The Wilbur twin became concerned for Boodles.  He regarded him highly.  But he knew that Boodles was a fighter, and Frank ate them up.  He commanded Boodles to go back, but though he had slowed his pace and now halted a dozen feet from Frank, the cannibal, Boodles showed that he was not going back until he had some better reason.  Violence of the cruellest sort seemed forward.  But perhaps Frank might be won from his loathly practice.

“You, Frank, be quiet, sir!” ordered Wilbur, though Frank had not been unquiet.  “Be still, sir!” he added, and threatened his pet with an open palm.  But Frank had attention only for Boodles, who now approached, little recking his fate.  The clash was at hand.

“Be still, sir!” again commanded Wilbur in anguished tones, whereupon the obedient Frank tumbled to lie upon his back, four limp legs in air, turning his head to simper up at Boodles, who stood inquiringly above him.  Boodles then sniffed an amiable contempt and ran back to his hotel.  Frank strained at his leash to follow.  His proud owner thought there could be few dogs in all the world so biddable as this.

The twins went on.  Merle was watching his chance to recover that spiritual supremacy over the other that had been his until the accident of wealth had wrenched it from him.

“You’ll catch it for keeping us out so late,” he warned—­“and cursing and fighting and spending all your money!”

The other scarce heard him.  He walked through shining clouds far above an earth where one catches it.

CHAPTER III

The Penniman house, white, with green blinds, is set back from the maple-and-elm-shaded street, guarded by a white picket fence.  Between the house and gate a green lawn was crossed by a gravelled walk, with borders of phlox; beyond the borders, on either side, were flowering shrubs, and at equal distances from the walk, circular beds of scarlet tulips and yellow daffodils.  Detached from the Penniman house, but still in the same yard, was a smaller, one-storied house, also white, with green blinds, tenanted by Dave Cowan and his twins, who—­in Newbern vernacular—­mealed with Mrs. Penniman.  It had been the Cowan home when Dave married the Penniman cousin who had borne the twins.  There was a path worn in the grass between the two houses.

On the Penniman front porch the judge was throned in a wicker chair.  He was a nobly fronted old gentleman, with imposing head, bald at the top but tastefully hung with pale, fluffy side curls.  His face was wide and full, smoothly shaven, his cheeks pink, his eyes a pure, pale blue.  He was clad in a rumpled linen suit the trousers of which were drawn well up his plump legs above white socks and low black shoes, broad and loose fitting.  As the shadows had lengthened and the day cooled he abandoned a palm-leaf fan he had been languidly waving.  His face at the moment glowed with animation, for