won't."
"Then we won't say anything more about it. I feel that you mean what you say. Take back these jewels. You can hide them in the big basket under the caravan. Next week you will send them back by post. It's the Château de Chagny, isn't it?"
"Yes, and I saw the lady's name on one of her band-boxes. She's the Comtesse de Chagny."

They went on hand in hand. Twice they hid themselves to avoid meeting peasants, and at last, after several detours, they reached the neighborhood of the caravan. "Listen," said Saint-Quentin, pausing to listen himself. "Yes. That's what it is--Castor and Pollux fighting as usual, the rascals!"

He dashed towards the sound. "Saint-Quentin!" cried the young girl. "I forbid you to hit them!"
"You hit them often enough!"
"Yes. But they like me to hit them."

At the approach of Saint-Quentin, the two boys, who were fighting a duel with wooden swords, turned from one another to face the common enemy, howling: "Dorothy! Mummy Dorothy! Stop Saint-Quentin! He's a beast! Help!"

There followed a distribution of cuffs, bursts of laughter, and hugs. "Dorothy, it's my turn to be hugged!"
"Dorothy, it's my turn to be smacked!"

But the young girl said in a scolding voice: "And the Captain? I'm sure you've gone and woke him up!"

"The Captain? He's sleeping like a sapper," declared Pollux. "Just listen to his snoring!"

By the side of the road the two urchins had lit a fire of wood. The
pot, suspended from an iron tripod, was boiling. The four of them ate a
steaming thick soup, bread and cheese, and drank a cup of coffee. Dorothy did not budge from her stool. Her three companions would not have permitted it. It was rather which of the three should rise to serve her, all of them attentive to her wants, eager, jealous of one another, even aggressive towards one another. The battles of Castor and Pollux were always started by the fact that she had shown favor to one or the other. The two urchins, stout and chubby, dressed alike in pants, a shirt, and jacket, when one least expected it and for all that they were as fond of one another as brothers, fell upon one another with ferocious violence, because the young girl had spoken too kindly to one, or delighted the other with a too affectionate look. As for Saint-Quentin, he cordially detested them. When Dorothy fondled them, he could have cheerfully wrung their necks. Never would she hug him. He had to content himself with good comradeship, trusting and affectionate, which only showed itself 

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