THE TWO BOYS LOOKED so much alike it was scary. True, Sam had Sonic the Hedgehog on his pajamas, and Wilfred’s pajamas were a cream-colored sort of flannel, but when George and Muriel tucked the two boys up together into the grownup bed, you could not see the pajamas, just these two twin faces.
They were not perfect twins, of course. Wilfred’s nose was a little broader than Sam’s. Wilfred had spots, Sam did not. Wilfred was asleep, and Sam was lying under the covers, wide awake, thinking about the Big Bazoohley.
Of course, Droopy George and Nasty Muriel planned to keep the prize money for themselves, but he figured he would deal with that when the time came. Now all he thought of was the good part.
If he had ten thousand dollars, he could take that scary look off his father’s face. He could pay the bill for the hotel room. He could hire a private detective to find Mr. de Vere. If he had ten thousand dollars, he could take his mum and dad to a funny movie and make them laugh again.
Soon he was lying on his back, happily snoring.
It seemed like only a moment later he heard Wilfred say, “Mommy, what are you doing to my clothes?”
“Be quiet,” Muriel said.
Sam opened his eyes and saw that the curtains were open and it was morning. Great fat flakes of snow were swirling in the sky outside. Muriel was sitting on the end of the bed, snipping with her scissors. George was asleep sitting up in a straight-backed chair.
“You’re cutting my velvet suit,” Wilfred whined.
“I am not cutting it,” Muriel said. “And do not scratch or you’ll get scars on your face and look ugly forever.”
But Sam could see that Wilfred was not scratching. He had just woken up and was rubbing his eyes.
“You’re cutting my velvet suit,” he said to his mother.
But she was. She had a big pair of scissors and was going snip snip snip.
“You are.”
“Do you want to wake him?” Muriel said. “Why do you think your parents have spent the night sleeping in straight-backed chairs? We want him to sleep. We don’t want him to go in the competition with circles under his eyes.”
“I want a baseball cap like his,” Wilfred said. “And one of those sweaters with the numbers on the back.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” his mother said. “What sort of idiot goes to bed in a baseball cap?”
“I wouldn’t sleep in it,” Wilfred cried. “I’d never wear it to bed. I’d just wear it when I was outside.”
Muriel looked up from her sewing and Sam saw something in her soften.
“I’m sorry, my darling,” she said, “you’re just not that sort of boy. I’m sorry I have to hurt your lovely clothes, but we need this little grub to win the prize. No one will know it isn’t you. He’ll have your name. I have to alter your clothes so they will fit him.”
“Then I can have his baseball cap.”
“You can’t have my baseball cap,” Sam said, sitting up in bed. “And no one,” he said to Muriel, “can call me Wilfred. I’m Sam. Sam Kellow.”
“You’ll do what you’re told,” said George, stretching his long, stiff, storky legs. His face looked blotchy and pasty, and he needed a shave. He stood and rubbed his eyes and went to stare down at the snowbound city.
“Come and look at this, Wilfred!” he called. “It’s pretty as a postcard.”
George and Wilfred now had their backs to him at the window. Muriel had her head down over her scissors. Sam could have run right out the door, right there and then.
Instead he yawned and snuggled back under the covers. What he had in mind was a nice nap, and then ten thousand dollars just in time for lunch.
But this, it seemed, was not to be.
“Wakey, wakey,” Muriel said briskly. And pulled the covers off.
“But you said the competition wasn’t until twelve.”
“There’s lots to do before twelve,” said George. “First we have to teach you table manners à la Perfecto.”