Mr. Cummins will direct you to your room. Good morning.”

Five minutes later, the Turner twins set their suitcases down on the floor of Number 16 East Hall and looked about them. Number 16 was not palatial as to size, but it was big enough to hold comfortably the two single beds, the study-table, the two narrow chiffoniers, and the four chairs that made up its furnishing. There was a generous-sized closet at each side of the door, and two windows set close together between the beds. Under the windows was a wide seat, lacking only pillows to make it inviting. From the casements the boys looked over or through the topmost branches of the maples that lined Washington Street and followed Summit Street as it continued its ascent of the hill and presently leveled out between a thick wood on one side and an open field on the other.

“That must be the athletic field,” said Laurie. “See the stand there? And the goal-posts? How do you like it?”

“The field? Looks all right from here.”

“I mean the whole outfit, you simp; the school and Doctor Hillman and Miss Frosty-Face and everything.”

“Cut out calling names, Laurie. Miss Hillman’s all right. So’s the doctor. So’s the school. I like it. Wonder when our trunks will get here.”

“Half an hour ago you had a hunch you weren’t going to like it,” jeered Laurie. “Changed your mind, haven’t you?”

“Yes, and I’m going to change more than my mind.” Whereupon Ned opened his bag and selected a clean shirt. “What time is it?”

“What do you wear a watch for if you never look at it?” grumbled his brother. “It’s ten to one, Lazy. I’m going to find a place to wash up. I choose this side of the room, Ned.”

Ned studied the room a moment. “No, you don’t,” he challenged. “I’ll take this side. I’m the oldest.” “There isn’t any difference, you chump. One side’s as good as the other.”

“Then you won’t mind taking the other,” answered Ned, sweetly. “Run along and find the lavatory. I think it’s at the head of the stairs. Wonder why they put us up two flights.”

“Guess they knew you were naturally lazy and needed the exercise.”

Laurie dodged a pair of traveling slippers in a red-leather case and disappeared into the corridor.

Some ten minutes later they descended the stairway together and set out for West Hall. Laurie drew attention to the gymnasium building, but Ned, who had recovered his appetite, only deigned it a glance. Two boys, luggage laden, evidently just arrived, came down the steps of School Hall as the twins passed, and stared curiously.

“Guess they’ve never seen twins before in this part of the world,” grumbled Laurie. “Those chaps nearly popped their eyes out!”

West Hall proved an exact duplicate of their own dormitory, and the dining-room occupied all the right end of it. There were about fifteen boys there, in age varying from fourteen to eighteen, and there was a perceptible pause in the business of eating when the newcomers entered. A waitress conducted them to seats at a table already occupied by three other lads, and asked if they’d have milk or iced tea. Ned, as usual, answered for both.

“Iced tea, please, and lots of lemon.”

A very stout boy, sitting across the table, sniggered, and then, encountering Ned’s inquiring regard, said, “Guess you think you’re in the Waldorf!”

“What’s the Waldorf?” asked Ned. “Don’t you get lemon with iced tea here?”

“Sure! but you don’t get much. Say, are you fellows – twins, or what?”

“Twins?” repeated Laurie. “Where do you get that stuff? This fellow’s name is Anderson and mine’s Stenman. What’s yours?”

“Crow. Honest, is that a fact?” Crow looked appealingly at the other occupants of the table. These, however, two rather embarrassed-looking youngsters of fourteen or thereabouts, fixed their eyes on their plates, and Crow turned his regard incredulously back to the twins. “Gee, you fellows look enough alike to be – be – ” He swallowed the word. “Aren’t you even related?”

Ned gazed speculatively at Laurie and Laurie gazed speculatively at Ned. “We might be,” hazarded the latter.

Laurie nodded. “If we went back far enough, we might find a common ancestor.”

The arrival of luncheon caused a diversion, although Crow, who was a round-faced, credulous-looking youth of perhaps seventeen, continued to regard them surreptitiously and in puzzlement. At last, making the passing of the salt an excuse, for further conversation, he asked, “Where do you fellows come from?”

“California,” said Ned.

“Santa Lucia,” said Laurie.

“Well, but,” sputtered Crow, “isn’t California in Santa – I mean, isn’t Santa – Say, you guys are joking, I’ll bet!”

“Methinks,” observed Ned, helping himself gravely to mustard, “his words sound coarse and vulgar.”

Laurie abstractedly added a fourth teaspoon of sugar to his iced tea. “Like Turk or Kurd or even Bulgar,” he murmured.

Crow stared, grunted, and pushed his chair back. “You fellows think you’re smart, don’t you?” he sputtered. “Bet you you are twins – both of you!”