“Now I remember I heard one of them ask Joe to call him at half after seven—­I think it was the one on the left—­no, it was the one to the east of the other one—­but I didn’t hear the other one say any thing.  I wonder if he wants to be called too.  Do you reckon it’s too late to ask?”

“Why, ma, it’s not necessary.  Calling one is calling both.  If one gets up, the other’s got to.”

“Sho, of course; I never thought of that.  Well, come along, maybe we can get some sleep, but I don’t know, I’m so shook up with what we’ve been through.”

The stranger had made an impression on the boys, too.  They had a word of talk as they were getting to bed.  Henry, the gentle, the humane, said: 

“I feel ever so sorry for it, don’t you, Joe?”

But Joe was a boy of this world, active, enterprising, and had a theatrical side to him: 

“Sorry?  Why, how you talk!  It can’t stir a step without attracting attention.  It’s just grand!”

Henry said, reproachfully: 

“Instead of pitying it, Joe, you talk as if—­”

“Talk as if what?  I know one thing mighty certain:  if you can fix me so I can eat for two and only have to stub toes for one, I ain’t going to fool away no such chance just for sentiment.”

The twins were wet and tired, and they proceeded to undress without-any preliminary remarks.  The abundance of sleeve made the partnership coat hard to get off, for it was like skinning a tarantula; but it came at last, after much tugging and perspiring.  The mutual vest followed.  Then the brothers stood up before the glass, and each took off his own cravat and collar.  The collars were of the standing kind, and came high up under the ears, like the sides of a wheelbarrow, as required by the fashion of the day.  The cravats were as broad as a bank-bill, with fringed ends which stood far out to right and left like the wings of a dragon-fly, and this also was strictly in accordance with the fashion of the time.  Each cravat, as to color, was in perfect taste, so far as its owner’s complexion was concerned—­a delicate pink, in the case of the blond brother, a violent scarlet in the case of the brunette—­but as a combination they broke all the laws of taste known to civilization.  Nothing more fiendish and irreconcilable than those shrieking and blaspheming colors could have been contrived, The wet boots gave no end of trouble—­to Luigi.  When they were off at last, Angelo said, with bitterness: 

“I wish you wouldn’t wear such tight boots, they hurt my feet.”

Luigi answered with indifference: 

“My friend, when I am in command of our body, I choose my apparel according to my own convenience, as I have remarked more than several times already.  When you are in command, I beg you will do as you please.”

Angelo was hurt, and the tears came into his eyes.  There was gentle reproach in his voice, but, not anger, when he replied: