“Here!” said the girl.

“Not you!”

It seemed to him that this would somehow further degrade him.  At least another male should fasten this infamous thing about him.  When the buttoning was done he demanded the promised candy and lemon.  He glutted himself with the stimulant.  He had sold his soul and was taking the price.  His wrists projected far from the gingham sleeves, and in truth he looked little enough like a girl.  The girl looked much more like a boy.  The further price of his shame was paid in full.

“I’d better take charge of it,” said Merle, and did so with an air of large benevolence.  “I just don’t know what all we’ll spend it for,” he added.

The Wilbur twin’s look of anguish deepened.

“I got a pocket in this dress to hold my money,” he suggested.

“You might lose it,” objected Merle.  “I better keep it for us.”

The girl had transferred her remaining money to the pockets which, as a boy, she now possessed.  Then she tried on the cap.  But it proved to be the cap of Merle.

“No; you must take Wilbur’s cap,” he said, “because you got his clothes.”

“And he can wear my hat,” said the girl.

The Wilbur twin viciously affirmed that he would wear no girl’s hat, yet was presently persuaded that he would, at least when he sneaked home.  It was agreed by all finally that this would render him fairly a girl in the eyes of the world.  But he would not yet wear it.  He was beginning to hate this girl.  He shot hostile glances at her as—­with his cap on her head, her hands deep in the money-laden pockets—­she swaggered and swanked before them.

“I’m Ben Blunt—­I’m Ben Blunt,” she muttered, hoarsely, and swung her shoulders and brandished her thin legs to prove it.

He laughed with scorn.

“Yes, you are!” he gibed.  “Look at your hair!  I guess Ben Blunt didn’t have long girl’s hair, did he—­stringy old red hair?”

Her hands flew to her pigtail.

“My hair is not red,” she told him.  “It’s just a decided blonde.”  Then she faltered, knowing full well that Ben Blunt’s hair was not worn in a braid.  “Of course I’m going to cut it off,” she said.  “Haven’t you boys got a knife?”

They had a knife.  It was Wilbur’s, but Merle quite naturally took it from him and assumed charge of the ensuing operation.  Wilbur Cowan had to stand by with no place to put his hands—­a mere onlooker.  Yet it was his practical mind that devised the method at last adopted, for the early efforts of his brother to sever the braid evoked squeals of pain from the patient.  At Wilbur’s suggestion she was backed up to the fence and the braid brought against a board, where it could be severed strand by strand.  It was not neatly done, but it seemed to suffice.  When the cap was once more adjusted, rather far back on the shorn head, even the cynical Wilbur had to concede that the effect was not bad.  The severed braid, a bow of yellow ribbon at the end, now engaged the notice of its late owner.