When the candy had been imbedded in the lemons they sauntered out to the street, Merle meekly in the rear, the master mind still coerced by brute wealth.  They paused before other shop windows, cheeks hollowed above the savory mechanism invented by Patricia Whipple.  Down one side of River Street to its last shop, and up the other, they progressed haltingly.  At many of the windows the capitalist displayed interest only of the most academic character.  At others he made sportive threats.  Thus before the jewellery shop of Rapp Brothers he quite unnerved Merle by announcing that he could buy everything in that window if he wanted to—­necklaces and rings and pins and gold watches—­and he might do this.  If, say, he did buy that black marble clock with the prancing gold horse on it, would Merle take it home for him?  He had no intention of buying this object—­he had never found clocks anything but a source of annoyance—­but he toyed with the suggestion when he saw that it agitated his brother.  Thereafter at other windows he wilfully dismayed his brother by pretending to consider the purchase of objects in no sense desirable to any one, such as boots, parasols, manicure sets, groceries, hardware.  He played with the feel of his wealth, relishing the power it gave him over the moneyless.

And then purely to intensify this thrill of power he actually purchased at the hardware shop and carelessly bestowed upon the mendicant brother an elaborate knife with five blades and a thing which the vender said was to use in digging stones out of horses’ feet.  Merle was quite overcome by this gift, and neither of them suspected it to be the first step in the downfall of the capitalist.  The latter, be it remembered, had bought and bestowed the knife that he might feel more acutely his power over this penniless brother, and this mean reward was abundantly his.  Never before had he felt superior to the Merle twin.

But the penalties of giving are manifold, and he now felt a novel glow of sheer beneficence.  He was a victim to the craze for philanthropy.  Too young to realize its insidious character, he was to embark upon a ruinous career.  Ever it is the first step that costs.  That carelessly given knife—­with something to dig stones out of a horse’s foot—­was to wipe out, ere night again shrouded Newbern Center, a fortune supposed to be as lasting as the eternal hills that encircled it.

They again crossed River Street, and stopped in front of the Cut-Rate Pharmacy.  The windows of this establishment offered little to entice save the two mammoth chalices of green and crimson liquor.  But these were believed to be of fabulous value.  Even the Cut-Rate Pharmacy itself could afford but one of each.  Inside the door a soda fountain hissed provocatively.  They took lemon and vanilla respectively, and the lordly purchaser did not take up his change from the wet marble until he had drained his glass.  He had become preoccupied.  He was mapping out a career of benevolence, splendid, glittering, ostentatious—­ruinous.