"I’m not going to jump it for nothing," he declared; "it’s out and it can’t be outer. Now for March." He rolled his draperies into a ball in front, jumped blindly, the ball projecting too far for him to be able to see the candle, and peered round complacently. "He’s all right!" But a storm of expostulations arose. "You jumped right on one side!" "You didn’t jump over it at all!" "You must do it again!" He sighed. "I do call that jolly hard!" He looked appealingly at Nell, but got no sympathy. At that moment Denis gave a war-whoop behind him. "Go on! Let’s rush ’em! I’m coming! Hurry _up_!" "Oh, I say!" He clutched wildly at his draperies, heard Denis clear the candle behind him, and leapt forward desperately, his rugs held up anyhow. Over March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November they careered without a pause to view what success they had achieved, stumbling, kicking, making the most awful noise; then Ted did not take December quickly enough—Denis, unable to stop himself, with a yell collided into him, and over they went, squashing December as flat as the proverbial pancake. They lay, kicking, struggling, all muddled up. "Give us a hand!" shouted Denis. "Here, you idiot, you’re hanging on to _my_ rug!" "I’m not! A pin’s digging into my calf!" "I tell you, you _have_ got hold of my rug!" "I haven’t! It’s my shawl you’re pulling at." "Nell, I’ll disown you as my twin forever if you don’t come and separate this fool from me!" Ted groaned dismally. "There’s another pin—in my shoulder!" "Pooh, I’ve got ’em digging into me everywhere! I’m the latest thing in pin-cushions! Nell O’Brien, when at the post mortem the verdict is ’Death due to an overdose of pins,’ you’ll repent, perhaps—" "O.B., _will_ you let that bit of shawl go? Or tear off the corner you’ve taken such a fancy to!" "Oh, no, it’s Aunt Kezia’s," squealed Molly, "oh—_do_ be careful!" "Oh, _Lor’_," gasped Denis, in exhausted tones, "I’m done! And with my last breath I maintain ’tis _my_ shawl." "There, now, I’ve let everything go. Twirl me—twist me—do what you will with me," said Ted. "Get up, O.B.! I say, ware shins, old man!" They stumbled to their feet and stood and surveyed the row of dilapidated candles—bent double, lying full length on the ground, squashed flat, and one only still alight. "Ted, shake hands. In face of the sad and gloomy year I see before us, I can harbour no ill feeling towards you; though _’twas_ my shawl, yet let us be as brothers in misfortune." "January, February, March, April, May, June, July—July is to be our one and only joyful month, O.B.!" "And now," pursued Denis, "let us bow to the ladies of the company. Our awe and admiration—always intense—have increased by five hundred yards, four inches, during the last half hour of sad experience. Amn’t I right, sweet brother?" Ted bowed; then his eyes twinkled as he fixed them on the Atom’s long legs.