 CHAPTER XVIII. FRIENDS IN NEED In the meantime the other boys were listening to Peter's account of an incident which had occurred long ago—Sir Thomas Carr's tour through Holland. In a part of the city were stood an ancient castle whose lord had tyrannized over the burgers of the town to such an extent that they surrounded his castle and laid siege to it. Just at the last extremity, when the haughty lord felt that he could hold out no longer and was prepared to sell his life as dearly as possible, his lady appeared on the ramparts and offered to surrender everything, provided she was permitted to bring out and retain as much of her most precious household goods as she could carry upon her back. The promise was given, and the lady came forth from the gateway, bearing her husband upon her shoulders. The burgers' pledge preserved him from the fury of the troops, but left them free to wreak their vengeance upon the castle. "'Do you believe that story, Captain Peter?' asked Carl in an incredulous tone. "'Of course I do. It is historical. Why should I doubt it?' "'Simply because no woman could do it, and if she could she wouldn't. That is my opinion.' "'And I believe that there are many who would. That is, to save those they really cared for,' said Ludwig. Jacob, who in spite of his fat and sleepiness was of rather a sentimental turn, had listened with deep interest. "'Dot is right, little fellow,' he said, nodding his head approvingly. "'I believe every word of it. I shall never marry a woman who would not be glad to do as much for me.' "'Eaven help her!' cried Carl, turning to gaze at the speaker. Why, poot, three men couldn't do it!' "'Perhaps not,' said Jacob quietly, feeling that he had asked rather too much of the future of Mrs. Poot. "'But she must be willing, that is all.' "'I,' responded Peter's cheery voice, willing heart makes nimble foot, and who knows, but it may make strong arms also.' "'Pete?' asked Ludwig, changing the subject. "'Did you tell me last night that the painter Woowamun was born in Harlem?' "'Yes, and Jacob Roestahl in Bergham, too. I like Bergham as he was always good-natured. They say he always sang while he painted, and though he died nearly two hundred years ago, there are traditions still afloat concerning his pleasant laugh. He was a great painter, and he had a wife as Cross's zantipi. "'They balanced each other finally,' said Ludwig. "'He was kind, and she was Cross. But Peter, before I forget it, wasn't that picture of St. Hubert and the porous painted by Woowamun? You remember? Father showed us an engraving from it last night.' "'Yes, indeed. There is a story connected with that picture.' "'Tell us,' cried two or three, drawing closer to Peter as they skated on. Woowamun, began the captain oratorically, was born in 1620, just four years before Bergham. He was a master of his art and especially excelled in painting horses. Strange as it may seem, people were so long finding out his merits that, even after he had arrived at the height of his excellence, he was obliged to sell his pictures for very paltry prices. The poor artist became completely discouraged, and worst of all, was overhead and ears in debt. One day he was talking over his troubles with his father-confessor, who was one of the few who recognized his genius. The priests determined to assist him, and accordingly led him six hundred guilders, advising him at the same time to demand a better price for his pictures. Woowamun did so, and in the meantime paid his debts. Matters brightened with him at once. Everybody appreciated the great artist who painted such costly pictures. He grew rich. The six hundred guilders were returned, and in gratitude Woowamun sent also a work which he had painted, representing his benefactor as St. Hubert kneeling before his horse, the very pictured Ludwig of which we were speaking last night. So, so, exclaimed Ludwig with deep interest, I must take another look at the engraving as soon as we get home. At that same hour, while Ben was skating with his companions beside the Holland Dyke, Robbie and Jenny stood in their pretty English school-house, ready to join in the duties of their reading class. Commence, Master Robert Dobbs, said the teacher, Page 242. Now, sir, mind every stop. And Robbie, in a quick childish voice, roared forth at school-room pitch, Lesson 62, The Hero of Harlem. Many years ago there lived in Harlem one of the principal cities of Holland, a sunny-haired boy of gentle disposition. His father was a sleucer, that is, a man whose business it was to open and close the sleuces, or large, oaking gates, that are placed at regular distances across the entrances of the canals, to regulate the amount of water that shall flow into them. The sleucer raises the gates more or less according to the quantity of water required, and closes them carefully at night, in order to avoid all possible danger of an oversupply running into the canal, or the water would soon overflow it and inundate the surrounding country. As a great portion of Holland is lower than the level of the sea, the waters are kept from flooding the land only by means of strong dykes, or barriers, and by means of these sleuces, which are often strained to the utmost by the pressure of the rising tides. Even the little children in Holland know that constant watchfulness is required to keep the rivers and ocean from overwhelming the country, and that a moment's neglect of the sleucer's duty may bring ruin and death to all. Very good, said the teacher. Now, Susan. One lovely autumn afternoon, when the boy was about eight years old, he obtained his parents' consent to carry some cakes to a blind man who lived out in the country, on the other side of the dyke. The little fellow started on his errand with a light heart, and having spent an hour with his grateful old friend, he paid him farewell, and started on his homeward walk. Trudging stoutly along the canal, he noticed how the autumn rains had swollen the waters. Even while humming his careless, childish song, he thought of his father's brave old gates and felt glad of their strength, for thought he, if they gave way, where would father and mother be? These pretty fields would all be covered with the angry waters. Father always calls them the angry waters. I suppose he thinks they are mad at him for keeping them out so long. And with these thoughts just flitting across his brain, the little fellow stooped to pick the pretty flowers that grew along his way. Sometimes he stopped to throw some feathery seed-ball in the air, and watch it as it floated away. Sometimes he listened to the stealthy rustling of a rabbit, speeding through the grass. But oftener he smiled as he recalled the happy light he had seen arise on the weary, listening face of his blind old friend. Now, Henry, said the teacher, nodding to the next little reader. Suddenly the boy looked around him in dismay. He had not noticed that the sun was setting. Now he saw that his long shadow on the grass had vanished. It was growing dark. He was still some distance from home, and in a lonely ravine where even the blue flowers had turned to gray. He quickened his footsteps, and, with a beating heart, recalled many a nursery tale of children's belated and dreary forest. Just as he was bracing himself for a run, he was startled by the sound of trickling water. Whence did it come? He looked up and saw a small hole in the dike through which a tiny stream was flowing. Any child in Holland will shudder at the thought of a leak in the dike. The boy understood the danger at a glance. That little hole, if the water were allowed to trickle through, would soon be a large one, and a terrible inundation would be the result. Quick as a flash he saw his duty. Throwing away his flowers, the boy clambered up the heights until he reached the hole. His chubby little finger was thrust in almost before he knew it. The flowing was stopped. Ah! he thought, with a chuckle of boyish delight. The angry waters must stay back now. Harlem shall not be drowned while I am here. This was all very well at first, but the night was falling rapidly. Chill vapours filled the air. Our little hero began to tremble with cold in dread. He shouted loudly. He screamed, Come here! Come here! But no one came. The cold grew more intense. A numbness commencing in the tired little finger crept over his hand and arm, and soon his whole body was filled with pain. He shouted again, Will no one come? Mother! Mother! Alas! His mother, good, practical soul, had already locked the doors and had fully resolved to scold him on the morrow for spending the night with blind Jensen without her permission. He tried to whistle. Perhaps some straggling boy might heed the signal, but his teeth chattered so it was impossible. Then he called on God for help, and the answer came, through a holy resolution, I will stay here till morning. Now Jenny Dobbs, said the teacher. Jenny's eyes were glistening, but she took a long breath and commenced. The midnight moon looked down upon that small solitary form, sitting upon a stone, halfway up the dyke. His head was bent, but he was not asleep, for every now and then one restless hand rubbed feebly the outstretched arm that seemed fastened to the dyke. Then often the pale, tearful face turned quickly at some real or fancied sounds. How can we know the sufferings of that long and fearful watch, what falterings of purpose, what childish terrors came over the boy as he thought of the warm, little bed at home, of his parents, his brothers and sisters, then looked into the cold, dreary night. If he drew away that tiny finger, the angry waters, grown angrier still, would rush forth, and never stop until they had swept over the town. No, he would hold it there till daylight, if he lived. He was not very sure of living. What did this strange buzzing mean? And then the knives that seemed pricking and piercing him from head to foot? He was not certain now that he could draw his finger away even if he wished to. At daybreak a clergyman, returning from the bedside of a sick parishioner, thought he heard groans as he walked along on the top of the dyke. Bending he saw, far down on the side, a child apparently writhing with pain. In the name of wonder, boy, he exclaimed, What are you doing there? I am keeping the water from running out. Was the simple answer of the little hero. Tell them to come quick. Is needless to add that they did come quickly, and that Jenny dobs, said the teacher, rather impatiently. If you cannot control your feelings so as to read distinctly, we will wait until you recover yourself. Yes, sir, said Jenny, quite startled. It was strange, but at that very moment Ben, far over the sea, was saying to Lumbert, The noble little fellow I have frequently met with an account of the incident, but I never knew till now that it was really true. True, of course it is, said Lumbert. I have given you the story just as Mother told it to me years ago, why there is not a child in Holland who does not know it. And Ben, you may not think so, but that little boy represents the spirit of the whole country. Not a leak can show itself anywhere, either in its politics, honor, or public safety, that a million fingers are not ready to stop it at any cost. Who, cried Master Ben, big talk in that. It's true talk anyway, rejoined Lumbert, so very quietly that Ben wisely resolved to make no further comment. The skating season had commenced unusually early. Our boys were by no means alone upon the ice. The afternoon was so fine that men, women, and children, bent upon enjoying the holiday, had flocked to the Grand Canal from far and near. St. Nicholas had evidently remembered the favorite pastime. Everything new skates were everywhere to be seen. Whole families were skimming their way to Harlem or Leiden or the neighboring villages. The ice seemed fairly alive. Men noticed the erect easy carriage of women and their picturesque variety of costume. There were the latest fashions fresh from Paris, floating past dingy, moth-eaten garments that had seen service through two generations. Whole scuttled bonnets perched over freckled faces bright with holiday smiles, stiff muslin capes with wings at the sides, flapping beside cheeks rosy with health and contentment, fur as two encircling the whitest of throats, and scanty garments fluttering below faces ruddy with exercise, in short every quaint and comical mixture of dry goods and flesh that Holland could furnish seemed sent to enliven the scene. There were bells from Leiden, and fish-wise from the border villages, cheese-women from Gouda, and prim-matrons from beautiful country seats on the Harlem Amir. Gray-headed skaters were constantly to be seen, wrinkled old women with baskets upon their heads, and plump little toddlers on skates. Clutching at their mother's gowns, some women carried their babies upon their backs, firmly secured with a bright shawl. The effect was pretty and graceful as they darted by, or sailed slowly past, now nodding to an acquaintance, now cheer-upping and throwing soft baby-talk to the muffled little ones they carried. Boys and girls were chasing each other, and hiding behind the one-horse sleds that, loaded high with peat or timber, pursued their cautious way along the track marked out as safe. Beautiful queenly women were there, enjoyment sparkling in their quiet eyes. Sometimes a long file of young men, each grasping the coat of the one before him, flew by with electric speed. And sometimes the ice squeaked under the chair of some gorgeous old dowager, or rich burgemeister's lady, who, very red in the nose and sharp in the eyes, looked like a scare-thaw invented by old Father Winter for the protection of his skating-grounds. The chair would be heavy with foot-stove and cushions to say nothing of the old lady. Mounted upon shining runners, it slid along, pushed by the sleepiest of servants, who, looking neither to the right nor the left, bent himself to his task while she cast direful glances upon the screaming little rowdies who invariably acted as bodyguard. As for the men, they were pictures of placid enjoyment. Some were a tired and ordinary citizen's dress, but many looked odd enough with their short woollen coats, wide breeches, and big silver buckles. These seemed to bend like little boys who had, by a miracle, sprung suddenly into manhood and were forced to wear garments that their astonished mothers had altered in a hurry. He noticed too that nearly all the men had pipes as they passed him, whizzing and smoking like so many locomotives. There was every variety of pipes, from those of common clay to the most expensive mere shawms mounted in silver and gold. Some were carved into extraordinary and fantastic shapes, representing birds, flowers, heads, bugs, and dozens of other things. Some resembled the Dutchman's pipe that grows in our American woods. Some were red and many were of a pure, snowy white, for the most respectable were those which were ripening into a shaded brown. The deeper and richer the brown, of course, the more honoured the pipe, for it was proof that the owner, if honestly shading it, was deliberately devoting his manhood to the effort. What pipe would not be proud to be the object of such a sacrifice? For a while Ben skated on in silence. There was so much to engage his attention that he almost forgot his companions. Part of the time he had been watching the ice-boats as they flew over the great Haarlemmermier or lake, the frozen surface of which was now plainly visible from the canal. These boats had very large sails, much larger in proportion than those of ordinary vessels, and were set upon a triangular frame furnished with an iron runner at each corner, the widest part of the triangle crossing the bow, and its point stretching beyond the stem. They had rudders for guiding, and breaks for arresting their progress, and were of all sizes and kinds, from small rough affairs managed by a boy, to large and beautiful ones filled with gay pleasure parties, and manned by competent sailors, who, smoking their stumpy pipes, reefed and tacked and steered with great solemnity and precision. Some of the boats were painted and gilded in gaudy style, and flaunted gray penons from their mastheads. Others, white as snow, with every spotless sail, rounded by the wind, looked like swans born onward by a resistless current. It seemed to Ben, as, following his fancy, he watched one of these in the distance, that he could almost hear its helpless, terrified cry, but he soon found that the sound arose from a nearer and less romantic cause, from an ice boat not fifty yards from him, using its brakes to avoid a collision with a peat sled. It was a rare thing for these boats to be upon the canal, and their appearance generally caused no little excitement among skaters, especially among the timid, but today every ice boat in the country seemed to float, or rather, a slide, and the canal had its full share. Ben, though delighted at the sight, was often startled at the swift approach of the resistless, high-winged things threatening to dart in any and every possible direction. It required all his energies to keep out of the way of the passersby, and to prevent these screaming little urchins from upsetting him with their sleds. Once he halted to watch some boys who were making a hole in the ice preparatory to using their fishing spears. Just as he concluded to start again, he found himself suddenly bumped into an old lady's lap. Her push-chair had come upon him from the rear. The old lady screamed. The servant who was propelling her gave a warning hiss. In another instant Ben found himself apologizing to empty air. The indignant old lady was far ahead. This was a slight mishap compared with one that now threatened him. A huge ice-boat under full sail came tearing down the canal, almost paralyzing Ben with a thought of instant destruction. It was close upon him. He saw its gilded prowl, heard the skipper, a master of a small trading-vessel, a pleasure-boat, or ice-boat. Shout! Felt the great boom fairly whiz over his head. Just blind, deaf and dumb, all in an instant. Then opened his eyes to find himself spinning some yards behind its great skate-like rudder. It had passed within an inch of his shoulder. But he was safe. Safe to see England again, safe to kiss the dear faces that for an instant had flashed before him one by one. Father, mother, Robbie, and Jenny. That great boom had dashed their images into his very soul. He knew now how much he loved them. Perhaps this knowledge made him face complacently the scowls of those on the canal, who seemed to feel that a boy in danger was necessarily a bad boy, needing instant reprimand. Lumber chided him roundly. I thought it was all over with you, you careless fellow. Why don't you look where you're going? Not content with sitting on all the old lady's laps, you must make a juggernaut of every ice-boat that comes along. We shall have to hand you over to the unspeakers yet, if you don't look out. Please don't, said Ben, with mock humility, then seeing how pale Lumbert's lips were, he added in a low tone, I do believe I thought more in that one moment, Van Monen, than in all the rest of my past life. There was no reply, and for a while the two boys skated on in silence. Soon a faint sound of distant bells reached their ears. Hark! said Ben, what is that? The Carolons, replied Lumbert, they are trying the bells in the chapel of Yonder Village. Ah, Ben, you should hear the chimes of the new church at Delft. They are superb, nearly five hundred sweet-toned bells, and one of the best Koreaners of Holland to play upon them. Hard work, though. They say the fellow often has to go to bed from positive exhaustion after his performances. You see, the bells are attached to a kind of keyboard, something like they have on piano forts. There is also a set of pedals for the feet. When a brisk tune is going on, the player looks like a kicking frog fastened to his seat with a skewer. For shame, said Ben, indignantly. Lumbert had, for the present, exhausted his stock of hair-limatic dotes, and now, having nothing to do but skate, he and his three companions were hastening to catch up with Lumbert and Ben. "'That English lad is fleet enough,' said Peter. "'If he were a born Hollander, he could do no better. Generally these John Bulls make but a sorry figure on skates.' "'Halloo!' "'Here you are, Van Monen. Why, we hardly hope for the honour of meeting you again. Whom were you flying from in such haste?' "'Snails,' retorted Lumbert. What kept you?' "'We have been talking, and besides we halted once to give Pood a chance to rest.' "'He begins to look rather worn out,' said Lumbert in a low voice. Just then a beautiful ice-boat with reef sail and flying streamers swept leisurely by. Its deck was filled with children muffled up to their chins. Looking at them from the ice you could see only smiling little faces embedded in bright-coloured woollen wrappings. They were singing a chorus in honour of St. Nicholas. The music, starting in the discord of a hundred childish voices, floated as it rose into exquisite harmony. "'Friends of sailors and of children, double claim have we, as in youthful joy, we're sailing o'er a frozen sea. Nicholas, St. Nicholas, let us sing to thee. While through wintry air we're rushing as our voices blend. Are you nearest? Do you hear us? Nicholas, our friend. Nicholas, St. Nicholas, love can never end. Sunny sparkles, bright before us, chase away the cold. Hearts where sunny thoughts are welcome never can grow old. Nicholas, St. Nicholas, never can grow old. Pretty gift and loving lesson, festival and glee, bid us thank thee as we're sailing o'er the frozen sea. Nicholas, St. Nicholas, so we sing to thee." CHAPTER XX of Hans Brinker This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.com. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates, by Mary Mapes Dodge. CHAPTER XX Jacob Pute changes the plan. The last note died away in the distance. Our boys, who in their vain efforts to keep up with the boat had felt that they were skating backward, turned to look at one another. How beautiful that was, exclaimed Van Monen. Just like a dream. Jacob drew close to Ben, giving his usual approving nod as he spoke. Dottish gut, dottish de best fe, I say, better to take to lay de mit a boat. Take a boat, exclaimed Ben in dismay, why, man, our plan was to skate, not to be carried like little children. Toyfuls, retorted Jacob. Dottish no dittle, no babies to go for pote? The boys laughed, but exchanged uneasy glances. It would be great fun to jump on an ice boat, if they had a chance. But to abandon so shamefully their grand undertaking, who could think of such a thing? An animated discussion arose at once. Captain Peter brought his party to a halt. Boys, said he, it strikes me that we should consult Jacob's wishes in this matter. He started the excursion, you know. Poo, sneered Carl, throwing a contemptuous glance at Jacob. Poo's tired, we can rest all night in laden. Ludwig and Lumbert looked anxious and disappointed. It was no slight thing to lose the credit of having skated all the way from Brooke to the Hague and back again. But both agreed that Jacob should decide the question. Good-natured, tired Jacob. He read the popular sentiment at a glance. Oh, no, he said in Dutch. I was joking. We will skate, of course. The boys gave a delighted shout and started on again with renewed vigor. All but Jacob. He tried his best not to seem fatigued, and by not saying a word saved his breath and energy for the great business of skating. But in vain, before long the stout body grew heavier and heavier, the tottering limbs weaker and weaker. Worse than all, the blood, anxious to get as far as possible from the ice, mounted to the puffy, good-natured cheeks, and made the roots of his thin yellow hair glow into a fiery red. This kind of work is apt to summon vertigo, of whom Good Hans Andersen writes, the same who hurls daring young hunters from the mountains, or spins them from the sharpest heights of the glaciers, or catches them as they tread the stepping-stones of the mountain torrent. Vertigo came unseen to Jacob. After tormenting him a while, with one touch sending a chill from head to foot, or the next scorching every vein with fever, she made the canal rock and tremble beneath him. The white sails bow and spin as they passed, then cast him heavily upon the ice. "'Halloo!' cried Van Monen. "'There goes Poot!' Ben sprang hastily forward. "'Jacob, Jacob, are you hurt?' Peter and Carl were lifting him. The face was white enough now. It seemed like a dead face. Even the good-natured look was gone. A crowd collected. Peter unbuttoned the poor boy's jacket, loosened his red tippet, and blew between the parted lips. "'Stand off, good people!' he cried. "'Give him air!' "'Lay him down!' called out a woman from the crowd. "'Stand him upon his feet!' shouted another. "'Give him wine!' growled a stout fellow who was driving a loaded sled. "'Yes, yes, give him wine!' echoed everybody. Ludwig and Lumbert shouted in concert. "'Wine! Wine! Who has wine?' A sleepy-headed Dutchman began to fumble mysteriously under the heaviest of blue jackets, saying as he did so, "'Not so much noise, young masters. Not so much noise. The boy was a fool to faint like a girl.' "'Wine, quick!' cried Peter, who with Ben's help was rubbing Jacob from head to foot. Ludwig stretched forth his hand imploringly toward the Dutchman, who with an air of great importance was still fumbling beneath the jacket. "'Do hurry! He will die! Has anyone else any wine?' "'He is dead,' said an awful voice from among the bystanders. This startled the Dutchman. "'Have a care,' he said, reluctantly drawing forth a small blue flask. "'This is schnapps. A little is enough.' "'A little was enough.' The paleness gave way to a faint flush. Jacob opened his eyes, and half bewildered, half ashamed, feebly tried to free himself from those who were supporting him. There was no alternative now for our party but to have their exhausted comrade carried in some way to Leiden. As for expecting him to skate any more that day, the thing was impossible. In truth, by this time each boy began to entertain secret yearnings toward ice-boats, and to avow a Spartan resolve not to desert Jacob. Fortunately a gentle, steady breeze was setting southward. If some accommodating skipper would but come along, matters would not be quite so bad after all. Peter hailed the first sail that appeared. The men in the stern would not even look at him. Three drays on runners came along, but they were already loaded to the utmost. Then an ice-boat, a beautiful, tempting little one, whizzed past like an arrow. The boys had just time to stare eagerly at it when it was gone. In despair they resolved to prop up Jacob with their strong arms, as well as they could, and take him to the nearest village. At that moment a very shabby ice-boat came in sight, with but little hope of success Peter hailed at it, at the same time taking off his hat and flourishing it in the air. The sail was lowered, then came the scraping sound of the break, and a pleasant voice called from the deck. What now? Will you take us on? cried Peter, hurrying with his companions as fast as he could, for the boat was bringing to some distance ahead. Will you take us on? We'll pay for the ride. shouted Carl. The man on board scarcely noticed him except to mutter something about it's not being a treksquit. Still looking toward Peter he asked, How many? Six. Well, it's Nicholas's day. Up with you. Young gentlemen sick? he nodded toward Jacob. Yes, broken down, skated all the way from Brook, answered Peter. Are you good at laden? That's as the wind says, it's blowing that way now. Scramble up! Poor Jacob, if that willing Mrs. Poot had only appeared just then, her services would have been invaluable. It was as much as the boys could do to hoist him into the boat. All were in at last. The skipper, puffing away at his pipe, let out the sail, lifted the break, and sat in the stern with folded arms. Woo! how fast we go! cried Ben. This is something like. Feel better, Jacob? Much better. I thanks you. Oh, you'll be as good as new in ten minutes. This makes a fellow feel like a bird. Jacob nodded and blinked his eyes. Don't go to sleep, Jacob. It's too cold. You might never wake up, you know. Persons often freeze to death in that way. I know sleep. Said Jacob confidently. And in two minutes he was snoring. Carl and Ludwig laughed. We must wake him! cried Ben. It is dangerous, I tell you. Jacob, Jay! Captain Peter interfered, for three of the boys were helping Ben for the fun of the thing. Nonsense. Don't shake him. Let him alone, boys. One never snores like that when one's freezing. Cover him up with something. Here, this cloak will do. Hey, Skipper! And he looked towards the stern for permission to use it. The man nodded. There, said Peter, tenderly adjusting the garment, let him sleep. He will be as frisky as a lamb when he wakes. How far are we from late in, Skipper? Not more than a couple of pipes, replied a voice rising from smoke like the genie eye of fairytales. Puff, puff. Likely not more than one and a half. Puff, puff. If this wind holds, puff, puff, puff. What is the man saying, Lumbert? asked Ben, who was holding his mittened hands against his cheeks to ward off the cutting air. He says we're about two pipes from late in. Half the boars here on the canal measure distance by the time it takes him to finish a pipe. How ridiculous! See here, Benjamin Dobbs, retorted Lumbert, growing unaccountably indignant at Ben's quiet smile. See here, you've a way of calling every other thing you see on this side of the German ocean ridiculous. It may suit you, this word, but it doesn't suit me. When you want anything ridiculous, just remember your English custom of making the Lord Mayor of London at his installation, count the nails in a horseshoe to prove his learning. Who told you we had any such custom as that? cried Ben, looking grave in an instant. Why I know it, no use of any one telling me. It's in all the books, and it's true. It strikes me, continued Lumbert, laughing in spite of himself, that you have been kept in happy ignorance of a good many ridiculous things on your side of the map. Exclaimed Ben, trying not to smile. I'll inquire to this Lord Mayor business when I get home. There must be some mistake. Brrr! How fast we're going! This is glorious! It was a grand sale, or ride, I scarcely know what to call it. Perhaps fly would be the best word, for the boys felt very much as Sinbad did when, tied to the rock's leg, he darted through the clouds, or as Beller often felt when he shot through the air on the back of his winged horse Pegasus. Sailing, riding, or flying, whichever it was, everything was rushing past, backward, and before they had time to draw a deep breath, late in itself, with its high, peaked roofs, flew half way to meet them. When the city came in sight, it was high time to waken the sleeper. That feat accomplished, Peter's prophecy came to pass. Mr. Jacob was quite restored, and in excellent spirits. The skipper made a feeble remonstrance when Peter, with hearty thanks, endeavored to slip some silver pieces into his tough brown palm. You see, young master, said he, drawing away his hand, the regular line of trades one thing, and a favor's another. I know it, said Peter, but those boys and girls of yours will want sweets when you get home. Buy them some in the name of St. Nicholas. The man grinned. I, true enough, I've young and some plenty, a clean boatload of them. You are a sharp young master at guessing. This time the naughty hand hitched forward again, quite carelessly it seemed, but its palm was upward. Peter hastily dropped in the money and moved away. The sail came tumbling down. Scrape, scrape, went the break, scattering an ice-shower round the boat. Good-bye, skipper, shouted the boys, seizing their skates and leaving from the deck one by one. Many thanks to you. Good-bye. Good-bye. Hold. Here. Stop. I want my coat. Ben was carefully assisting his cousin over the side of the boat. What is the man shouting about? Oh, I know you have his wrap around your shoulders. Dot is true! Mr. Jacob, half-jumping, half-tumbling down upon the framework, Dot is what make him so heavy! Made you so heavy, you mean, Pute? Ya, made you so heavy! Dot is true! Said Jacob innocently as he worked himself free of the big wrapper. There! Now you hand admit him straight away, and tell him I was much thanks for that. Ho! for an inn, cried Peter as they stepped into the city. Be brisk, my fine fellows. The boy soon found an unpretending establishment near the Breedstrat, with a funnily-painted lion over the door. This was a rudelieu, or red lion, kept by one Hurgeon's cleaf, a stout Dutchman with short legs and a very long pipe. By this time they were in a ravenous condition, the typhon taken at Haarlem had served only to give them an appetite, and this had been heightened by their exercise and swift sale upon the canal. Come, my host, give us what you can! cried Peter rather pompously. I can give you anything, everything! answered my near cleaf, performing a difficult vow. Well, give us sausage and pudding. Ah, my near, the sausage is all gone, and there is no pudding. Salmogundi, then, in plenty of it. That is out also, young master. Eggs and be quick! Winter eggs are very poor eating, answered the innkeeper, puckering his lips and lifting his eyebrows. No eggs? Well, caviar! The Dutchman raised his fat hands. Caviar! That is made of gold! Who is caviar to sell? Caviar had sometimes eaten it at home. He knew that it was made of the rows of the sturgeon and certain other large fish, but he had no idea of its cost. Well, my host, what have you? What have I? Everything! I have rye bread, sauerkraut, potato salad, and the fattest herring and laden. What do you say, boys? asked the captain. Will that do? Yes! cried the famished youths. They feel only be quick! My near moved off like one walking in his sleep, but soon opened his eyes wide at the miraculous manner in which his herring were made to disappear. Next came, or rather went, potato salad, rye bread, and coffee. Then eutrekte water, flavoured with orange, and finally slices of dried gingerbread. This last delicacy was not on the regular bill of fare, but my near cleaf, driven to extremes, solemnly produced it from his own private stores, and gave only a placid blink when his voracious young travellers started up, declaring they had eaten enough. I should think so, he exclaimed internally, but his smooth face gave no sign. Softly rubbing his hands, he asked, Will your worships have beds? Will your worships have beds? mocked Carl. What do you mean? Do we look sleepy? Not at all, master, but I would cause them to be warmed and aired, none sleep under damp sheets at the red lion. Ah, I understand. Shall we come back here to sleep, Captain? Peter was accustomed to finer lodgings, but this was a frolic. Why not? he replied. We can fare excellently here. Your worship speaks only the truth, said my near with great deference. How fine to be called your worship! laughed Ludwig aside to Lumbert, while Peter replied, Well, my host, you may get the rooms ready by nine. I have one beautiful chamber with three beds that will hold all of your worships, said my near-cleaf coaxingly. That will do! whistled Carl when they reached the street. Ludwig startled. What now? Flying, only my near-cleaf of the red lion little thinks how we shall make things spin in that same room tonight. We'll set the bolsters flying. Order! cried the Captain. Now, boys, I must seek this great Dr. Bookman before I sleep. If he isn't late, and it will be no great task to find him, for he always puts up at the golden eagle when he comes here. I wonder that you did not all go to bed at once. Still, as you are awake, what say you to walking with Ben up by the museum or the Stadhus? Agreed, said Ludwig and Lumbert, but Jacob preferred to go with Peter. In vain Ben tried to persuade him to remain at the inn and rest. He declared that he had never felt petr, and wished of all things to take a look at the city, for it was his first. Oh, it will not harm him, said Lumbert. How long the day has been, and what glorious sport we have had! It hardly seems possible that we left Brook only this morning. Jacob yawned. I have enjoyed it well, he said, but it seems to me at least a week since we started. Carl laughed and muttered something about twenty naps. Here we are at the corner. Remember, we all meet at the red lion at eight, said the captain, as he and Jacob walked away. Chapter 22 The Red Lion Becomes Dangerous The boys were glad to find a blazing fire awaiting them upon their return to the red lion. Carl and his party were there first. Soon afterward Peter and Jacob came in. They had inquired in vain concerning Dr. Boakman. All they could ascertain was that he had been seen in Harlan that morning. As for his being in Leiden, the landlord of the Golden Eagle had said to Peter, the thing is impossible. He always lodges here, when in town. By this time there would be a crowd at my door waiting to console him. Bah! People make such fools of themselves. He is called a great surgeon, said Peter. Yes, the greatest in Holland, but what of that? What of being the greatest pill choker and knife slasher in the world? The man is a bear. Only last month on this very spot he called me a pig before three customers. No! exclaimed Peter, trying to look surprised and indignant. Yes, master, a pig! repeated the landlord, puffing at his pipe with an injured air. Bah! If he did not pay fine prices and bring customers to my house, I would sooner see him in the late canal than give him watching. Perhaps my host felt that he was speaking too openly to a stranger, or it may be that he saw a smile lurking in Peter's face, for he added sharply, Come now! What more do you wish? Supper? Beds? No, my dear. I am but searching for Dr. Bookman. Go find him. He is not in laden. Peter was not to be put off so easily. He succeeded in obtaining permission to leave a note for the famous surgeon, or rather, he bought from his amiable landlord the privilege of writing it there, and a promise that it should be promptly delivered when Dr. Bookman arrived. This accomplished Peter and Jacob returned to the Red Lion. This inn had once been a fine house, the home of a rich burger, but having grown old and shabby, it had passed through many hands until finally it had fallen into the possession of my near-cleaf. He was fond of saying as he looked up at its dingy broken walls, Mended and painted, and there's not a prettier house in laden. It stood six stories high from the street. The first three were of equal breadth, but of various heights. The last three were in the great high roof, and grew smaller and smaller like a set of double steps until the top one was lost in a point. The roof was built of short, shining tiles, and the windows, with their little panes, seemed to be scattered irregularly over the face of the building, without the slightest attention to outward effect. But the public room on the ground floor was the landlord's joy and pride. He never said, Mended and painted, there, for everything was in the highest condition of Dutch neatness and order. If you will but open your mind's eye, you may look into the apartment. Imagine a large, bare room, with a floor that seemed to be made of squares cut out of glazed, earthen pie-dishes, first a yellow piece, then a red, until the whole looked like a vast checkerboard, fancy a dozen high-backed wooden chairs standing around, then a great hollow chimney-place, all aglow with its blazing fire, reflected a hundred times in the polished steel fire-dogs, a tiled hearth, on sides, tiled top, with a Dutch sentiness upon it, and overall, high above one's head, a narrow mantle-shelf filled with shining brass candlesticks, pipe-lighters, and tinder-boxes. Then see, in one end of the room, three pine-tables, in the other, a closet, and a deal-dresser. The latter is filled with mugs, dishes, pipes, tankards, earthen and glass bottles, and is garnered at one end by a brass-hooped keg standing upon long legs. Everything is dim with tobacco smoke, but otherwise as clean as soap and sand can make it. Next picture two sleepy, shabby-looking men, in wooden shoes, seated near the glowing fireplace, hugging their knees and smoking short stumpy pipes. My near-cleaf walking softly and heavily about, clad in leather knee-breaches, felt shoes, and a green jacket wider than it is long. Then throw a heap of skates in the corner, and put six tired, well-dressed boys, in various attitudes, upon the wooden chairs, and you will see the coffee-room of the red line just as it appeared at nine o'clock upon the evening of December 6. For supper, gingerbread again, slices of Dutch sausage, rye bread sprinkled with anise seed, pickles, a bottle of Utrecht water, and a pot of very mysterious coffee. The boys were ravenous enough to take all they could get and pronounce it excellent. Ben made rye faces, but Jacob declared he had never eaten a better meal. After they had laughed and talked a while, encountered their money by way of settling a discussion that arose concerning their expenses, the captain marched his company off to bed, led on by a greasy pioneer boy who carried skates and a candlestick instead of an axe. One of the ill-favoured men by the fire had shuffled toward the dresser and was ordering a mug of beer, just as Ludwig, who brought up the rear, was stepping from the apartment. I don't like that fellow's eye, he whispered to Carl. He looks like a pirate or something of that kind. Looks like a granny, answered Carl in sleepy disdain. Ludwig laughed uneasily. Granny or no granny, he whispered. I tell you he looks just like one of those men in the vootspulen. Poo! sneered Carl. I knew it. That picture was too much for you. Look sharp now and see if young fellow with the candle doesn't look like the other villain. No, indeed, his face is as honest as a Gouda cheese. But I say, Carl, that really was a horrid picture. Huh! What did you stare at it so long for? I couldn't help it. By this time the boys had reached the beautiful room with three beds in it. A dumpy little maiden with long earrings met them at the doorway, dropped them a curtsy, and passed out. She carried a long-handled thing that resembled a frying-pan with a cover. I am glad to see that, said Vamonan to Ben. What? Why, the warming-pan, it's full of hot ashes. She's been heating our beds. Oh! A warming-pan, eh? Much obliged to her, I'm sure, said Ben, too sleepy to make any further comment. Meantime Ludwig still talked to the picture that it made such a strong impression upon him. He had seen it in a shop window during their walk. It was a poorly painted thing, representing two men tied back to back, standing on ship-board, surrounded by a group of seaman who were preparing to cast them together into the sea. This mode of putting prisoners to death was called vootspulun, or feet-washing, and was practiced by the Dutch upon the pirates of Dunkirk in 1605, and again by the Spaniards against the Dutch, in a horrible massacre that followed the siege of Haarlem. Bad as the painting was, the expression upon the pirate's faces was well given. Sullen and despairing as they seemed, they wore such a cruel, malignant aspect that Ludwig had felt a secret satisfaction in contemplating their helpless condition. He might have forgotten the scene by this time, but for that ill-looking man by the fire. Now while he capered about, boy-like, and threw himself with an antique into his bed, he inwardly hoped that the vootspulun would not haunt his dreams. It was a cold, cheerless room. A fire had been newly kindled in the burnished stove, and seemed to shiver even while it was trying to burn. The windows, with their funny little panes, were bare and shiny, and the cold, waxed floor looked like a sheet of yellow ice. Three rush-bottom chairs stood stiffly against the wall, alternating with three narrow wooden bedsteads that made the room look like the deserted ward of a hospital. At any other time the boys would have found it quite impossible to sleep in pairs, especially in such narrow quarters, but tonight they lost all fear of being crowded, and longed only to lay their weary bodies upon the feather-beds that lay lightly upon each cot. Had the boys been in Germany instead of Holland, they might have been covered, also, by a bed of down or feathers. This peculiar form of luxury was at that time adopted only by wealthy or eccentric Hollanders. Ludwig, as we have seen, had not quite lost his friskiness, but the other boys, after one or two feeble attempts at pillow-fighting, composed themselves for the night with the greatest dignity. Nothing like fatigue for making boys behave themselves. Good night, boys, said Peter's voice from under the covers. Good night! called back everybody but Jacob, who already lay snoring beside the captain. I say, shouted Carl after a moment, don't sneeze, anybody, Ludwig's in a fright. No such thing, retorted Ludwig in a smothered voice. Then there was a little whispered dispute, which was ended by Carl saying, from my part I don't know what fear is, but you really are a timid fellow, Ludwig. Ludwig grunted sleepily, but made no further reply. It was the middle of the night. The fire had shivered itself to death, and in place of its gleams little squares of moonlight lay upon the floor, slowly, slowly shifting their way across the room. Something else was moving also, but the boys did not see it. Sleeping boys keep but a poor lookout. During the early hours of the night Jacob Pute had been gradually but surely winding himself with all the bed covers. He'd now lay like a monster chrysalis beside the half-frozen Peter, who accordingly was skating with all his might over the coldest, bleakest of Dreamland icebergs. Something else, I say, besides the moonlight, was moving across the bare, polished floor, moving not quite so slowly, but quite as stealthily. Wake up, Ludwig, the vootspul in his growing reel. No, Ludwig does not waken, but he moans in his sleep. Does not Carl hear it? Carl the brave, the fearless? No, Carl is dreaming of the race. And Jacob, then Monon, then Ben? Not they. They too are dreaming of the race, and Katrina is singing through their dreams, laughing, flitting past them, now and then away from the great organ surges through their midst. Still, the thing moves slowly, slowly. Peter, Captain Peter, there is danger. Peter heard no call, but in his dream he slid a few thousand feet from one iceberg to another, and the shock awoke him. Phew! How cold he was! He gave a hopeless, desperate tug at the chrysalis in vain. Sheet, blanket, and spread were firmly round Jacob's inanimate form. Clear moonlight, he thought, we shall have pleasant weather to-morrow. Halloo! What's that? He saw the moving thing, or rather something black crouching upon the floor, for it had halted as Peter stirred. He watched in silence. Soon it moved again, nearer and nearer. It was a man crawling upon hands and feet. The Captain's first impulse was to call out, but he took an instant to consider matters. The creeper had a shining knife in one hand. This was ugly, but Peter was naturally self-possessed. When the head turned, Peter's eyes were closed, as if in sleep. But at other times nothing could be keener, sharper than the Captain's gaze. Closer, closer crept the robber. His back was very near Peter now. The knife was laid softly upon the floor. One careful arm reached forth stealthily to drag the clothes from the chair by the Captain's bed. The robbery was commenced. Now was Peter's time. Holding his breath, he sprang up and leaped with all his strength upon the robber's back, stunning the rascal with the force of the blow. To seize the knife was but a second's work. The robber began to struggle, but Peter sat like a giant astride the prostrate form. "'If you stir,' said the brave boy, in as terrible a voice as he could command, "'stir, but one inch, I will plunge this knife into your neck. Boys, boys, wake up!' he shouted, still pressing down the black head and holding the knife at pricking distance. Give us a hand, I've got him!' The chrysalis rolled over, but made no other sign. "'Up, boys!' cried Peter, never budging. "'Ludwig, Lumbert, Dunder, are you all dead?' "'Dead? Not they. Van Monen and Ben were on their feet in an instant. "'Hey! What now?' they shouted. "'I've got a robber here,' said Peter Cooley. "'Lie still, you scoundrel, or I'll slice your head off. Now, boys, cut out your bed-court. Plenty of time. He's a dead man if he stirs.' Peter felt that he weighed a thousand pounds. So he did, with that knife in his hand.' The man growled and swore, but dared not move. Ludwig was up by this time. He had a great jackknife, the pride of his heart, in his breech's pocket. It could do good service now. They bared the bed-stead in a moment. It was laced backward and forward with a rope. "'I'll cut it!' cried Ludwig, sawing away at the knot. "'Hold him tight, Peter.' "'Never fear!' answered the captain, giving the robber a warning-prick. The boys were soon pulling at the rope like good fellows. It was out at last a long stout peace. "'Now, boys,' commanded the captain, lift up his rascally arms, cross his hands over his back. "'That's right. Excuse me for being in the way. Tie them tight.' "'Yes, and his feet, too, the villain!' cried the boys in great excitement, tying knot after knot with herculean jerks. The prisoner changed his tone. "'Oh, oh!' he moaned. "'Spare, a poor, sick man! I was but walking in my sleep!' "'Ugh!' grunted Lumbert, still tugging away at the rope. "'A sleep were you? Well, we'll wake you up!' The man muttered fierce oaths between his teeth, then cried in a piteous voice. "'Un-bye, my good young masters! I have five little children at home. Ah, Saint Bavon, I swear to give you each a ten-guilder-piece, if you will, but free me!' "'Haha!' laughed Peter. "'Haha!' laughed the other boys. Then came threats—threats that made Ludwig fairly shudder, though he continued to bind and tie with redoubled energy. "'Hold up, my near house-breaker,' said Van Monen, in a warning voice. That knife is very near your throat. If you make the captain nervous, there is no telling what may happen.' The robber took the hint and fell into a sullen silence. Just at this moment the chrysalis upon the bed stirred and sat erect. "'Washed the matter!' he asked, without opening his eyes. "'Matter!' echoed Ludwig, half trembling, half laughing. "'Get up, Jacob! Here's work for you. Come sit on this fellow's back while we get into our clothes. We're half-perished.' "'What fellow? Dunder!' "'Hirah for put!' cried all the boys, as Jacob, sliding quickly to the floor, bed-clothes and all, took in the state of affairs at a glance, and sat heavily beside Peter on the robber's back. "'Oh, didn't the fellow groan then?' "'No use in holding him down any longer, boys,' said Peter, rising, but bending as he did so to draw a pistol from the man's belt. "'You see, I've been keeping a guard over this pretty little weapon for the last ten minutes. It's cocked, and the least wriggle might have set it off. No danger now. I must dress myself. You and I, Lumbert, will go for the police. I had no idea it was so cold.' "'Where's Carl?' asked one of the boys. They looked at one another. Carl certainly was not among them. "'Oh!' cried Ludwig, frightened at last. "'Where is he? Perhaps he's had a fight with the robber, and got killed.' "'Not a bit of it,' said Peter quietly, as he buttoned his stout jacket. Look under the beds.' They did so. Carl was not there. Just then they heard a commotion on the stairway. Ben hastened to open the door. The landlord almost tumbled in. He was armed with a big blunder-bus. Two or three lodgers followed, then the daughter with an upraised frying-pan in one hand, and a candle in the other, and behind her, looking pale and frightened, the gallant Carl. "'There's your man, my host,' said Peter, nodding toward the prisoner. My host raised his blunder-bus. The girl screamed, and Jacob, more nimble than usual, rolled quickly from the robber's back. "'Don't fire!' cried Peter. He is tied hand and foot. Let's roll him over and see what he looks like.' Carl stepped briskly forward with a bluster. "'Yes. We'll turn him over in a way he won't like. Lucky we've caught him.' "'Haha!' laughed Ludwig. Where were you, Master Carl?' "'Where was I?' retorted Carl angrily. "'Why, I went to give the alarm to be sure.' All the boys exchanged glances, but they were too happy and elated to say anything ill-natured. Carl certainly was bold enough now. He took the lead while three others aided him in turning the helpless man. While the robber lay face up, scowling and muttering, Ludwig took the candlestick from the girl's hand. "'I must have a good look at the beauty,' he said, drawing closer, but the words were no sooner spoken than he turned pale and started so violently that he almost dropped the candle. "'The vootspulen!' he cried. "'Why, boys, it's the man who sat by the fire.' "'Of course it is,' answered Peter. We counted out money before him like simpletons. But what have we to do with vootspulen, brother Ludwig? A month in jail is punishment enough.' The landlord's daughter had left the room. She now ran in, holding up a pair of huge wooden shoes. "'See, father,' she cried. "'Here are his great ugly boats. It's the man that we put in the next room after the young masters went to bed. Ah! It was wrong to send the poor young gentleman up here so far out of sight and sound. "'The scoundrel,' hissed the landlord. "'He has disgraced my house. I go for the police at once.' In less than fifteen minutes two drowsy-looking officers were in the room. After telling my near-cleaf that he must appear early in the morning with the boys and make his complaint before a magistrate, they marched off with their prisoner. One would think the captain and his band could have slept no more that night. But the mooring has not yet been found that can prevent youth and an easy conscience from drifting down the river of dreams. The boys were much too fatigued to let so slight a thing as capturing a robber bind them to wakefulness. They were soon in bed again, floating away to strange scenes made of familiar things. Ludwig and Carl had spread their bedding upon the floor. One had already forgotten the voodhspulen, the race, everything. But Carl was wide awake. He heard the Carolons ringing out their solemn nightly music, and the watchman's noisy clapper putting in discord at the quarter-hours. He saw the moonshine glide away from the window and the red morning light come pouring in, and all the while he kept thinking, Poo! What a goose I've made of myself! Carl Schummel, alone, with none to look or to listen, was not quite so grand a fellow as Carl Schummel strutting about in his boots. CHAPTER 23 BEFORE THE COURT You may believe that the landlord's daughter besturred herself to prepare a good meal for the boy's next morning. My near had a Chinese gong that could make more noise than a dozen breakfast bells. Its hideous revely, clanging through the house, gently startled the drowsiest lodgers into activity. But the maiden would not allow it to be sounded this morning. Let the brave young gentleman sleep, she said to the greasy kitchen boy. They shall be warmly fed when they awaken. It was ten o'clock when Captain Peter and his band came straggling down one by one. A pretty hour, said my host gruffly. It is high time we were before the court. Fine business this, for respectable in. You will testify truly, young masters, that you've found most excellent fare and lodging at the Red Lion? Of course we will, answered Carl saucily, and pleasant company, too, though they visit at rather unseasonable hours. A stare and a, whew, was all the answer my near made to this. But the daughter was more communicative. Shaking her earrings at Carl, she said sharply, Not so very pleasant, either, Master Traveler, if you could judge by the way you ran away from it. The creature hissed Carl under his breath as he began busily to examine his scape straps. Meantime the kitchen boy, listening outside at the crack of the door, doubled himself with silent laughter. After breakfast the boys went to the police court, accompanying by Hurgeon's cleaf and his daughter. My near's testimony was principally to the effect that such a thing as a robber at the Red Lion had been unheard of until last night. And as for the Red Lion it was a most respectable in, as respectable as any house in Leiden. Each boy, in turn, told all that he knew of the affair, and identified the prisoner in the box as the same man who entered their room in the dead of night. Ludwig was surprised to find that the prisoner in the box was a man of ordinary size, especially after he had described him, under oath, to the court as a tremendous fellow with great square shoulders and legs of prodigious weight. Jacob swore that he was awakened by the robber kicking and thrashing upon the floor, and immediately afterward, Peter and the rest, feeling sorry that they had not explained the matter to their sleepy comrade, testified that the man had not moved a muscle from the moment the point of the dagger touched his throat, until, bound from head to foot, he was rolled over for inspection. The landlord's daughter made one boy blush, and all the court's smile, by declaring, If it hadn't been for that handsome young gentleman there, pointing to Peter, they might have all been murdered in their beds, for the dreadful man had a great shining knife most as long as your honour's arm. And she believed the handsome young gentleman had struggled hard enough to get it away from him, but he was too modest, bless him, to say so. Immediately after a little questioning, and cross-questioning from the public prosecutor, the witnesses were dismissed, and the robber was handed over to the consideration of the criminal court. The scoundrel, said Carl savagely when the boys reached the street, he ought to be sent to jail at once. If I had been in your place, Peter, I certainly should have killed him outright. He was fortunate then in falling into gentler hands, was Peter's quiet reply. It appears he has been arrested before, under a charge of house-breaking. He did not succeed in robbing this time, but he broke the door-fastenings, and that I believe constitutes a burglary in the eyes of the law. He was armed with a knife, too, and that makes it worse for him, poor fellow. Poor fellow! mimicked Carl. One would think he was your brother. So he is my brother, and yours, too, Carl Schummel, for that matter, answered Peter, looking into Carl's eye. We cannot say what we might have become under other circumstances. We have been bolstered up from evil, since the hour we were born. A happy home and good parents might have made that man a fine fellow instead of what he is. Not grant that the law may cure and not crush him. "'Amen to that!' said Lumbert heartily, while Ludwig van Hope looked at his brother in such a bright, proud way that Jacob Pute, who was an only son, wished from his heart that the little form buried in the old church at home had lived to grow up beside him. "'Hah!' said Carl. "'It's all very well to be saintly and forgiving and all that sort of thing, but I'm naturally hard. All these fine ideas seem to rattle off me like hailstones, and it's nobody's business, either, if they do.' Peter recognized a touch of good feeling in this clumsy concession. Holding out his hand he said in a frank, hearty tone, "'Come, lad, shake hands, and let us be good friends, even if we don't exactly agree on all questions.' "'We do agree better than you think.' Salt Carl, as he returned Peter's grasp. "'All right!' responded Peter briskly. "'Now, Van Monad, we await Benjamin's wishes. Where would he like to go?' "'To the Egyptian Museum?' answered Lumbert after holding a brief consultation with Ben. "'That is on the bravestrot. To the museum let it be. Come, boys!' End of chapter 24 of Hans Brinker. This open square before us, said Lumbert, as he and Ben walked on together, is pretty and summer, with its shady trees. They call it the ruin. Years ago it was covered with houses, and the Rappenburg Canal here ran through the street. Well, one day a barge loaded with forty thousand pounds of gunpowder, bound for Delft, was lying alongside, and the bargemen took a notion to cook their dinner on the deck, and before anyone knew it, sir, the whole thing blew up, killing lots of persons and scattering about three hundred houses to the winds. "'What?' exclaimed Ben. "'Did the explosion destroy three hundred houses?' "'Yes, sir, my father wasn't late in at the time. He says it was terrible. The explosion occurred just at noon, and it was like a volcano. All this part of the town was on fire in an instant, buildings tumbling down, and men, women, and children groaning under the ruins. The king himself came to the city and acted nobly, father says, staying out in the streets all night, encouraging the survivors in their efforts to arrest the fire, and rescue as many as possible from under the heaps of stone and rubbish. Through his means a collection for the benefit of the sufferers was raised throughout the kingdom, besides a hundred thousand guilders paid out of the treasury. Father was only nineteen years old then. It was in 1807, I believe, but he remembers it perfectly. A friend of his, Professor Lusak, was among the killed. They have a tablet erected to his memory in St. Peter's Church farther on. The queerest thing you ever saw, with an image of the professor carved upon it, representing him just as he looked when he was found after the explosion. What a strange idea! Isn't Bourjava's Monument in St. Peter's also? I can't remember, perhaps Peter knows. The captain delighted Ben by saying that the monument was there, and that he thought they might be able to see it during the day. Lumbert continued Peter, asked Ben if he saw Van der Werf's portrait at the town hall last night. No, said Lumbert, I can answer for him. It was too late to go in. I say, boys, it is really wonderful how much Ben knows. Why, he has told me a volume of Dutch history already. I'll wager he has the siege of Leiden at his tongue's end. His tongue must burn then, interposed Ludwig, for if Bilderdijk's account is true it was a pretty hot affair. Ben was looking at them with an inquiring smile. We are speaking of the siege of Leiden, explained Lumbert. Oh, yes! said Ben eagerly. I had forgotten all about it. This was the very place. Let's give old Van der Werf three cheers. Hurt! Van Monen uttered a hasty, hush! And explained that, patriotic as the Dutch were, the police would soon have something to say if a party of boys cheered in the streets at midday. What? Not cheer Van der Werf? cried Ben indignantly. One of the greatest chaps in history? Only think! Didn't he hold out against those murderous Spaniards for months and months? There was the town, surrounded on all sides by the enemy, great black forts sending fire and death into the very heart of the city, but no surrender. Every man a hero, women and children too, brave and fierce as lions, provisions giving out the very grass from between the paving-stones gone, till people were glad to eat horses and cats and dogs and rats. Then came the plague, hundreds dying in the streets, but no surrender. Then when they could bear no more, when the people, brave as they were, wondered about Van der Werf and the public square begging him to give up, what did the noble old burgo-master say? I have sworn to defend this city, and with God's help I mean to do it. If my body can satisfy your hunger, take it, and divide it among you, but expect no surrender so long as I am alive. Hurrah! Hur— Ben was getting up rorious. Van der Werf playfully clapped his hand over his friend's mouth. The result was one of those quick india-rubber scuffles, fearful to behold, but delightful to human nature in its polywag state. Vat vash dematter, pen! asked Jacob, hurrying forward. Oh, nothing at all! patted Ben, except that Van Monen was afraid of starting an English riot in this orderly town. He stopped my cheering for old Van der Werf. Ja, ja, isch no gut to cheer, to make the noise for dat. Juwel, she old Van der Werf's likeness mit de stadhuls. See, old Van der Werf's, I thought it was Van der Werf's picture they had there. Ja, responded Jacob, Van der Werf, vat vat vat, both isch jashtesh gut. Yes, Van der Durs was a noble old Dutchman, but he was not Van der Werf. I know he defended the city like a brick, and Now vat voju she dat, penchamen. He no defend a city mit briek. He fight like gut soldier mit his guns. You like make de fun mit every thing's touch. No, no, no, I said he defended the city like a brick. That is very high praise, I would have you understand. We English call even the Duke of Wellington a brick. Jacob looked puzzled, but his indignation was already on the ebb. Verl isch no matter. I no tink before, soldier mean brick, but isch no matter. Ben laughed good-naturedly, and seeing that his cousin was tired of talking in English, he turned to his friend of the two languages. Some moanen they say the very carrier pigeons that brought news of relief to the besieged city are somewhere here in Leiden. I really should like to see them. Just think of it, at the very height of the trouble, if the wind didn't turn and blow in the waters, and drown hundreds of Spaniards, and enable the Dutch boats to sail in right over the land with men in provisions, to the very gates of the city. The pigeons, you know, did great service in bearing letters to and fro. I have read somewhere that they were reverently cared for from that day, and when they died they were stuffed and placed for safekeeping in the town hall. We must be sure to have a look at them. Van Moanen laughed. On that principle, Ben, I suppose when you go to Rome you'll expect to see the identical goose who saved the capital. But it will be easy enough to see the pigeons. They are in the same building with van der Werf's portrait. Which was the greater defence, Ben, the Siege of Leiden or the Siege of Haarlem? Well, replied Ben thoughtfully, van der Werf is one of my heroes. We all have our historical pets, you know, but I really think the Siege of Haarlem brought out a braver, more heroic resistance even than the Leiden one. Besides, they set the Leiden sufferers an example of courage and fortitude for their turn came first. I don't know much about the Haarlem Siege, said Lumbert, except that it was in 1573. Who beat? The Spaniards, said Ben. The Dutch had stood out for months. Not a man would yield, nor a woman either, for that matter. They shouldered arms and fought gallantly beside their husbands and fathers. Three hundred of them did duty under Canar Hesselar, a great woman, and brave as Joan of Arc. All this time the city was surrounded by the Spaniards under Frederick of Toledo, the son of that beauty, the Duke of Alva. Cut off from all possible help from without, there seemed to be no hope for the inhabitants, but they shouted defiance over the city walls. They even threw bread into the enemy's camps to show that they were not afraid of starvation. Up to the last they held out bravely, waiting for the help that never could come, growing bolder and bolder until their provisions were exhausted. Then it was terrible. In time hundreds of famished creatures fell dead in the streets, and the living had scarcely strength to bury them. At last they made the desperate resolution that, rather than perish by lingering torture, the strongest would form a square, placing the weakest in the center, and rush in a body to their death with a faint chance of being able to fight their way through the enemy. The Spaniards received a hint of this, and believing that there was nothing that Dutch would not dare to do, they concluded to offer terms. High time, I should think. Yes, with falsehood and treachery they soon obtained an entrance into the city, promising protection and forgiveness to all, except those who the citizens themselves would acknowledge as deserving of death. You don't say so, said Lumbert quite interested. That ended the business, I suppose. Not a bit of it, returned Ben, for the Duke of Alva had already given his son orders to show mercy to none. Ah, that was where the great Harlem Massacre came in. I remember now. You can't wonder that the Hollander's dislike Spain when you read of the way they were butchered by Alva and his hosts, though I admit that our side sometimes retaliated terribly. But as I have told you before, I have a very indistinct idea of historical matters. Everything is confusion, from the flood to the battle of Waterloo. One thing is plain, however, the Duke of Alva was about the worst specimen of a man that ever lived. "'That gives only a faint idea of him,' said Ben, but I hate to think of such a wretch. What if he had brains and military skill and all that sort of thing? Give me such men as van der Werfen. What now?' "'Why?' said Van Monen, who was looking up and down the street in a bewildered way. We've walked right past the museum, and I don't see the boys. Let us go back.' CHAPTER XXV Laidon The boys met at the museum and were soon engaged in examining its extensive collection of curiosities, receiving a new insight into Egyptian life, ancient and modern. Ben and Lumberd had often visited the British Museum, but that did not prevent them from being surprised at the richness of the Laidon collection. There were household utensils, wearing apparel, weapons, musical instruments, sarcophagi, and mummies of men, women, and cats, ivyxes, and other creatures. They saw a massive gold armlet that had been worn by an Egyptian king at a time when some of these same mummies, perhaps, were nimbly treading the streets of Thebes, and jewels and trinkets such as Pharaoh's daughter wore, and the children of Israel borrowed when they departed out of Egypt. There were other interesting relics, from Rome and Greece, and some curious Roman pottery which had been discovered in digging near the Hague, relics of the days when the contraband of Julius Caesar had settled there. Where have they not settled? I, for one, would hardly be astonished if relics of the ancient Romans should some day be found deep under the grass growing around the Bunker Hill Monument. When the boys left this museum, they went to another and saw a wonderful collection of fossil animals, skeletons, birds, minerals, precious stones, and other natural specimens. But as they were not learned men they could only walk about and stare, enjoy the little knowledge of natural history they possessed, and wish with all their hearts they had acquired more. Even the skeleton of the mouse puzzled Jacob. What wonder? He was not used to seeing the cat-fearing little creatures running about in their bones. And how could he ever have imagined their necks to be so queer? Besides the museum of natural history, there was St. Peter's Church to be visited, containing Professor Luzak's memorial, and Borohava's monument of white and black marble, with his urn and carved symbols of the four ages of life, and its medallion of Borohava, adorned with his favorite motto, simplex sigillum veri. They also obtained admittance to a tea-garden, which in summer was a favorite resort of the citizens, and passing naked oaks and fruit-chase, ascended to a high mound which stood in the center. This was the site of a round tower now in ruins, said by some to have been built by Hengist, the Anglo-Saxon king, and by others to have been the castle of one of the ancient counts of Holland. As the boys walked about on the top of its stone wall, they could get but a poor view of the surrounding city. The tower stood higher when, more than two centuries ago, the inhabitants of beleaguered laden shouted to the watcher on its top their wild, despairing cries, Is there any help? Are the waters rising? What do you see? And for months he could only answer, No help, I see around us nothing but the enemy. Ben pushed these thoughts away and, resolutely looking down into the bare tea-garden, filled it in an imagination with gay summer groups. He tried to forget old battle-clouds, and picture only curling wreaths of tobacco-smoke rising from among men, women and children enjoying their tea and coffee in the open air. But a tragedy came in spite of him. Pute was bending over the edge of the high wall. It would be just like him to grow dizzy and tumble off. Ben turned impatiently away. If the fellow with his weak head knew no better than to be venturesome, why, let him tumble. Horror! What mean that heavy crashing sound? Ben could not stir. He could only gasp. Jacob! Jacob! cried another startled voice, and another. Ready to faint Ben managed to turn his head. He saw a crowd of boys on the edge of the wall opposite, but Jacob was not there. Good heavens! he cried, springing forward. Where is my cousin? The crowd parted. It was only four boys after all. There sat Jacob in their midst, holding his sides and laughing heartily. Did I frighten you all? He said in his native Dutch. Well, I will tell you how it was. There was a big stone lying on the wall, and I put my foot out just to push it a little, you see, and the first thing I knew, down went the stone all the way to the bottom and left me sitting here on top with both my feet in the air. If I had not thrown myself back at that moment, I certainly should have rolled over after the stone. No, it is no matter. Help me up, boys! You're hurt, said Ben, seeing a shade of seriousness pass over his cousin's face as they lifted him to his feet. Jacob tried to laugh again. Oh, no, I feel a little hurt when I stand up, but it is no matter. The monument to van der Verf in the Hoeglandisch Kirk was not accessible that day, but the boys spent a few pleasant moments in the Stadhusar town hall, a long irregular structure somewhat in the Gothic style, uncouth in architecture, but picturesque from age. Its little steeple, tuneful with bells, seemed to have embarked from some other building and hastily clapped on as a finishing touch. Ascending the grand staircase, the boys soon found themselves in a rather gloomy apartment, containing the masterpiece of Lucas van Leiden, or Hoegens, a Dutch artist born three hundred and seventy years ago, who painted well when he was ten years of age and became distinguished in art when only fifteen. This picture, called the Last Judgment, considering the remote age in which it was painted, is truly a remarkable production. The boys, however, were less interested in tracing out the merits of the work than they were in the fact of it being a triptych, that is, painted on three divisions, the two outer ones swung on hinges so as to close, when required, over the main portion. The historical pictures of Harald de Moer and other famous Dutch artists interested them for a while, and then had to be almost pulled away from the dingy old portrait of Wanderwerf. The town hall, as well as the Egyptian museum, is on de Breedstrat, the longest and finest street in Leiden. It has no canal running through it, and the houses, painted in every variety of color, have a picturesque effect as they stand with their gable ends to the street. Some are very tall, with half their height and their step-like roofs, others crouch before the public edifices and churches. Being clean, spacious, well shaded, and adorned with many elegant mansions, it compares favorably with the finest portions of Amsterdam. It is kept scrupulously neat. Many of the gutters are covered with boards that open like trap-doors, and it is supplied with pumps surmounted with shining brass ornaments kept scoured and bright at the public cost. The city is intersected by numerous water-roads, formed by the river Rhine, there grown sluggish, fatigued by its long travel, but more than one hundred and fifty stone bridges reunite the dis-severed streets. The same world-renowned river, degraded from the beautiful, free-flowing Rhine, serves as a moat from the rampart that surrounds Leiden, and is crossed by draw bridges at the imposing gateways that give access to the city. Fine broad promenades, shaded by noble trees, border the canals that add to the retired appearance of the houses behind, heightening the effect of scholastic seclusion that seems to pervade the place. Ben, as he scanned the buildings on the Rappenburg Canal, was somewhat disappointed in the appearance of the great University of Leiden. But when he recalled its history, how, attended with all the pomp of a grand civic display, it had been founded by the Prince of Orange as a tribute to the citizens for the bravery displayed during the siege. When he remembered the great men in religion, learning and science, who had once studied there, and thought of the hundreds of students now sharing the benefits of its classes and its valuable scientific museums, he was quite willing to forego architectural beauty, though he could not help feeling that no amount of it could have been misplaced on such an institution. Peter and Jacob regarded the building with an even deeper, more practical interest, for they were to enter it as students in the course of a few months. Poor Don Quixote would have run a helpless tilt in this part of the world, said Ben, after Lumbert had been pointing out some of the oddities and beauties of the suburbs. It is all windmills. You remember his terrific contest with one, I suppose. No, said Lumbert bluntly. Well, I don't either, that is, not definitely, but there was something of that kind in his adventures, and if there wasn't there, should have been. Look at them! How frantically they whirl their great arms! Just the thing to excite the crazy knight to mortal combat! It bewilders one to look at them! Help me to count all those we can see, Von Monan. I want a big item for my notebook. And after a careful reckoning, super-intended by all the party, Master Ben wrote in pencil, Sa, December, Ninety-eight windmills within full view of laden. He would have been glad to visit the old brick mill in which the painter Rembrandt was born, but he abandoned the project upon learning that it would take them out of their way. Few boys as hungry as Ben was by this time would hesitate long between Rembrandt's home a mile off and Tiffin close by. Ben chose the latter. After Tiffin they rested a while, and then took another which for form's sake they called dinner. After dinner the boys sat warming themselves at the inn, all but Peter, who occupied the time in another fruitless search for Dr. Bookman. This over the party once more prepared for skating. They were thirteen miles from the Hague, and not as fresh as when they had left Brooke early the previous day, but they were in good spirits and the ice was excellent. Chapter 26 of Hans Brinker This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates, by Mary Mapes Dodge. Chapter 26 The Palace in the Wood As the boys skated onward, they saw a number of fine country seats, all decorated and surrounded according to the duchess of Dutch taste, but impressive to look upon with their great formal houses, elaborate gardens, square hedges, and wide ditches, some crossed by a bridge, having a gate in the middle to be carefully locked at night. These ditches, everywhere traversing the landscape, had long ago lost their summer film and now shone under the sunlight like trailing ribbons of glass. The boys travelled bravely, all the while performing the surprising feat of producing gingerbread from their pockets and causing it to vanish instantly. Twelve miles were passed. A few more long strokes would take them to the Hague, when von Monen proposed that they should vary their course by walking into the city through the Bosch. A greed cried one in all, and their skates were off in a twinkling. The Bosch is a grand park or wood nearly two miles long, containing the celebrated house in the wood, Hul Sint Bosch, sometimes used as a royal residence. The building, though plain outside for a palace, is elegantly furnished within and finely frescoed, that is, the walls and ceiling, are covered with groups and designs painted directly upon them while the plaster was fresh. Some of the rooms are tapestryed with Chinese silks, beautifully embroidered. One contains a number of family portraits, among them a group of royal children who in time were orphaned by a certain axe, which figures very frequently in European history. These children were painted many times by the Dutch artist Van Dijk, who was court painter to their father, Charles I of England. Beautiful children they were. What a deal of trouble the English nation would have been spared had they been as perfect in heart and soul as they were in form. The parks surrounding the palace is charming, especially in summer, for flowers and birds make it bright as fairyland. Long rows of magnificent oaks rear their proud heads, conscious that no profaning hand will ever bring them low. In fact, the wood has for ages been held as an almost sacred spot. Children are never allowed to meddle with its smallest twig. The axe of the woodman has never resounded there. Even war and riot have passed it reverently, pausing for a moment in their devastating way. Philip of Spain, while he ordered Dutchmen to be mowed down by hundreds, issued a mandate that not a bow of the beautiful wood should be touched. And once, when in a time of great necessity, the state was about to sacrifice it to assist in filling a nearly exhausted treasury, the people rushed to the rescue and nobly contributed the required amount rather than that the bosh should fall. What wonder then that the oaks have a grand fearless air? Birds from all Holland have told them how, elsewhere, trees are cropped and bobbed into shape, but they are untouched. Another after year they expand an unclipped luxurience and beauty. Their wide-spreading foliage, alive with song, casts a cool shade over lawn and pathway, or bows to its image in the sunny ponds. Meanwhile, as if to reward the citizens for allowing her to have her way for once, nature departs from the invariable level, wearing gracefully the ornaments that have been reverently bestowed upon her. Though the lawn slopes in a velvety green, the paths wind in and out, flower beds glow and send forth perfume, and ponds in sky look at each other in mutual admiration. Even on that winter day the bosh was beautiful. Its trees were bare, but beneath them still lay the ponds every ripple smoothed into glass. The blue sky was bright overhead, and as it looked down through the thicket of bows it saw another blue sky, not nearly so bright, looking up from the dim thicket under the ice. Never had the sunset appeared more beautiful to Peter than when he saw it exchanging farewell-glances with the windows and shining roofs of the city before him. Never had the hag itself seemed more inviting. He was no longer Peter von Hope going to visit a great city, nor a fine young gentleman bent on sight-sing. He was a knight, an adventurer, travel-soiled and weary. A hop of my thumb grown large, a fortune-notice approaching the enchanted castle where luxury and ease awaited him, for his own sister's house was not half a mile away. At last, boys, he cried in high glee, we may hope for a royal resting-place, good-beds, warm rooms, and something fit to eat. I never realized before what a luxury such things are. Our lodgings at the Red Lion have made us appreciate our own homes.