He devoured everything indiscriminately—whether ripe or green. Most of that literary fruit was green. In a short time he was able to foretell the fate of the hero with a certainty that would have piqued the author. The cleverest literary craftsman couldn't let the poor orphan boy be as poor as a church mouse for ten pages, but that Walter would see the flashing of the stars and knightly crucifixes with which he was to be decked out on the last page. One might think this would cause him to lose interest in the book; but, no! He was constant to the end—to the official triumph. For him it would have been a sin to call to the Saxons and Normans a second too soon: "See if Ivanhoe isn't going to smash that big-mouthed Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert!" And all the time he felt as if he were—Ivanhoe? No, as if he were the deity, who must give the hero strength to overcome that infamous scoundrel, Brian de Bois-Guilbert.

Then all at once the door-bell would ring, and the magnanimous Walter would have to occupy himself with things less chivalrous.

The only thing he could do in such moments was to weigh accurately, and not give anybody a cigar from the "tens" instead of from the "eights." Such conscienciousness, however, was futile, for in the cigar-boxes were cigars that ought to have been called "twenties." Mr. Motto said that the customers were usually drunk, and that it was all right to give them cabbage leaves to smoke. "You must size up your customer. That's the main thing."

This was something Walter never could learn. With him, ten was ten, eight eight—no matter who the customer was. To take an unfair advantage, or tell a lie never occurred to him. From fear or embarrassment he might possibly tell an untruth; but if he had been asked a second time——

As strange as it may seem, this aversion to lying and deception was nourished by the books he read. The brave knight fought till he was victorious, or dead. Only the fatally wounded surrendered. All this had Walter's hearty endorsement: He would not have acted differently. The beautiful heroine was loved by everybody; and the rejected suitors died of despair, or joined some desperate band. All quite proper. The good remained steadfast, in spite of the Devil and all his machinations—yes, in spite of tedium. Once selected by the author to be a high-toned, moral hero—then spotless garments! Walter wondered if such a one could have a pain in the stomach, or suffer other inconvenience. Certainly not in books!

He did not know that such perfection was humbug. He was satisfied when the characters in such novels did what was required of them by the author. The villains were always betraying somebody; the heroes killed everything that got in their way; and the beautiful virgins charmed everybody. Even God, the God of romance, did his duty much better than—but that's another detail.

Yesterday on the Zeedyk a big boy had beaten a little fellow. That ought to happen in a book. How all the knights would have come running! Walter, too, was going to—but how could he help it if his employer called him back? "What in the devil have you got to do with that? Your work is here in the store. You attend to your own business now, and don't mix yourself in other people's brawls. That's the main thing!"

As a rule of conduct, this was not just what Walter was used to in his novels.

Despite such interruptions he continued his reading. He was almost ready to begin on the last section of books, when he came to the store one morning and found everything locked up and under seal.

The worthy Mr. Motto, it seems, had gone to America, as a sailor; and doubtless that was the "main thing." The unfortunate owner of the two snuff-vases had a big law suit over them. The point was whether they were a part of the assets, or not.

On the Zeedyk at Amsterdam such processes must be tried according to Roman law; but as the Romans did not use snuff there is nothing said about "Rappee" in the Roman laws. The writer doesn't know how the matter finally turned out. It is to be hoped that everybody got what was coming to him.

Juffrouw Pieterse, however, did not recover her hundred florins; and, as usual, she groaned: "There's always trouble with this boy."

Walter couldn't help her. He had his own troubles: he had been cruelly interrupted in his reading. Of course the mysterious parentage of the young robber was perfectly clear to him; but still one likes to see whether one has guessed correctly, or not.



CHAPTER XXIII

"Do you think stivers grow on my back?" asked the mother the next day. "You still don't earn a doit! Do you have to buy tobacco for old soldiers?"

Walter had nothing to say. Recently his mother had given him a shilling to give to Holsma's maid. Walter neglected to do this, and spent one stiver of the money on snuff for an old soldier.

The mother continued her tirade, making use of the word "prodigue," prodigal.

"No, mother," said Stoffel, "that isn't it. He's behind in everything. He doesn't know yet how to handle money, that's it!"

"Yes. He doesn't know how to handle money! All the other children at his age—when they have a stiver they either save it or buy themselves something. And he—what does he do? He goes and gives it away! Boy, boy, will you never learn any sense?"

Walter was cut to the quick by the accusation of wastefulness and prodigality. In his eyes a prodigal was somebody, a man! "Prodigue, prodigue," he murmured. He knew the word.

In one of the bedrooms hung a series of crude, highly colored pictures illustrating the story of the prodigal son. The pictures were French; and a study of the titles convinced the family that "prodigue" could mean nothing but prodigal in the worst sense, i. e., "lost." Stoffel had maintained this proposition against one of his colleagues, till that one drew a lexicon on him.

After much argument it was decided to compromise on the "mistake" in the French Bible by allowing "prodigue" to have sometimes the meaning of "extravagant." Those pictures had afforded Walter much food for thought.

First picture: The "lost" or prodigal son tells his father good-bye. The old gentleman wears a purple coat. Very pretty—but the prodigal himself! A mantle floated about his shoulders—it seemed to be windy in the colonnade. It was princely; and his turkish trousers were of pure gold. At his side was a bent sabre, and on his head a turban, with a stone in it—certainly onyx, or sardonox, or a pearl, or a precious stone—or whatever it might be!

The old gentleman seemed to be out of humor; but no wonder—all those loaded camels, and the slaves, and all the accessories for that long, long journey! A negro, as black as pitch, was holding a horse by the rein. Another negro was holding the stirrup, and seemed to say: "Off to the Devil; prodigal, get on!"

What boy wouldn't have been a prodigal son? The bent sabre alone was worth the sin.

Second picture: Hm—hm. Wicked, wicked! Why, certainly; but not for Walter, who in his innocence attached no importance to the extravagant dresses of the "Juffrouwen." It was sufficient that all were eating and drinking bountifully, and that they were in good spirits and enjoying themselves. How prettily one of the girls, in glossy silk, was leaning over the shoulder of the "lost" one! How much nicer to be lost than found!—anyway, that was the impression the feast made on Walter. The true purpose of the picture—to deter people from a life of dissoluteness—escaped Walter entirely. Perhaps he knew what it meant; but in his heart he felt that it meant something else. What attracted him most was not the food and drink, under which the table "groaned," nor the sinful sensuality painted on the faces of the ladies. It was the freedom and unconventionality of the company that charmed him. In order to emphasize the idea of prodigality, the painter had allowed some big dogs to upset an open cask of wine.

The wine was streaming, and straying away as if it were the lost sinner. This pleased Walter immensely. None of the guests seemed to notice such a small trifle, not even the waiters. This ought to have happened just once in the Pieterse home—and even if it were only a stein of beer!

The artist says to himself, Do you suppose I didn't foresee the seductive influence of such a picture? The next one makes it all right!

Well, maybe so.

Third picture: Magnificent. How romantic this wilderness! Oh, to sit there on that boulder and stare into the immeasurable depths of the universe—alone!

To think, think, think!

No schoolmaster, no mother, brother, or anyone to say what he must do with his heart, with his time, with his elbows, or with his breeches! That's the way Walter saw it. The young man there didn't even have on breeches; and he looked as if he wouldn't have been ashamed to stretch himself out on his back, with his arms over his head, and watch with wide-open eyes the passing of the moon and stars. Walter asked himself what he would think of when he had founded such an empire of solitude.

Hm! Femke could sit on the boulder with him. Prodigal son—oh, sin divine with her! He was surprised that in the whole Bible there was only one prodigal son. Of all sins this seemed to him the most seductive.

And the desert was so—endurable. There were trees in it, which one could climb, when one really got lost, or use to build a nice little cabin—for Femke, of course.

The prodigal in the picture didn't seem to have thought of all that. Why wasn't the Juffrouw in green silk with him? She will come soon, Walter said to himself. Perhaps she's not quite through with her prodigality. If she would only hurry up and come! He longs for her. But that is the only annoyance that a genuine prodigal takes with him from the profane world into that capital wilderness.

It must be remarked in passing, however, that the hogs with which that picture was equipped looked ugly. The pious artist had made them shield-bearers of sin, and had supplied their physiognomies with all kinds of horrible features. And, too, the trough looked dirty.

If it happens to me, said Walter, I'll take sheep with me; and Femke can card the wool.

The artist ought to admit that even this third picture is inadequate to inspire a proper disgust for prodigality.

And the fourth one? No better.

The old gentleman is excessively friendly. We are again in the colonnade, where the camels have just waited so patiently. One of the slaves clasps his hands and looks toward heaven—because he's glad, of course, that little Walter has come back.

He? The real Walter? Returned home, and friendly received in his high rank of a "has-been" and "recovered" prodigal? Oh, no!

And that fatted calf! In direct opposition to the custom that was familiar to Walter! It worried the boy. Juffrouw Pieterse never slaughtered anything. She ran a weekly account with Keesje's father; and even a roast was a rarity.

There was no prospect of a fatted calf, whether he became a prodigal or not. But that didn't keep the rank of a prodigal from being higher than that of a stupid boy who didn't know how to handle money.

He was encouraged to think that he was indebted to his friendly enemy, Juffrouw Laps, for something. She always cited the Bible, and spoke continually of feeding swine. Walter wanted to answer: "That's very nice, Juffrouw Laps, but can't it be sheep this time?"

He knew very well that she had never had any passion for carding, and consequently was not interested in that blue muffler, which would be so becoming to Femke's favorite sheep.

But she assured him that he was a prodigal; and that was enough.

"That's what I've always said!" replied Juffrouw Pieterse. "What does he do but squander his mother's money? If that man wants snuff, let him buy it. The king pays him. I have to work too hard for my money. Don't I, Stoffel?"

"Yes, mother; but it's only childishness in Walter!"

"Childishness! That's what I call it."

"No it isn't!" cried the pious Laps. "He's on the straight road to the trough of Luke 15. He will eat husks! Do you think the Master doesn't carry out his parables? Just send him to me. The pastors are to blame for it. They don't explain the Bible. Send him to me."

"If I only knew how he gets such things into his head!"

"You don't know? It's arrogance!"

She spoke the truth.

"Arrogance, Arrogance pure and simple—just as it was in Belshazzar, or Sennacherib, or Nebuchadnezzar."

How thankful Walter was! If at this moment he had had a letter to write—preferably to Femke—he would have boasted of being as wicked as three old kings put together.

"Arrogance!" repeated Juffrouw Laps. "Gold on top, iron in the middle, and feet of clay. The Master will overthrow him. Send him to me."

This invitation to turn over the royal villain to her for religious instruction was repeated so often that it was necessary to give her an answer.

"But, dear Juffrouw, the boy don't want to. He's stubborn; and what can one do with such a child?"

Walter knew that his mother was not quite truthful; but, after his former experience with his friendly enemy, he found it desirable to keep quiet. When pressed, however, for an explanation he said:

"The man wanted snuff, and nobody would give him any; so I——"

Juffrouw Laps knew enough. Walter was as good as her prisoner: she now knew exactly how to take his fortifications, if they could be taken at all.

"If he doesn't want to come to me, don't compel him," she said sweetly on leaving. "To force him won't do any good. Let him exercise his own pleasure. I'm afraid you pick at the child too much, anyway. What an awful fuss we've made over a stiver!"

"That's what I say, too," replied the mother. "It looks as if we begrudged him the money! We could have spared another stiver, and we wouldn't have missed it, would we, Stoffel?"

"Yes, mother, but it's time for Walter——"

"Goodness, what a hullaballoo to raise about a few pinches of snuff! The Master will repay it seven times seventy times. Whatever ye have done to the least of my brothers——"

With this consoling passage on her lips she took her leave of the astonished family.

Yes, it wasn't so easy to see through Juffrouw Laps!



CHAPTER XXIV

In his efforts to reconcile the various conflicting authorities contesting for supremacy in his soul, Walter threw himself into a severe spell of blues. He was not conscious of the contrast between the world of his high-flown fancy and the earthy environment of his home-life. The sympathetic care which he should have received after his illness had not fallen to his lot.

He felt dejected.

"Femke!" he thought; and he longed for her fresh healthy face, for her pure, unselfish glance, for her friendly smile. The Fancy that had led him away to the stars in search of his misty sister had got lodged on that girl of the Amsterdam lowlands, Femke—with her unpoetical length, breadth, thickness, and weight.

"I am going to see her," he cried. "I will! And if Mrs. Claus asks me about worms a dozen times, it's all the same to me; I am going to see her!"

Walter reached the house and knocked. "Come in!" someone called. This was a little sudden, for it took some time to get hold of the latch. But Walter did it. Perhaps he was thinking of Missolonghi.

The Turks that he saw now were not revolting in appearance. They were unarmed and did not murder a single baby.

But—Femke was not in the party.

Mrs. Claus was at the wash-tub, while Father Jansen was quietly smoking.

"Is that you, young man? Very nice! That's the young man who gave Femke the picture, you remember, father?"

The father nodded to him kindly and smoked away, without manifesting any special Godliness.

"Yes, Juffrouw, I wanted to——"

"Very nice of you! Won't you have a slice of bread and butter? And how is your mother? Is she better now? She was sick, wasn't she? That's a good boy, father. Femke said so. Is your mother better again? It was fever, wasn't it? or apoplexy—or what was it then?"

"Oh, no! Juffrouw."

"You mustn't call me Juffrouw. I am only a wash-woman. Everyone must stay in his own class, mustn't he, father? Well, it's all the better; I thought she had been sick. It must have been somebody else. One has so much to think of. Do you like cheese?"

The good woman prepared a slice of bread and butter, with cheese. If Trudie could have seen it, she would have fainted. In the "citizen's class," such and such a sub-class, according to Pennewip, is found a certain scantiness that does not obtain in the common laboring class. In the matter of eating, laborers, who do not invest their money in Geneva, are not troubled so much by "good form" as people who give their children French names.

Walter had never seen such a slice of bread. He didn't know whether he ought to bite through the width, or the thickness. The bit of cheese gave him his cue.

He liked Mrs. Claus much better this time. And Father Jansen, too; even if he wasn't like Walter had imagined him to be.

He had never conceived a preacher as being anything else but a very supernatural and spiritual and celestial sort of person. Father Jansen didn't seem to be that kind of a man at all.

He visited the sheep of his fold, especially the plain people, not to make a display of beneficence—for he had nothing, but because he was happiest among simple people. He was fond of bread and butter of the Mrs. Claus variety. For the rest, he said mass, preached about sin, catechised, confirmed, absolved, and did whatever needed to be done. He performed the functions of his office, and did not think it at all strange that he should have gone into the church, while his brother in Nordbrabant succeeded to the business of his father, who was a farrier and inn-keeper.

"And what are you going to be?" he asked Walter; "for everybody in the world must be something. Wouldn't you like to be a bookbinder? That's a good trade."

"I was—I was in business, M'neer; and I'm going back to business."

"That's good, my boy. You may get rich. Especially here in Amsterdam; for Amsterdam is a commercial city."

Walter wanted to add: "The greatest commercial city of Europe." But he was abashed by the—worldliness of Father Jansen's talk. He didn't find it disagreeable: he was merely surprised at it.

"A boy like you ought to eat a lot. You look pale. My brother can bend a horseshoe. What do you say to that? Have you ever eaten our Brabant bread? Ham isn't bad, either. A person that doesn't eat enough gets weak. I always eat two slices of bread and butter whenever I'm here at Mrs. Claus's; but I'm not nearly so strong as my brother. You ought to see the Vucht fair. That's a great time."

Walter was more than surprised to hear such talk from a preacher: he was almost pleased. He had never received such charming messages from heaven. Of course they came from heaven, those friendly words uttered in Brabant dialect between the puffs of Father Jansen's pipe. This man in a priest's coat chattered away as if there were no such thing in the world as God, Grace, and Hell—especially the latter. He was as happy as a child in telling about the strength of his brother, the horseshoer. It was his business to lead the world to eternal happiness; and he liked thick slices of bread and butter with cheese.

Walter had never had religious things opened up to him so delightfully. He felt encouraged to speak:

"M'neer, I would like to know who God is!"

Father Jansen started, and looked at Walter as if he hadn't clearly understood the question.

"Yes—that's very praiseworthy in you. You must——"

"But, father," cried Mrs. Claus, "the child isn't in the church! Are you?"—to Walter.

"Yes, Juffrouw, I have been confirmed."

"To be sure, to be sure, but——"

"On the Noordermarkt!"

"Well, you see he's in the church all right."

The good woman didn't have the heart—or else she had too much heart—to tell the father that it wasn't the right church.

"Whoever wants to get acquainted with God," said Father Jansen, "must study diligently."

"To be sure," said Mrs. Claus, "the articles of faith. You ought to hear my Femke repeat them. It's a pleasure, isn't it, father? She's my only child, but—she's a girl worth having!"

"Yes, Femke is an excellent girl. I don't have any trouble with her."

The father spoke in a business-like manner; and he meant it that way. The spots on Femke's soul were easily removed. He praised Femke as a cook would praise a kitchen-pot.

Father Jansen had still more praise for Femke: she had patched his drawers so nicely.

Oh, Fancy!

The mention of this fact did not touch Walter's aesthetic feelings. With him there were other considerations. Fancy was used to seeing everything nude—fathers, humanity—so there was no difficulty here.

Walter was sixteen years old, already a little man—why must Femke patch drawers for this father!

"Yes," said the mother. "Femke is clever at patching. If you've got anything else that needs mending, just send it over."

Walter was warm. If it had been collars, socks, waistcoats, or—well, if it had to be something questionable—if it had only been trousers!

"Just send it over, and if Femke isn't here——"

"Where is she going to be?" thought Walter.

"Then I will attend to it myself. I can do it neatly."

Thank God! Dear, good, magnificent Mrs. Claus! Do it, do it yourself, and leave Femke where she is.

But—where was she?

Thus Walter's thoughts; but what did he say?—the hypocrite, the budding man.

"Yes, indeed, Mrs. Claus, I had almost forgotten to ask where your daughter Femke is."

"Femke? She's at my niece's, where the girl is sick. You know we're of good family. Femke is looking after my niece's children."

Walter didn't have the courage to ask where this niece lived, so he assumed a look of contentment.

After much waiting and twisting and turning on his chair, Walter finally left the house with Father Jansen. He had not yet learned how to end a visit: some people never learn it.

"Don't you want to do me a favor?" said the good man. "Then walk on my right side. I'm deaf here"—pointing to his left ear.

"I will tell you how it happened. When I was a little boy—are you a good climber?"

"No, M'neer!"

"Well, I am! In the whole of Vucht there wasn't a boy who could climb as well as I could. Do you know what I did once? I climbed up and slipped a flower-pot from a third-story window. And—my priest wasn't in a good humor at all! He didn't want to accept me till I had returned that flower-pot; and then I had to go and beg the old woman's pardon. And she herself went to the priest to intercede for me. Then he accepted me. But I got twenty 'confiteors'—oh, he was severe!

"But I was going to tell you why I'm deaf in the left ear.

"In one of the seminaries was a student—he's a canonicus in the Rhine country, and will get to be a cardinal, perhaps pope, for—he was very sly! I will tell you, his name was—Rake; but, you understand, his name was really something else. This Rake was a mean rascal; but he was never punished, because he was careful. See if he doesn't get to be a cardinal, or pope! You ought to hear him quote from the Vulgate. He could rattle away for three hours and never made a mistake." * * *

"Are you perfectly crazy, boy, or what is the matter with you? Walking with a priest! What in the name of the Lord are you thinking about? Go in the house—quick! Jesu, what troubles I have with that child!"

With these words Juffrouw Pieterse broke off Walter's acquaintance with Father Jansen for this time.

The way that the father and Walter had taken led them directly by Walter's home. Juffrouw Pieterse, who was haggling with a Jew over the price of a basket of potatoes, narrowly escaped a stroke of apoplexy when she saw them together.

"With a priest!—Stoffel! Come down quick—that boy is walking with a priest!"

Tears rose in Walter's eyes. He had found Father Jansen a good man, and was grieved that that gentleman should meet with such a reception.

It is to be hoped that those rude words were received by his left ear. In fact, this seemed to be the case, for when Walter said that he was at home now and that his mother was calling him, Father Jansen answered kindly:

"So? You live there? Then I will tell you the next time why I am so deaf in my left ear—entirely deaf, you understand!"

Thank God, Walter thought, and wiped away his tears. In his eyes his mother had committed a sin so grave that about fifty "confiteors" would be necessary for its expiation.

"Oh, yes. I was going to tell you——"

With these words Father Jansen turned around again. He continued: "The flower-pot of the old lady, Juffrouw Dungelaar, you know—it wasn't for the flowers, you understand, nor for the pot, but only because I could climb so well. Otherwise—one mustn't take anything away, even if it is so high up. Adieu, young man!"

After giving Juffrouw Pieterse a friendly greeting that she did not deserve, the man continued on his way.

Stoffel said that to walk with a priest was "simply preposterous."

"As if he were crazy!" said Juffrouw Pieterse.

"Yes," agreed Stoffel, "but it's because he has nothing to do but loaf around. If that keeps up, he will never amount to anything."

True, Walter was loafing around; but he was not idle. His activities brought nothing palpable to light, still he was building up the inner life in a manner of which Stoffel had no idea.

"Of course!" said the mother. "He must have work. If he were only willing to be a compositor! or an apprentice in the shoe-business. To make shoes—that he shall never do."

"This running with priests comes only from idleness, mother. Do I run with priests? Never. Why not? Because I have to go to my school every day!"

"Yes, Stoffel, you go to your school every day."

"Besides, there are good priests. There was Luther, for instance. He was a sort of priest. What did he do?"

"Yes, I know. He reformed the people."

"He made them Lutherans, mother; but that's almost the same thing. One mustn't be narrow-minded."

"That's what I say, Stoffel, people ought not to be so narrow-minded. What difference does it make what a person's religion is, just so he's upright, and not a Roman Catholic!"

When Walter told Father Jansen that he "was in business," and that he was "going back to business," he spoke better than he himself knew. He did go back to business.

Through a leather-dealer, who, speaking commercially, was in close touch with shoes that came from Paris, Walter got a position with a firm whose "responsibility" was somewhat less apocryphal than that of Messrs. Motto, Business & Co. He was to begin his new apprenticeship in the offices of Messrs. Ouwetyd & Kopperlith, a firm of world-wide reputation.

However, before he was to enter upon his new duties, all sorts of things were destined to happen, with the tendency to make Walter appear as a "hero of romance," which he wasn't at all.



CHAPTER XXV

It was Thursday. Stoffel came home with the important news that the king—I don't know what king—had arrived in the city unexpectedly and would visit the theatre that evening. Everything and everybody was in a commotion; for in republican countries much importance is given to pomp and title.

This time curiosity was more wrought up than usual. Many foreign princes, including an emperor, were visiting the king; and these distinguished personages would follow the court to Amsterdam, coming from The Hague, Utrecht and Haarlem. To put it tamely, it was to be a great occasion.

That republican populace was to get to see the countenance and coat-tails not only of their tyrant, but also the countenances and coat-tails of many other tyrants, not to mention female tyrants.

The old doughnut women on the "Dam," which the city rented to them as a market-place, were threatening to bring suit against the city. They felt that it was hard to have to pay rent for the fresh air, day after day, with the prospect of selling a few doughnuts to the youth of the street, and now be run out because his majesty wanted to exhibit himself to the people from the balcony of the old City Hall.

Why shouldn't the old women be seen at their accustomed places? Must the doughnut industry be carried on secretly? Was it for fear of imitations and unprincely competition? Or was it to keep the old women from seeing the king?

At any rate, the whole kit of them had to leave. At most, they could only mix with the crowd incognito, and afterwards might join in the prearranged "Long live the King!" or somebody else, as the case might be.

It is really remarkable that princes die. Seemingly the "vivats" are of no avail.

The crowd was especially large, on account of the many majesties and highnesses who had gathered about the tyrant.

Among the number was the Prince of Caramania, who had especial claims upon the sympathy of the people, so all the newspapers said. One of his ancestors had been a captain in the service of the state and had, therefore, spilt his blood for the freedom of the Netherlands.

This blood, and perhaps the freedom as well, was newspaper arabesque. It was certain, however, that the prince wore a green coat with gold frogs; and upon his head he had a big plume. It was, therefore, quite proper for the crowd to cry occasionally "Long live the Prince of Caramania!"

Among the eminent gentlemen was a certain duke, who, by reason of his virtues, had got himself banished from his country. The man was thrifty and economical, though without neglecting himself. Nevertheless, the rabble had dethroned him and sent him across the border with a bushel of diamonds. Of these diamonds he was now to display a few dozen in the shape of coat-buttons and the like. The newspapers gave the crowd their cue accordingly. They were to cry: "Long live the Duke with his diamonds!"

Princess Erika was the niece of the king, and was to marry the crown-prince of a great empire, which was indebted to the Netherlands for its prominence. The newspapers gave the assurance that this empire would pay off the national debt of the Netherlands if the people would only put enough enthusiasm into a "Long live Princess Erika!"

The old Countess-palatine of Aetolia was descended directly from a certain knight who treated his hostlers like princes. In this case it was not inappropriate for a republican populace to ask for a prolongation of her ladyship's life. The cry was: "Long live the Countess-palatine of Aetolia!"

The Grand-duke of Ysland was the handsome grandson of a shopman. His merits would fill three columns of fine print. The man was a master of the type-case himself, and by exerting himself could even set up his own name. The newspapers said that having safely passed an ocean of pitfalls, he had now perfected himself as the brother-in-law of a demi-god. Therefore, whoever had the interest of his country at heart could not afford to fail to bellow at the top of his voice: "Long live the Grand-duke of Ysland!"

There were still more potentates and ladies of quality who had honored Amsterdam with a visit. They had heard that the city was la Venise du Nord, that it was tres interessant, tres interessant! etc.

And the Holland herrings! Delicieux! Unfortunately the Netherlanders didn't know how to cook them; they must be baked.

And the Holland school of painting! Rambrann—magnifique!

There were still other good things in Holland, as their highnesses testified with patronizing kindness.

"Il parait qu'un certain Wondele a ecrit des choses, des choses—mais des choses—passablement bien!"

And the dikes! And the Katwyk sluice—gigantesque!

Whatever spare time they might have after making cheese and cooking herrings, the Holland people liked to devote to fighting the elements. After skating and racing this was the favorite recreation of the nation.

I can assure the reader that the aristocratic party took their departure thoroughly satisfied with our country. The only person who received quite a different impression—but I will not anticipate the feelings of our hero. Even a writer has his duties.

The first evening everything was to be illuminated. Two hundred and fifty thousand candles were to proclaim the enthusiasm of the people. Two hundred and fifty thousand fiery tongues were to cry: "Hosanna! Blessed be he who comes in the name of——" In whose name? Hosanna for whom? For what?

Well, that was a matter of indifference to the people. They knew that there was something doing, that there was a crowd, and that was enough. People are somewhat like children, who amuse themselves immensely in the confusion of a "moving," of a death, or of anything that causes commotion and excitement.

Walter had got permission to see the illumination. Unconsciously he assumed that stupid expression which is obligatory on such occasions. He listened to the conversation of those about him.

"That's what I call illuminating! Nine candles for such a big house!"

"Twelve!" cried another.

"No, nine."

"Twelve!"

"Nine!"

"Three—three—three—and three. Look there are twelve, or I can't count."

"No, the three above don't count. That story is rented. I know it."

"Well—if you mean it that way. I only said that four times three are twelve. What do you say, Hannes?"

Hannes found the calculation correct.

"How long will the candles burn?"

"Till about one o'clock, I suppose."

"I don't believe it!"

"Well, I do!"

"But I don't!——"

"Have you been in the Sukkelgracht?"

"Oh, it isn't pretty there."

"You think so? Prettier than here."

"Oh, no!"

"Yes, it is!——"

"Look there; there's a verse."

"Yes, a verse. Can you read it?"

"Certainly! Let me see, what is it?"

"I can read it, too."

"It's about 'illustrious blood'——"

"Yes, and 'our country,' and 'dedicated to honor and virtue.'"

"And 'his illustrious blood'——"

"No, there it stands—'torn from the barbarians'——"

"That comes later. 'Illustrious blood'——"

"Of Holland's hero——"

"Welcome, hero!"

"I wonder if the king looks at the candles. Do you suppose he reads such verses and copies them?"

"Oh, he has his ministers for that."

"Or generals. He has seen or read about lots of nice things."

"As nice as here?"

"Why, of course!"

"I don't believe it."

"Well, I do."

"Do you know what I think? He likes to look at the lights too."

"You think so?"

"Yes."

"No, you don't believe that."

"Don't crowd so!"

"I can't help it. They're crowding me."

"The people are pushing and shoving as if they were crazy."

"Did you ever see the like? You know what I think? Kalver Street ought to be as wide again as it is."

"Yes, as wide again. The street's too narrow."

"That's why everybody's scroudging so."

There was much truth in this. Pressure was high. People were mashed and squeezed together. Those who, by reason of a lack of avoirdupois, were less firmly attached to the ground, were lifted bodily. Walter hung suspended in mid-air and looked over the heads of men much taller than he.

"Are you walking on stilts?" asked a big fat woman, whose hips had come into collision with Walter's knees. "Well, that's something."

The pressure was increasing. It seemed that the fat woman would soon have Walter on her shoulder, like a gun; while Walter was thinking that soon he would be roaming over the country like a knight. No one was looking at the candles now. People were finding their amusement in crowding and being crowded.

No, Kalver Street ought not to be widened. For, properly understood, this crowding and pushing and shoving was the nicest part of the whole business.

How tedious it would have been quietly to watch those two hundred and fifty thousand candles from some comfortable position.

Our little man lay on the heads and shoulders of his brothers. Like some aspirants to a throne, he threw himself upon the masses. But he was beginning to feel generally uncomfortable. He wanted to hold on fast to something, or somebody—to somebody's ears, or nose. That, however, did not suit the masses. They didn't mind being squeezed; but they didn't like to be held on to.

Crash!

Don't let the reader be alarmed. Walter had not burst under the strain; but the pressure of the crowd had broken in the double doors of a cafe! The irruption was terrible. The way the crowd streamed in might be compared to the flow of molten lava. Walter described a parabolic curve and landed on a table, without suffering any damage.

"Walter Pieterse!" cried the astonished party sitting around the table.

"Have you hurt yourself, Walter?"

No, he hadn't hurt himself; but he was rigid with surprise. Firstly, over his ascent; secondly, over his aerial journey; then over his descent among all kinds of glassware; and, finally—and that was not the least surprising thing—he was surprised to find himself all at once in the bosom of the Holsma family.

It was Sietske who asked him if he was hurt.

All the glasses, both great and small, were broken; but Walter was still in one piece. Uncle Sybrand helped him to his feet. It wasn't easy, for the press was great. However, Walter's size facilitated matters.

The proprietor couldn't reach the scene of action, but he was able to make his voice heard to the effect that everything broken must be paid for. From other tables came the noise of more breaking glass. The man was desperate. He cursed kings and masses indiscriminately.

"One bottle of wine, three lemonades, six glasses!" cried Holsma, assuming the responsibility for Walter's unintentional work of destruction.

Uncle Sybrand was holding up the money to pay for everything.

"Oh, M'neer, I'm afraid to go home after this," cried Walter. "How can I pay for that? And my mother——"

In the noise and jumble Holsma did not understand; but Sietske understood.

"Sh!" she whispered. "Papa will pay for it all. Besides, I have money; and William, too; and Hermann. Just be quiet."

Walter still did not understand. When, under the protection of the Holsmas, he was safe on the outside again, and the entire party had escaped the mob by taking a side street, he reiterated that he did dare show his face to his mother and Stoffel.

"It doesn't make any difference about the money," said Holsma. "I will attend to that. Why, boy, you're scared half to death. You're shaking. Come along home with us where you can rest a bit and quiet yourself."

The distance, however, proved too short to have the desired quieting effect on Walter.

"My mother will be angry when I come home late."

Holsma told him that a messenger should be sent to his mother at once, so that she would know where he was.

The doctor gave him a sedative and led him into a room adjoining that in which the Holsma family were sitting. Walter was to walk up and down the room till he felt better; but he soon got tired of this and did the very thing that he was not to do; he sat down on a sofa and fell asleep.

Whether, in general, it is a good thing to keep in motion after a fright—that I do not know. Walter, on the contrary, always felt the need of sleep under such circumstances; and this remedy, with which nature provided him, usually restored his mental equilibrium. Perhaps, after all, it wasn't real sleep: he merely dreamed.

Again he was lifted up, higher and higher, borne by strong hands. A man bit him in the hand. The fact was he had scratched his hand on a refractory horsehair, which had become tired of acting as stuffing for a sofa-pillow.

An angry woman assailed him with abuse. Stupid? Not stupid? We, the masses? She let him fall. But he fell in Sietske's lap; and there wasn't a single sliver of glassware.

He was happy—but the horsehair scratched him again. Then he heard a voice. Was he still dreaming? Yes, dreaming again of soaring and falling. There was Femke.

Of course there had to be something about her in his dream, and about bleaching the clothes. Father Jansen was there, too, exhibiting to the stars the particular garment that Femke had patched. Orion and the Great Bear admired this specimen of her handiwork. Walter did not.

"Did you do it yourself?" he heard Sietske asking in the next room. "Or couldn't you get through the crowd?"

"No, it was impossible to get through such a mob. I turned it over to the man with the peddler's wagon."

What was that? Walter sat up. Father Jansen was gone; Orion, too; and the clouds, and the "masses"; but—that voice!

He heard it again.

"I know him very well—oh, so well! He's a good boy." This he heard Femke say!

He jumped up and ran into the room where the Holsmas were. He saw a triangular piece of a woman's dress disappear through the door; then the door closed.

He didn't have the courage—or was something else beside courage necessary to ask, "Is that Femke?"

On his way home that evening Walter did not suffer in the least from the sensation of being borne through the air; or from anything similar. He was on the earth, very much on the earth. He felt lowly.

If he had only seen that bit of Femke's dress somewhere else, and not at the Holsmas—not in that swell family; not in the company of Sietske, who had so much money in her "savings-bank," nor in the presence of the vain William, who was studying Latin!

He was brave enough to feel ashamed of himself; and that's all I can say in his favor.

Let us now look at things from the point of view of Juffrouw Pieterse. That lady was in the clouds. She was hoping that the messenger who had brought her news of Walter had not been able to find her flat at once. The idea of someone from Dr. Holsma's asking for her through the neighborhood was decidedly pleasant. The longer he might have had to inquire for her the better!

"Of course he was at the grocer's," she said. "Such messengers never know where they have to go. Of course he told that the 'young gentleman' was staying at Dr. Holsma's! And such a man always tattles; such people don't do anything but tattle. But, as far as I'm concerned, everybody can know it. I only mean that such people like to tattle. But—say, Walter, how did it happen that you went with the family? You're a nice rascal. Stoffel, what do you say?"

Stoffel made a serious face—as much as to say: "Hm! I'll have to think over it. He's been up to something."

"I met the Holsma family in Kalver Street," Walter said. He told the truth; he had met the family in Kalver Street. But why didn't he tell anything about the extraordinary circumstances under which he met them? Ah—there's the rub!

"Your back is so sticky!" complained Pietro, whose care it was to look after the washing.

The family rubbed, and felt, and smelt; and then they declared unanimously that Walter's back had been guilty of absorbing all kinds of sticky gases and liquids.

"Really, it smells like lemon," said Trudie.

"And like wine!"

"And it's just coated with sugar. Boy, where have you been? Don't you have any sense of shame? To go to visit such swell people with lemon and sugar on your back! It's a disgrace, a disgrace."

"There was such a crowd on the street."

"That don't explain the wine on your back—nor the lemon—nor the sugar. What say you, Trudie?"

There was complete unanimity. Timid, as usual, Walter didn't have the courage to tell everything. Nor would this have done any good. The understanding of the Pieterse family was like a rusty lock that no key will open. Walter knew this, and remembering former sad experiences, allowed the storm to rage above his head. Unfortunately he, too, in a sense, was rusty. His nobility of character had suffered; he had been guilty of cowardice.

He felt it. No minister could pray it away. Not even God himself could revoke it. Everyone must act according to his conviction, Mevrouw Holsma had said. He had not done this.

A dog would have kissed the hem of Femke's garment, meeting her after such a long separation. For it was she. Certainly it was Femke—or——

Oh, he was hunting for or's!

Could it have been somebody else? It must have been somebody else. How could Femke be at Dr. Holsma's?

No, no, it was she! Didn't she say that she knew me? Didn't she speak with the same voice that I heard when she called me a dear boy and gave me the kiss at the bridge?

She didn't know then what a coward I am! She wouldn't deny me and betray me. She would say to everybody: That is Walter, my little friend that I kissed that time, because he was so brave in fighting off those boys!

And I? Oh, help me God!

No, God has nothing to do with it. I am a coward. I can't live this way.

He thought of suicide; and in this mood he spent that Thursday night. He arose Friday morning with the firm determination to put an end to his unworthy existence.

Fortunately, just after breakfast he was put to work on a job that is calculated to reconcile one with life.

He had been tried and convicted, the verdict being unanimous. The penalty was that he should wash his jacket till it was clean. He entered upon the task with such enthusiasm that in an hour he was running to his mother crying triumphantly:

"Look, mother! You can't see a trace of it now!"

This little conquest dispelled all the clouds that had darkened his life.

There are plenty of people who would gladly fall into a barrel of lemonade if they only understood the salutary effects of cleaning a coat.

The poor unfortunate who has never washed his own clothes does not know what life is.

I will ask her pardon, thought Walter; and he pictured it all to himself, wondering whether it would do for him to fall at her feet at Holsma's, in the presence of the one who had delivered the message. Finally, however, he quieted himself with the thought that Femke would probably not be at the doctor's very long. He hoped to be able then to settle the matter quietly, when only the two concerned were present. This was not courageous, to be sure; but his punishment was already on the way.



CHAPTER XXVI

The events of an eventful Friday were at an end, as it seemed; and Walter prepared to climb into the narrow bedstead, which he shared with his brother Laurens. He was now in a tranquil frame of mind. He didn't even have any desire to romp with Laurens, who, without laying claim to geometrical knowledge, usually managed to find the diagonal of the bed.

It was Walter's intention to think over recent events again. He wished to busy himself with others; he was tired of himself—at least he thought so for a moment.

There was a prince, who distributed money among the people. Oh, if I were only a prince!

That wasn't a bad thought. Under the same circumstances, most people would have thought: Oh, if I could only have got some of the money!

The countess-palatine from—where from? Well it makes no difference. She was in the museum and the papers said she was gracious, very gracious.

I would do it too, thought Walter, if I were a countess-palatine. What sort of a profession is that?

The king had given audiences—and a dinner—and had said—well, the usual things. But for Walter it was new and interesting. The welfare of the city seemed to lie heavily on his majesty's heart. It lay heavily on Walter's heart, too; but that did not prevent Walter from admiring this peculiarity of the king. In Africa he would do the same thing.

No, away with Africa!

He threw off his left stocking so violently that it curled around the leg of the chair like a dying earthworm.

What strange things he had heard of Princess Erika! It was said that she was to have married a grand-duke, but rejected him.

The middle classes were delighted with this news; though not knowing but that it might merely have been stubbornness on the part of the princess.

She was of such a strange nature that she did not know how to behave herself in her high position.

Walter slipped off his other stocking, finding fault with the princess for disregarding the usual customs and conventions. Hm! He wondered if she would like to change places with him, and let him be Prince Erich—and she——

He wondered if she too wore an ugly nightcap. But—no! Princesses would wear caps of diamonds.

Princess Erika!

Walter blew out the light—no, he was on the point of blowing it out. He had selected one of the triangles that Laurens had described in the bed, when suddenly he became aware of a great tumult in the Pieterse home.

Yes, somebody had rung violently three or four times and was still banging at the door. Fire?

Hm! Could it be Princess Erika, he thought, who was coming to change places with him?

Alas, it was only Juffrouw Laps; and she did not come to exchange.

Well, what did she want then, so late in the evening?

Walter pulled himself together and listened.

The compartment where Walter and Laurens slept was a boxed-up arrangement over the sitting-room. Two of their sisters shared the space with them. From considerations of modesty, therefore, the boys always had to get sleepy a quarter of an hour before the young ladies.

The writer is unable to say how much oxygen four young people need during eight hours without suffocating; but anyway there wasn't much room in this little nook.

In another closet-affair there was a similar division, and here, too, the hour for retiring was determined by similar laws of modesty.

The reader will now understand why a part of the family, the female part of course, was still in the sitting-room when Walter imagined that Princess Erika had come to exchange places with him.

Juffrouw Laps, who had rushed up the steps like a crazy woman, burst into the room weeping and moaning and sobbing.

The usual cries of, "What on earth is the matter?" "Lord 'a' mercy—what has happened?" were forthcoming. Walter noticed, too, that the customary glass of water was offered and drunk, and that proper efforts were being made to get the unhappy one to "calm herself."

Juffrouw Laps began her story with the positive assurance that it was impossible for her to utter a word.

It seemed, therefore, that the affair was something important. Walter pulled on one of his stockings and prepared to listen.

"I swear, Juffrouw Pieterse, by the omnipotent God, that I'm so frightened and excited that I can't talk."

"Goodness!"

"Where are your children? In bed? Not all of them, I hope. Really, I can't speak. Give me another glass of water, Trudie. Listen, how my teeth are chattering. That comes from fright, doesn't it? I'm in a tremble all over. Thank you, Trudie. Where's—Stoffel?"

"He's undressing," said Juffrouw Pieterse. "He goes to bed before me and Pietro. Mina makes so much noise, you know; and Trudie must stay with the boys to keep them from fighting. That's why I sleep with Pietro, you see. Stoffel undresses himself, and then he draws the curtain when he hears us on the steps. But why——"

"How that concerns me, you mean? To be sure. I'm just beside myself from fright! And is—Laurens in bed too?"

"Of course! A long time already. He has to go to the printing-house early."

"All in bed! And I—I run through the streets, wretched, crazy, and don't know what to do. Is everybody in bed?—everybody?"

"But what has happened?"

"I'm going to tell you, Juffrouw Pieterse. Oh, if you only knew how frightened I am!"

Consideration of acoustics now led Walter to put on his other stocking.

"You know, Juffrouw Pieterse, that of late so much stealing has been going on."

"Yes, but——"

"And burglary and murder! And the police can't catch anybody. You know the old woman and the servant-girl who were murdered in Lommer Street."

"But three are already behind the bars for it. What more do you want?"

"That's all right; the murderers are running around scot-free. They've locked up three fellows just to keep the people from thinking too much. They don't want anybody to ask, 'What are the police for?' You see what I mean? I tell you that such a low-down rascal, who commits a murder and steals lots of money, cannot hide his bloody clothes; nor the money, either. He's not used to having so much money. All the neighbors know his coat and breeches; and such a man hasn't any trunk where he can hide his things. He doesn't know how to manage with drafts and notes; and he don't know enough to get away to a foreign country. As for friends to help him get rid of the stolen things, he hasn't any. I tell you, Juffrouw Pieterse, a murder or a robbery, when they don't catch the murderer right away—then some respectable person has done it, who has more clothes and boxes and presses and linen—and he has friends among bankers. A common fellow would stick a hundred thousand florins in the bread-box, and the children would find it when they went to slip a slice of bread and butter. What do you say, Trudie?"

Trudie was not versed in criminal statistics and had never reflected on the matter. At least Walter heard no answer. Curiosity compelled him to draw on his trousers.

"But," he heard his mother saying again, "what has happened to you?"

"What has happened? I am beside myself. Don't you see how I'm trembling? The city is full of murderers!"

"My goodness! How can I help it?"

"You can't. But I am beside myself, and I want to ask your advice. Do they all go to bed so early?—Stoffel—and Laurens—all of them? Look, how I'm shaking. Do you suppose I dare go back to my room?"

"Why not? Do you think you're going to be murdered?"

"Yes. I do think it! The murderers of that old woman and of the servant-girl are still on the war-path. Yesterday at the illumination how many watches did they steal? And the police—what do they do? Nothing, nothing! Yes, they watch you to see if you beat a rug in the morning after ten o'clock. That's what the police do. They don't bother murderers."

"What do you know about the murderers? It's your duty to report them if you know them."

Walter put on his vest and wrapped his muffler around his neck.

"What I know about them! They are besieging me in my own house. Isn't that pretty rough? I went out at noon to see the boat race on the Amstel; but there was nothing to see, because there was no wind. And such a crowd! All the kings were there, and the visiting princes and princesses, you know; and everybody stared at the carriages, and I did too. Not that I care anything about a king. Goodness, no! For he is only a worm in God's hand, and when the Master doesn't aid him—all is vanity, vanity. Dust and ashes—that's all. But I looked at the carriages, you know, and at the horses, and at the staring crowd. I thought to myself, I will fry the potatoes when I go home. They had been left over from dinner; and when there are any potatoes left over, you know, I always fry them for supper. There was a big crowd, and all were mad because there was no wind; for people are foolish about pleasure and never think of the Master. Worldly, worldly, they were—and the princes and princesses. I thought, well, it's no wonder that there's so much robbery and murder; for they try God's patience. I thought, God will punish you; He's only abiding His time. He always does it, Juffrouw Pieterse! A lady—the creature had red pimples on her face, and was older than you—what do you suppose she had on her head? A turban! She rode in a carriage with four horses. What do you think of that? She was playing with a fan; and, when a prince rode up to her carriage, she stuck out her hand and let the fan go up and down three times. And the prince did that way three times. Were they crazy, or not? What will the Master say to that? If He only doesn't send a pestilence on us!"

"Yes, but the murderers—what did they do to you?"

"Why, certainly—what they did? I am going to tell you. I'm still trembling. I had sliced my potatoes, put them on a saucer and set them away in the cupboard. Then I thought, I will fry them when I come home; for I didn't expect to stay long in the crowd, for I have been saved by grace and don't care for worldly things—ah, dear Juffrouw Pieterse, you must call Stoffel, so he can hear what has happened."

Stoffel was already on his way down; and Walter was glad of it. Walter had heard the noise Stoffel was making putting on his clothes in the adjoining booth, and upon this he builded hopes that he too might be allowed to go down, where he could hear the exciting story better than was possible through the cracks in the floor. In the meantime he had completely dressed himself. The noises below told him of Stoffel's arrival in the sitting-room. He heard the usual greetings and Juffrouw Laps's solemn assurance that she was still in such a tremble that she couldn't say a word. Then he heard her ask immediately where Laurens was.

Laurens? Well, he was asleep.

That youth's absence seemed to trouble the visitor. She couldn't proceed. Was it really necessary for Laurens to be present?

"What do you say, Stoffel? Isn't the city full of thieves and murderers?"

Stoffel drew in his upper lip and tried to make the lower one touch his nose. Let the reader try the same; then he will know how Stoffel answered, and what his answer meant.

Juffrouw Laps pretended to believe that he had said "yes."

"Don't you see, Stoffel says so too! The city is full of thieves and murderers, and—a respectable person is afraid to go to bed alone any more. It's just that way."

"But—Juffrouw!"

"The police? Nonsense! What good do the police do, when people don't believe in God? That's the truth. Whoever doesn't do that is lost. Human help—I cannot understand at all why Laurens goes to bed so early. You surely know that so much sleep isn't good for anybody. What does the Bible say? Watch and pray! But—everyone according to his notion. I swear before God that I don't dare to go home alone and——"

Walter's curiosity was at high tension. In order to hear better he was leaning over, supporting himself with the chair. The point of support was unsteady. The chair slipped and rattled across the floor, crashing into another piece of furniture.

"Heaven and earth! What are they up to now," groaned the mother. "Laurens, is that you?"

Walter peeped in, "It was me." The result was that he was soon in the midst of the interesting conversation that he had been trying to hear from above.

His entrance took place under unfavorable circumstances. He was blamed for not having been undressed.

"Do you always put on your nightcap before you undress?" cried the mother.

The boy had actually forgotten to take off his nightcap. He was so ashamed that he felt he would like to fall through the floor. He would rather have neglected anything else.

"And—what have you there?"

Alas, our hero looked more ridiculous than anyone could look by simply putting on a nightcap. He had armed himself with an old rusty knife that his father had used in prehistoric times for cutting leather!

During the whole of the Laps recital, which progressed so slowly, he had thought and hoped and intended—yes, he heard something that sounded like, "Where is Walter?" The speaker really did not say it—no, on the contrary, those were the very words she wished to avoid—still, he thought he heard her say them. On this Friday he had acted mean and cowardly; but he was still Walter.

Murderers? Thieves? A lady in danger? What other answer could there be but: "I am here, I, Walter!"

Oh, fate, why did you put that sword in his hand and let him forget to remove that nightcap? Why didn't you divide these two absurdities between Stoffel and Walter! Or why couldn't you put that feathery diadem on the head of the sleeping Laurens? It would have been all the same to him how he looked in his sleep.

Walter was in a rage.

And I am, too. Towards Femke his chivalry had remained in the background; and now it must burst forth at a doubtful call from Juffrouw Laps!

In his anger he threw the weapon down violently and allowed it to rebound across the room. He slapped the nightcap on the table.

No one would have thought that the little man could be so vehement. His mother, with her usual solicitousness, inquired into the condition of his mind, asking if he was only cracked, or downright crazy.

"I tell you," said the visitor, "you ought not to worry that child so much."

"Go to bed at once!" cried the mother.

"Why can't you let the child stay here? But—oh, yes! I was going to tell you about my potatoes."

Walter stayed. For this privilege he was indebted to the general curiosity.

"Just imagine, when I came home about half past ten o'clock—I couldn't get away earlier on account of the crush, you know. Don't you know, I don't care for these big occasions. Well, when I got home—the city is full of thieves, murderers, and that must not be forgotten—well, my potatoes were—what do you think my potatoes were? They were—gone!"

"Gone?"

"Gone!"

"All gone?"

"All gone!"

"Your potatoes—gone?"

"My potatoes—all completely gone!"

"But——"

"I tell you those thieves and murderers did it. Who else could have done it? Thieves and murderers in my house! And I wanted to ask you—for I'm afraid in my room——"

Walter's eyes fairly shone.

"I wanted to ask, if perhaps—your son Stoffel——"

Stoffel's face was a study, a curiosity. If the said thieves and murderers could have seen it they would have been greatly pleased, for it bore evidence of Stoffel's intention to leave them undisturbed in their work.

"But, Juffrouw," he said, "haven't you a cat in your room?"

"A cat? A cat to fight murderers with!"

"No, Juffrouw, not to fight murderers; but a cat that might have eaten the potatoes."

"I don't know anything about a cat. I only know that the city is full of low-down people when so many murders are committed and no one tries to catch the murderers. Not that I am anxious about my life—no, not at all. When the Master calls me I shall say, 'Let thy daughter go in peace; my eyes have seen thy glory.'"

"But, woman, why didn't you look in your closet, and under the bed?"

"I didn't want to do that, Juffrouw Pieterse! The Lord will take care of me—but one must not try the Lord's patience. I would not go in the closet, or look under the bed—not for everything in the world! For of course he's there, and that's why I wanted to ask if your son—Stoffel, or, if Stoffel doesn't want to, if perhaps your son—Laurens, or——"

"But, Juffrouw, why didn't you call the neighbors?"

Thus spoke Stoffel.

"The neighbors? Well, I guess they know about it. The man who lives under me is afraid of a poodle-dog, not to mention a murderer. There's a man living next to me; but, you know, he is—what shall I say—he is a sort of bachelor, and I don't want to get talked about. You know a woman must always think of her reputation, and not get mixed up in gossip."

It did not occur to anyone to ask what sort of a creature Stoffel was. Was he a bachelor? Or did his position as a teacher protect him against any worldly suspicion?

"And, besides," continued the seductive Laps, "do you think all men have courage? No! They're as afraid of a thief as they are of death. Last week an insolent beggar was on the steps, and the fellow wouldn't leave. Do you think the men did anything to him? Scared to death! But, I tell you, I got hold of him in a hurry and——"

She had gone too far, and she saw it.

"Well, I would have done that if I hadn't been a woman; for a woman must never use violence. It isn't becoming. What do you say, Trudie? I ran and shut my door. Wasn't that right? No, none of the men-folk has any courage!"

None of the men-folk! Walter felt insulted. He was swelling with suppressed courage; he was eager for a fray. At least, he was eager to show that he was an exception to Juffrouw Laps's general indictment. Of course Juffrouw Laps noticed this.

"Well, if Stoffel doesn't want to——"

"To tell the truth, I——"

"And if Laurens is already asleep—and if—if no one else will——"

She arose.

"Then I suppose I must, relying upon God, go alone. But it's horrible for a woman to be entirely alone!"

She looked at them all in turn, all except the one she was talking to. Walter felt that he was being forgotten, or overlooked. This only increased his latent courage and made him burn with a desire to be numbered with the knighthood of the house.

"Yes, if there's nobody here who's not afraid——"

"I'm not afraid!"

All but Juffrouw Laps were surprised. She was a good psychologist, and had not expected anything else. It was her part, however, to pretend to be as much surprised as any of the rest.

"You?"

"You, Walter?"

"Boy, are you crazy? You?"

"Yes, I. I'm not afraid; not if there were ten in the closet and a hundred under the bed!"

A little Luther! But with a difference. Luther had a God in whom he felt he could trust—reinforced by a few grand-dukes. Walter, without any grand-dukes, was ready to enter the field against a God who was allowing any number of murderers to take shelter under the roof and bed of Juffrouw Laps.

"Boy!"

"I'll risk it."

"Let him go, Juffrouw Pieterse. You understand—it's company for me to have such a child with me. Then I'm not frightened so badly, if a murderer is in the closet. Nobody wants to be entirely alone. Isn't that so?"

Juffrouw Laps gained her point: Walter was permitted to go with her.

It was principally their vanity that caused the Pieterses to consent so readily to Juffrouw Laps's request and allow her to take Walter away to act as her castellan. Not one of them felt that it was a good thing for Walter to go with the Juffrouw; but they were all proud of his courage. The story would get noised abroad, and people would pass it on to their friends. Juffrouw Pieterse would see to it that the people knew it was "the same young gentlemen, you know, that went home with Dr. Holsma."

Yes, and then people would say: "There's something in those Pieterse children."

Mothers like to hear such things.

With his package under his arm Walter marched away with Juffrouw Laps to do battle for that pious lady. That prehistoric weapon he left behind, on her assuring him that she had a well-filled store of weapons and ammunition enough to kill all the murderers that he would have occasion to contend with.



CHAPTER XXVII

Walter shuddered as he crossed Juffrouw Laps's threshold. He reflected, and wondered how he could have entered upon this knightly expedition without considering certain details connected with it and inseparable from it.

The first thing she offered him, of course, was the fried potatoes, that dainty dish which the murderers had greedily made away with!

Walter was beginning to feel that the game wasn't worth the candle. The adventure didn't offer sufficient outlet for his chivalry. In fact, he thought something other than chivalry was necessary to face single-handed and alone those fried potatoes and Juffrouw Laps's persistent attentions.

"Make yourself at home and eat all you want. Don't be a bit embarrassed. Or would you rather take off your coat first? You know, you're to stay all night with me."

Walter preferred to keep on his coat for the present.

"And I have a dram for you, too, my boy—something extra. It's from Fockink's. You know where he has his distillery, there in that narrow street. You must never pass along there. Bad women live in that street. They stand at the doors and windows, don't you know; and that isn't good for a bachelor like you."

Walter, the "bachelor," looked surprised. He was abashed; though he was not displeased. This promotion was more flattering than going into "business."

Still, he was embarrassed. Juffrouw Laps found it desirable, therefore, to continue along this line.

"Certainly, Walter, you're a bachelor. Don't you know that? It's only because at home they treat you like a child. I tell you, you're a bachelor, just as much so as anybody else. Do you think I like Stoffel as well as I do you? No, no, no! Not a bit of it! I like you lots better. Don't you want a pipe to smoke? You are man enough for that. Of course you are; and why shouldn't you smoke a pipe like other men?"

Men, men!

Walter answered that he couldn't smoke yet. It cost him an effort to make the admission; but his first attempt to equal Stoffel in that respect had turned out badly.

"So? You don't smoke?" She omitted his "yet."

"Well, it's a good thing. It's a stupid habit in men. And forever the terrible smoke! I know other young gentlemen who do not smoke. For instance, there is Piet Hammel. He's as old as you, but a little smaller. He's going to marry a cousin of mine; and he doesn't smoke either."

Walter felt better now. He was interested.

"Yes, they're going to get married about—well, I don't know exactly when. But they intend to marry. I tell you, you are a real bachelor; and it's awfully stupid of them still to treat you like a child. I've told your mother so a hundred times. There on the street just now, when we were together—I'm a delicate woman; but do you think I was afraid?—with you with me? Not a bit. Not a trace of fear. And why? Because everybody could see that I had a man with me. I ought to have taken hold of your arm—you're almost taller than I am—but I didn't do it because you had a package. And then—the people talk so much! The watchman might have seen it, and he would have spread the news broadcast that I had been seen at night with a gentleman."

With a gentleman! Walter was listening.

"A woman must always think of her reputation. But we're here at home now, and that's very different, entirely different. I know that of course you wouldn't tell anything bad about me. Whoever tells anything bad on a woman isn't a true gentleman. You know that."

Yes, Walter knew it. He understood Juffrouw Laps better than she imagined.

"What I wanted to say was, you must never go through that street. So long as you were a child, it made no difference. But now! Let me fill your glass for you."

Walter drank.

O Fancy, my muse, where art thou?

"How do you like it?"

Walter owned that the liquor had a pleasant taste.

Satan's handmaid filled the glasses again. They were "so small," really "mere thimbles."

"And you must eat something, dearest. Oh, I have always thought so much of you! It's good for you to have a little dram like that."

Walter began to eat.

"Just take off your coat; there's nobody here but us."

Quite so. Walter did take off his coat.

"And I'm going to sit close to you, for you are a dear, good, sweet boy."

Fancy, Fancy!

The liquor was strong, and Walter drank more of it than was good for him. He lost some of his modesty, and hardly knew what he was saying to the talkative Juffrouw, as she asked questions from time to time. She was not quite satisfied with the way things were going, but hoped for the best.

Occasionally Walter found time to wonder why he was there, what the purpose of the enforced visit might be. His hostess seemed to have forgotten all about those thieves and murderers; and when he reminded her of them, she showed a spirit of valor that did him good. For he and his valor were undone.

"I will do them! Do you think I'm afraid of such a fellow? Well, I guess not. Not afraid of three of them. I wouldn't be afraid of ten of them—I'm not afraid of the whole world. I will do them."

All the better, thought Walter; for then he wouldn't have to "do" them.

They now heard something rustling around in the closet, or else they imagined they heard something. Walter was frightened. He was a perfect child again.

"Stay here, and I will see what it is," cried the Juffrouw. "Do you think I would let them beat you, or stab you, or murder you, my boy! Never! Whoever touches you will have to walk over me. But I will give them all they need."

She went out, taking the light with her, to see what was the matter—if anything. She was careful to leave Walter in the dark long enough for him to wish for her return. The tables were being turned. A little more, and the boy would seek protection under her apron.

"But, Juffrouw——"

"I will let you call me Christine. That's my name."

This was too much for Walter. He preferred to avoid addressing her directly.

"But hadn't I better go home now?"

"Not at all. You don't want to leave me, do you? You know your mother is in bed asleep now. Besides, it was understood that you were to spend the night here and take breakfast with me."

Breakfast! The boy hadn't been doing anything else for an hour. Was that to continue till morning?

"I'll tell you what! Just undress yourself; and you needn't be a bit ashamed before me. I will make down a pallet for you there in the corner. When I'm here alone—just a woman—with all the thieves and robbers—oh, it's so horrible!"

Walter did not dare to say no; nor did he dare to do what was proposed so enticingly. He hesitated.

She talked sweetly and persuaded him.

He began to——

The child was as if hypnotized.

O Fancy, Fancy! Where art thou?



CHAPTER XXVIII

It will be remembered that on this significant Friday a boat-race had been arranged for the amusement of the visiting princes and princesses. It had to be called off on account of a disinclination on the side of the wind to fill its part of the program, or rather, to fill the sails. For it was to have been a "sail." Rowing was not in style then; it was not considered dignified and manly. Besides, the boats were not built to be propelled in this way.

The boat-race had been canceled; but the crowd remained, and continued to discharge its enthusiasm for royalty till a late hour. It was a great day; and the populace perspired and shouted and howled.

It was so hot that kings and princesses perspired like ordinary mortals. They flourished fans indolently. At that time there was a special kind of fan: "joujoux de Normandie."

It was observed that the old countess-palatine manipulated her fan more elegantly than anyone else. No doubt it was through this "gentle art" that she exerted her greatest influence on humanity.

Gradually the carriages of the distinguished guests disappeared, and the knightly horsemen tired of the saddle. The day drew to a close. The populace pushed and crowded and sang and hurrahed and drank. Fireworks were discharged, to express, so the newspapers said, the inexpressible love of the people for princes and princesses.

Oh, those firecrackers, and the danger in them! Quick, quick—throw it—a second longer and it will burst in your hand—hurrah!

It was magnificent—the danger and thrilling anxiety. There was a tradition that somebody had once held a firecracker in his hand too long and had been badly hurt by it. This traditional "somebody" was now inspiring the revelers with fresh enthusiasm.

So it was on that evening, before the city authorities had prohibited the use of fireworks. After the houses had been covered with slate, it was thought that there was too much danger of fire in firecrackers, but on that evening, when the houses still had thatch roofs, the dangerous pleasure of Amsterdam youth was unrestrained.

And the other dangerous pleasures! How many lasses went home with their skirts singed, some of them hardly getting home at all. Interesting adventures! And a boy—"those boys have to have their noses in everything"—yes, a youth came very near getting a load in his face. Thrilling delight!

The crowd was now in the street where Juffrouw Laps resided. The reader will recall that Walter was spending the night with her.

Boom! went a gun, or a cannon-cracker; and Walter awoke just as his affectionate hostess and religious adviser was going to give him a kiss.

Juffrouw Laps had burned her sinful lips. "Lord have mercy on us, what is that!" she cried.

Both ran to the open window. Ordinarily a respectable Hollandish girl never leaves her window open at night; but the extreme heat of the evening must be urged in Juffrouw Laps's favor.

It was clear to them at once that they had not been fired upon by those "murderers," for nobody paid any attention to them or showed any interest in them. Other windows were open, as well; and on all sides people were looking out. Right and left a cannonade of firecrackers was going on.

In the interest of privacy Juffrouw Laps took the precaution to blow out the light as quickly as possible. Another might have neglected this.

Walter looked down on it all with the delight of a child. He forgot the insistent kindness of his hostess; he thought of nothing but the crowd below and their antics. The noise and tumult sobered him; and it even had a quieting effect on Juffrouw Laps.

"How foolish the people are. They push one another hither and thither and don't know themselves why they do it."

"Click, click!" answered an enthusiast with a gun. He was in the midst of a bevy of girls, who scattered in an uproar.

"They're all drunk," said Juffrouw Laps. "I wish they would go home. I'm tired—and it's two o'clock."

"Just a little more!" begged Walter. "I'm not tired—not a bit!"

"I'm afraid you're catching cold. For you know, the night air after a hot day—well, put on your cap, dearest. I wouldn't have this night air to give you a cold for everything in the world. Look, there goes another one." It was a Roman candle.

"Amour a la plus belle. Honneur au plus vaillant——"

"Why don't they sing Dutch? Do you understand any of it?"

Walter knew something of the handsome Dunois, who slew so many Turks and received as his reward the daughter of the duke, his master. How would a knight be rewarded after he had already received one reward? Or how would it have been if the master had had no daughter?

While Walter was asking his lady friend such difficult questions as these, they heard an outburst of cries and abuse and oaths below. A reaction had set in. It was a perfect riot. The crowd swayed first one way then the other, according as one party or the other was in the ascendency.

Non-combatants were pushing their way out; combatants, themselves crowded, were crowding others. Cries of "help" were heard. Mothers, with babies in their arms, attested their fear; women in delicate health made their condition known.

The press was worst on the corner, whither the revelers were streaming from three directions. Here was located a popular restaurant and drinking-place, which was probably the destination of the stream coming from Amstel Street. The second stream, coming from Utrecht Street, evidently had the same objective in view. The strongest current was flowing from the belligerent group, which was now squeezed into close quarters.

From his recent experience Walter knew what it meant to be in such a mob. Whoever fell was walked over. But it really wasn't so bad as that: to fall was impossible. The danger was in being crowded off the street into basements, where limbs and necks might be easily broken. In this respect there was more danger than there had been the evening before in Kalver Street.

"Christian souls!" cried Juffrouw Laps. "I'm getting right sick at the stomach."

Walter's condition was about the same. All at once he seized her arm. He thought that he saw somebody—somebody who looked like——

"That's right, dear. Hold fast to me. It's simply death and murder!"

Walter did not say anything.

"Isn't it enough to run anybody crazy?" continued the dear Juffrouw. "Hold fast to me, and remember that I am your Christine."

He was remembering something else.

"Don't be afraid—Lord, that child's beside himself—nobody shall hurt you. I will take care of you."

He held on to her arm all the tighter; otherwise he was as if turned to stone.

"I wouldn't pay any attention to it, sweetheart. But—it is bad enough. Do you see that girl there with the North Holland cap on? I wouldn't like to be in her place."

"It is—Femke! O God, it is Femke!"

Shaking off Juffrouw Laps, who attempted to hold him back, he rushed down the steps and in a few minutes was in the thickest of the fray.

He fought his way through the crowd like a mad-man, soon reaching the point where he had seen Femke. She, however, had disappeared. A man with flashy cap and sailor's jacket, who from above had looked like her escort, was still contending with the crowd. It seemed as if the two had come arm in arm through Amstel Street.

"Is there a girl here with a North Holland cap on?"

The man was too busy fighting and wrestling for standing-room to make answer. Meanwhile, Walter noticed that the fellow was struggling toward the "Herberge," and concluded that his lady must have taken refuge there.

Walter paid no more attention to the punches and blows he received. He was only concerned to give as many blows as were necessary to hasten his arrival at the restaurant. The place was about as badly crowded as the street, but there was no fighting going on.

Yes, Walter had made a good beginning: yesterday in the "Polish Coffeehouse," to-day in the "Juniper Berry"—thrown in there, fighting his way in here.

He was in the restaurant at last, looking for Femke. Now he thought that he had discovered her, standing on a step, or something of the kind. With lips tightly closed, her arms crossed, the girl was looking quietly down on the multitude as if in silent contempt. The rim was torn from her cap and was hanging down. Walter thought that he even saw blood on her face—Femke's dear face!

He was exhausted and could not reach her. He looked at her. She did not see him.

She stood there proud and haughty. He called to her. She did not hear.

"O God! she despises me. I deserve it for my cowardice at Holsma's."

"Boy," said the woman behind the bar, "we don't have any bellowing here. If you want to bellow go to your mother."

Easier said than done. He couldn't move a peg, such was the press. He was shoved against the counter; and it was impossible for him to keep sight of Femke. The tears began to roll down his cheeks.

"What are you doing in such a crowd anyway?" continued the woman, "when you're so weak. You look as flimsy as a dish-rag. What have you been doing? Let me give you a glass of cognac."

He would have been only too glad to pay for his place; but, as he "received at home everything that he needed," he did not have the wherewithal. Still, there was no danger of his being thrown out. The crowd, which was threatening to expend its remaining energy in destroying the liquids of the place, was now occupying the barmaid's attention. I should say Mrs. Goremest's attention. She was the proprietress.

The girl continued to hold her position of advantage. There was something scornful in her features. "Who dares!" she seemed to say.

Walter was feeling bad. She looked over in his direction, but without seeing him. He called; but she did not hear.

Then the fellow with the flashy cap and sailor jacket appeared in the door. He had not been one of the belligerents; but he had suffered the fate of neutral powers. As his clothing testified, both parties had been his enemies.

So intent was the fellow on getting in that he did not even take time to return the shoves and cuffs that he received. Twice, three times he was crowded back; for where so many want the same thing, it isn't easy to obtain. Nevertheless, he had one advantage over the others, who sought only a resting-place and a glass of liquor. He was incited by something else.

Walter hoped with all his heart that the fellow would succeed in reaching Femke. She looked so lonely in the midst of that wild mob. If he had been stronger, he would have—but she wouldn't have anything to do with him. Wouldn't she push him off, just as she did the insolent fellow who first caught hold of her apron?

The girl seemed now to spy the sailor. She nodded to him and smiled, as if to encourage him. Or was she thanking him for his fidelity? Her smile bore the message that she was uninjured, and fearless. Yes, she stood there a statute of repose.

The sailor nodded back.

He would never have denied her, Walter thought.

Mrs. Goremest happened to see the new arrival; and, from the way she greeted him, he seemed to be a frequent visitor to her place:

"Hello, Klaas. Are you there too? You're out of breath, aren't you?"

She gave orders to let him through, and even came out a few steps and helped open up the way for him.

Thus it happened that Klaas Verlaan found standing-room at the counter not far from Walter.

"Well, they've made the most of you!"

He saw it the same way. He was never certain of a moment's recreation before bedtime. Walter, as well as the girl who still maintained her elevated position in the corner, agreed with the bar-woman's verdict.

"Had a good day?" continued the woman. "It was bad about the boat-race."

Klaas placed his finger on his mouth, as if he were going to tell her a secret. He wanted to tell of an adventure with Princess Erika.

"A glass of corn?" translated the bar-woman, but without guessing the right thing.

"Half and half?"

"Nor that either."

"Red?"

This time Klaas was particularly dainty and hard to please. He declined regularly whatever she suggested and continued to exert himself to draw her into a more confidential talk. He had had the pleasure of pulling Princess Erika out of the water.

On the outside they were still singing, "Amour a la plus belle."

"The devil take those Welsh songs!" cried one of the drinkers. "We are Dutchmen forever!"

"Yes, we are Dutchman forever——"

"And our prince——"

"Sh!"

"I will sing what I please; and, if anybody doesn't want to sing"—he struck himself on the chest, and the whole party was Dutch and enthusiastic over royalty. "Our Prince" was sung lustily, and to a finish.

"Hurrah!"

"Yes, when we were still true Dutchmen——"

"Yes, when we were still true Dutchmen——"

"And under the republic!"

"Long live the republic!"

"You all ought to have seen a yacht-race then."

"And our prince——"

"Under the republic all men were equal."

"Equal. No difference at all."

"Down with the tyrants!"

"They're not a bit better than we are!"

"They suck the life out of the people."

"Yes, they bleed us."

"And why? Because you're all cowardly dogs."

"Yes, they're all cowardly dogs."

"You put your necks under the yoke."

"Whenever a king comes around, or an emperor, or a prince, then all of you are so frightened you tremble like an aspen leaf."