NIGHT WATCHES

by W.W. Jacobs



HIS OTHER SELF

"They're as like as two peas, him and 'is brother," said the night-
watchman, gazing blandly at the indignant face of the lighterman on the
barge below; "and the on'y way I know this one is Sam is because Bill
don't use bad langwidge. Twins they are, but the likeness is only
outside; Bill's 'art is as white as snow."

He cut off a plug of tobacco, and, placing it in his cheek, waited
expectantly.

"White as snow," he repeated.

"That's me," said the lighterman, as he pushed his unwieldy craft from
the jetty. "I'll tell Sam your opinion of 'im. So long."

The watchman went a shade redder than usual. That's twins all over, he
said, sourly, always deceiving people. It's Bill arter all, and,
instead of hurting 'is feelings, I've just been flattering of 'im up.

It ain't the fust time I've 'ad trouble over a likeness. I've been a
twin myself in a manner o' speaking. It didn't last long, but it lasted
long enough for me to always be sorry for twins, and to make a lot of
allowance for them. It must be very 'ard to have another man going