CHAPTER I

THE TWINS AS THEY REALLY WERE

The conglomerate twins were brought on the the stage in Chapter I of the original extravaganza.  Aunt Patsy Cooper has received their letter applying for board and lodging, and Rowena, her daughter, insane with joy, is begging for a hearing of it: 

“Well, set down then, and be quiet a minute and don’t fly around so; it fairly makes me tired to see you.  It starts off so:  ’Honored madam’—­”

“I like that, ma, don’t you?  It shows they’re high-bred.”

“Yes, I noticed that when I first read it.  ’My brother and I have seen your advertisement, by chance, in a copy of your local journal—­’

“It’s so beautiful and smooth, ma-don’t you think so?”

“Yes, seems so to me—­’and beg leave to take the room you offer.  We are twenty-four years of age, and twins—­’”

“Twins!  How sweet!  I do hope they are handsome, and I just know they are!  Don’t you hope they are, ma?”

“Land, I ain’t particular.  ‘We are Italians by birth—­’”

“It’s so romantic!  Just think there’s never been one in this town, and everybody will want to see them, and they’re all ours!  Think of that!”

“—­’but have lived long in the various countries of Europe, and several years in the United States.’”

“Oh, just think what wonders they’ve seen, ma!  Won’t it be good to hear them talk?”

“I reckon so; yes, I reckon so.  ’Our names are Luigi and Angelo Capello—­’”

“Beautiful, perfectly beautiful!  Not like Jones and Robinson and those horrible names.”

“’You desire but one guest, but dear madam, if you will allow us to pay for two we will not discommode you.  We will sleep together in the same bed.  We have always been used to this, and prefer it.  And then he goes on to say they will be down Thursday.”

“And this is Tuesday—­I don’t know how I’m ever going to wait, ma!  The time does drag along so, and I’m so dying to see them!  Which of them do you reckon is the tallest, ma?”

“How do you s’pose I can tell, child?  Mostly they are the same size-twins are.”

“’Well then, which do you reckon is the best looking?”

“Goodness knows—­I don’t.”

“I think Angelo is; it’s the prettiest name, anyway.  Don’t you think it’s a sweet name, ma?”

“Yes, it’s well enough.  I’d like both of them better if I knew the way to pronounce them—­the Eyetalian way, I mean.  The Missouri way and the Eyetalian way is different, I judge.”

“Maybe—­yes.  It’s Luigi that writes the letter.  What do you reckon is the reason Angelo didn’t write it?”

“Why, how can I tell?  What’s the difference who writes it, so long as it’s done?”

“Oh, I hope it wasn’t because he is sick!  You don’t think he is sick, do you, ma?”