There was once a very rich gentleman, called Old Man Bartholemew, who had three sons. The oldest was named Benjamin, the middle Barry, and the youngest Robert (though everyone knew him as Bob).

Benjamin and Barry were both very studious youths, and every night they stayed up into the earliest hours of the morning, pouring over books in their father’s magnificent library. Robert (who people usually called Bob) watched lots of cartoons on T.V., and knew all the words to the themes of many cereal commercials.

Benjamin and Barry were quite likable lads, and no one who met them ever went away thinking anything but cheerful thoughts. But between them, alas, there was only enmity. You see, in one important respect they were as different as sugar and salt.

It was like this: When Benjamin read a book, his habit, upon encountering a particularly interesting passage, was to whip out his pen and furiously underline the most important points and to fill the margins with tiny, nearly incomprehensible notes. Barry, on the other hand, believed that books were sacred, and he took great care to turn every page carefully, lest they wrinkle, and to ever so gently ease volumes back onto their shelves, making certain that the binders weren’t pulled or strained.

Their battles and arguments over this topic, though seldom leading to actual violence, soon became legendary for their fury and volume. They drove their poor father to distraction, and eventually he fell upon ill health.

One day, over a breakfast of frozen waffles, the three brothers were sitting staring at the ceiling, happily nibbling away, when into the kitchen walked the family lawyer, the Barrister Wordy. “Gentlemen,” said he, “I bring important tidings. Your father, Old Man Bartholemew, has died.”

Benjamin said “Ohh.”

Barry said “Ahh.”

Robert (whose nickname was Bob) didn’t say anything.

“And further,” Wordy continued, “there is the matter of the will. As you know, the dearly departed, your dad, was a very generous man. And what’s more, he didn’t particularly like any of you. That is why he has left this entire estate to charity.”

The three brothers put down their waffles in unison, and looked aghast upon the deliverer of these dismal tidings.

“But,” said said deliverer, “there is one thing. He did admire the love of books he saw frequent demonstrations of in his eldest and middle sons. Therefore, he has seen fit to leave to the two of you his vast library, with its awesome stacks and its tremendous collection of old and very valuable manuscripts.”

At this, wide smiles spread over the faces of Benjamin and Barry, and they went back to the task of finishing their waffles. But Robert (who possessed the sobriquet Bob) left his upon his plate.

“To his youngest son,” Wordy went on, “He has left a can of tuna fish.”

“Ha ha,” said Benjamin.

“Ho ho,” said Barry.

Robert (poor Bob) didn’t say a thing.

“But, but, but,” proclaimed Wordy, picking up a fork, and waving it in the air for emphasis, “fully as much as your late, lamented papa admired those who read, did he despise those who fought. Therefore, that saint, that genius, that paragon of a man, had seen fit to make one simple clause, as forthwith: Benjamin and Barry must study together every day for one year. If, in that entire span of time, they are able to refrain from their customary battles and brawls, they shall receive their inheritance. Else, the entire lot of it shall revert to the son who is the youngest.”

Benjamin said “Hmmm.”

Barry said “Humfff.”

Robert (our man Bob) didn’t say one little thing.

And so it was. Every night, for month after month, Benjamin and Barry would take their respective seats and sit opposite one another, trying their best to smile and bow and altogether treat each other with the utmost courtesy.

For the first few months it was easy. Benjamin would underline away, and fold the pages to keep his place, and Barry would hold his peace. Barry would spend countless minutes dusting the top of his desk, and making certain his hands were clean before placing down his book, and Benjamin felt not even the temptation to giggle or insult.

But as the seasons changed and the length of the days waxed and waned the pressure began to build. Slowly, nearly imperceptibly, the smiles with which they greeted one another were replaced, first with expressions of total neutrality, then with frowns, and finally with viscous sneers.

Every week, each of them felt it more and more difficult to concentrate, so distracted were they by their counterpart’s bad habits. Each day, the hostility would mount.

Finally, on the last hour of the last day of the last week of the last month of the whole year, the explosion came.

Benjamin became so enraptured by a beautiful line of Persian poetry, that he couldn’t restrain himself from taking his ball point pen and bracketing the whole passage. When Barry saw how the ancient, irreplaceable manuscript was being ruined, he flew into a rage, and before either of them realized what was happening, they were tumbling on the floor, trying their best to strangle one another.

Well, of course, this was all picked up by the spy cameras that the Barrister Wordy had installed, and so the inheritance passed to happy Robert, who immediately sold the entire collection and began to insist that everyone call him by his full first name.

And Benjamin and Barry? Well they ended up with the can of tuna fish. (Which, actually, it must be admitted, wasn’t half bad.)