himself, he spoke in a new voice:
"Forgive me, Raff Brinker, for this tumult. Do not feel distressed on my
account. I leave your house to-day a happier man than I have been for
many a long year. Shall I take the watch?"
"Certain you must, mynheer. It was your son's wish."
"Even so," responded the doctor--regarding his treasure with a queer
frown, for his face could not throw off its bad habits in an hour--"even
so. And, now, I must be gone. No medicine is needed by my patient; only
peace and cheerfulness, and both are here in plenty. Heaven bless you,
my good friends! I shall ever be grateful to you."
"May Heaven bless you, too, mynheer, and may you soon find the dear
young gentleman," said Dame Brinker earnestly, after hurriedly wiping
her eyes upon the corner of her apron.
Raff uttered a hearty "Amen!" and Gretel threw such a wistful, eager
glance at the doctor, that he patted her head as he turned to leave the
cottage.
Hans went out also.
"When I can serve you, mynheer, I am ready."
"Very well, boy," replied Dr. Boekman with peculiar mildness. "Tell
them, within, to say nothing of what has just passed. Meantime, Hans,
when you are with your father, watch his mood. You have tact. At any
moment he may suddenly be able to tell us more."
"Trust me for that, mynheer."
"Good day, my boy!" cried the doctor, as he sprang into his stately
coach.
"Aha!" thought Hans, as it rolled away, "the meester has more life in
him than I thought."
XLIV
THE RACE
The Twentieth of December came at last, bringing with it the perfection
of winter weather. All over the level landscape lay the warm sunlight.
It tried its power on lake, canal and river; but the ice flashed
defiance and showed no sign of melting. The very weather-cocks stood
still to enjoy the sight. This gave the windmills a holiday. Nearly all
the past week they had been whirling briskly; now, being rather out of
breath, they rocked lazily in the clear, still air. Catch a windmill
working when the weather-cocks have nothing to do!
There was an end to grinding, crushing and sawing for that day. It was a
good thing for the millers near Broek. Long before noon they concluded
to take in their sails, and go to the race. Everybody would be
there--already the north side of the frozen Y was bordered with eager
spectators; the news of the great skating match had traveled far and
wide. Men, women, and children in holiday attire were flocking toward
the spot. Some wore furs, and wintry cloaks or shawls; but many,
consulting their feelings rather than the almanac, were dressed as for
an October day.
The site selected for the race was a faultless plain of ice near
Amsterdam, on that great _arm_ of the Zuider Zee which Dutchmen of
course must call--the Eye. The townspeople turned out in large numbers.
Strangers in the city deemed it a fine chance to see what was to be
seen. Many a peasant from the northward had wisely chosen the Twentieth
as the day for the next city-trading. It seemed that everybody, young
and old, who had wheels, skates or feet at command, had hastened to the
scene.
There were the gentry in their coaches, dressed like Parisians, fresh
from the Boulevards; Amsterdam children in charity uniforms; girls from
the Roman Catholic Orphan House, in sable gowns and white head-bands;
boys from the Burgher Asylum, with their black tights and short-skirted,
harlequin coats.[29] There were old-fashioned gentlemen in cocked hats
and velvet knee-breeches; old-fashioned ladies, too, in stiff, quilted
skirts and bodies of dazzling brocade. These were accompanied by
servants bearing foot-stoves and cloaks. There were the peasant folk
arrayed in every possible Dutch costume--Shy young rustics in brazen
buckles; simple village maidens concealing their flaxen hair under
fillets of gold; women whose long, narrow aprons were stiff with
embroidery; women with short, corkscrew curls hanging over their
foreheads; women with shaved heads and close-fitting caps, and women in
striped skirts and windmill bonnets. Men in leather, in homespun, in
velvet and broadcloth; burghers in model European attire, and burghers
in short jackets, wide trousers and steeple-crowned hats.
[Footnote 29: This is not said in derision. Both the girls and boys of
this Institution wear garments quartered in red and black, alternately.
By making the dress thus conspicuous, the children are, in a measure,
deterred from wrong-doing while going about the city. The Burgher Orphan
Asylum affords a comfortable home to several hundred boys and girls.
Holland is famous for its charitable institutions.]
There were beautiful Friesland girls in wooden shoes and coarse
petticoats, with solid gold crescents encircling their heads, finished
at each temple with a golden rosette, and hung with lace a century old.
Some wore necklaces, pendants and earrings of the purest gold. Many
were content with gilt or even with brass, but it is not an uncommon
thing for a Friesland woman to have all the family treasure in her
head-gear. More than one rustic lass displayed the value of two thousand
guilders upon her head that day.
Scattered throughout the crowd were peasants from the Island of Marken,
with sabots, black stockings, and the widest of breeches; also women
from Marken with short blue petticoats, and black jackets, gaily figured
in front. They wore red sleeves, white aprons, and a cap like a bishop's
mitre over their golden hair.
The children often were as quaint and odd-looking as their elders. In
short, one-third of the crowd seemed to have stepped bodily from a
collection of Dutch paintings.
Everywhere could be seen tall women, and stumpy men, lively faced girls,
and youths whose expression never changed from sunrise to sunset.
There seemed to be at least one specimen from every known town in
Holland. There were Utrecht water bearers, Gouda cheese makers, Delft
pottery-men, Schiedam distillers, Amsterdam diamond-cutters, Rotterdam
merchants, dried up herring-packers, and two sleepy-eyed shepherds from
Texel. Every man of them had his pipe and tobacco-pouch. Some carried
what might be called the smoker's complete outfit--a pipe, tobacco, a
pricker with which to clean the tube, a silver net for protecting the
bowl, and a box of the strongest of brimstone matches.
A true Dutchman, you must remember, is rarely without his pipe on any
possible occasion. He may for a moment neglect to breathe, but when the
pipe is forgotten, he must be dying indeed. There were no such sad
cases here. Wreaths of smoke were rising from every possible quarter.
The more fantastic the smoke wreath, the more placid and solemn the
smoker.
Look at those boys and girls on stilts! That is a good idea. They can
see over the heads of the tallest. It is strange to see those little
bodies high in the air, carried about on mysterious legs. They have such
a resolute look on their round faces, what wonder that nervous old
gentlemen, with tender feet, wince and tremble while the long-legged
little monsters stride past them.
You will read in certain books that the Dutch are a quiet people--so
they are generally--but listen: did ever you hear such a din? All made
up of human voices--no, the horses are helping somewhat, and the fiddles
are squeaking pitifully (how it must pain fiddles to be tuned!) but the
mass of the sound comes from the great _vox humana_ that belongs to a
crowd.
That queer little dwarf going about with a heavy basket, winding in and
out among the people, helps not a little. You can hear his shrill cry
above all the other sounds, "Pypen en tabac! Pypen en tabac!"
Another, his big brother though evidently some years younger, is selling
doughnuts and bonbons. He is calling on all pretty children far and near
to come quickly or the cakes will be gone.
You know quite a number among the spectators. High up in yonder
pavilion, erected upon the border of the ice, are some persons whom you
have seen very lately. In the centre is Madame van Gleck. It is her
birthday, you remember; she has the post of honor. There is Mynheer van
Gleck whose meerschaum has not really grown fast to his lips--it only
appears so. There are grandfather and grandmother whom you met at the
St. Nicholas fete. All the children are with them. It is so mild they
have brought even the baby. The poor little creature is swaddled very
much after the manner of an Egyptian mummy, but it can crow with
delight, and when the band is playing, open and shut its animated
mittens in perfect time to the music.
Grandfather with his pipe and spectacles and fur cap, makes quite a
picture as he holds baby upon his knee. Perched high upon their canopied
platforms, the party can see all that is going on. No wonder the ladies
look complacently at the glassy ice; with a stove for a footstool one
might sit cozily beside the North Pole.
There is a gentleman with them who somewhat resembles St. Nicholas as he
appeared to the young Van Glecks on the fifth of December. But the saint
had a flowing white beard; and this face is as smooth as a pippin. His
saintship was larger around the body, too, and (between ourselves) he
had a pair of thimbles in his mouth, which this gentleman certainly has
not. It cannot be Saint Nicholas after all.
Near by, in the next pavilion sit the Van Holps with their son and
daughter (the Van Gends) from the Hague. Peter's sister is not one to
forget her promises. She has brought bouquets of exquisite hothouse
flowers for the winners.
These pavilions, and there are others beside, have all been erected
since daylight. That semicircular one, containing Mynheer Korbes'
family, is very pretty, and proves that the Hollanders are quite skilled
at tent-making, but I like the Van Glecks' best--the centre one--striped
red and white, and hung with evergreens.
The one with the blue flags contains the musicians. Those pagoda-like
affairs, decked with sea-shells and streamers of every possible hue, are
the judges' stands, and those columns and flagstaffs upon the ice mark
the limit of the race-course. The two white columns twined with green,
connected at the top by that long, floating strip of drapery, form the
starting-point. Those flagstaffs, half a mile off, stand at each end of
the boundary line, cut sufficiently deep to be distinct to the skaters,
though not enough so to trip them when they turn to come back to the
starting-point.
The air is so clear it seems scarcely possible that the columns and
flagstaffs are so far apart. Of course the judges' stands are but little
nearer together.
Half a mile on the ice, when the atmosphere is like this, is but a short
distance after all, especially when fenced with a living chain of
spectators.
The music has commenced. How melody seems to enjoy itself in the open
air! The fiddles have forgotten their agony, and everything is
harmonious. Until you look at the blue tent it seems that the music
springs from the sunshine, it is so boundless, so joyous. Only when you
see the staid-faced musicians you realize the truth.
Where are the racers? All assembled together near the white columns. It
is a beautiful sight. Forty boys and girls in picturesque attire darting
with electric swiftness in and out among each other, or sailing in pairs
and triplets, beckoning, chatting, whispering in the fullness of
youthful glee.
A few careful ones are soberly tightening their straps; others halting
on one leg, with flushed, eager faces suddenly cross the suspected skate
over their knee, give it an examining shake, and dart off again. One
and all are possessed with the spirit of motion. They cannot stand
still. Their skates are a part of them and every runner seems bewitched.
Holland is the place for skaters after all. Where else can nearly every
boy and girl perform feats on the ice that would attract a crowd if seen
on Central Park? Look at Ben! I did not see him before. He is really
astonishing the natives; no easy thing to do in the Netherlands. Save
your strength, Ben, you will need it soon. Now other boys are trying!
Ben is surpassed already. Such jumping, such poising, such spinning,
such india-rubber exploits generally! That boy with a red cap is the
lion now; his back is a watch-spring, his body is cork--no it is iron,
or it would snap at that! He is a bird, a top, a rabbit, a corkscrew, a
sprite, a flesh-ball all in an instant. When you think he's erect he is
down; and when you think he is down he is up. He drops his glove on the
ice and turns a somersault as he picks it up. Without stopping, he
snatches the cap from Jacob Poot's astonished head and claps it back
again "hind side before." Lookers-on hurrah and laugh. Foolish boy! It
is Arctic weather under your feet, but more than temperate overhead. Big
drops already are rolling down your forehead. Superb skater as you are,
you may lose the race.
A French traveler, standing with a note-book in his hand, sees our
English friend, Ben, buy a doughnut of the dwarf's brother, and eat it.
Thereupon he writes in his note-book, that the Dutch take enormous
mouthfuls, and universally are fond of potatoes boiled in molasses.
There are some familiar faces near the white columns. Lambert, Ludwig,
Peter and Carl are all there, cool and in good skating order. Hans is
not far off. Evidently he is going to join in the race, for his skates
are on--the very pair that he sold for seven guilders! He had soon
suspected that his fairy godmother was the mysterious "friend" who
bought them. This settled, he had boldly charged her with the deed, and
she knowing well that all her little savings had been spent in the
purchase, had not had the face to deny it. Through the fairy godmother,
too, he had been rendered amply able to buy them back again. Therefore
Hans is to be in the race. Carl is more indignant than ever about it,
but as three other peasant boys have entered, Hans is not alone.
Twenty boys and twenty girls. The latter by this time are standing in
front, braced for the start, for they are to have the first "run."
Hilda, Rychie and Katrinka are among them--two or three bend hastily to
give a last pull at their skate-straps. It is pretty to see them stamp,
to be sure that all is firm. Hilda is speaking pleasantly to a graceful
little creature in a red jacket and a new brown petticoat. Why, it is
Gretel! What a difference those pretty shoes make, and the skirt, and
the new cap. Annie Bouman is there too. Even Janzoon Kolp's sister has
been admitted--but Janzoon himself has been voted out by the directors,
because he killed the stork, and only last summer was caught in the act
of robbing a bird's nest, a legal offence in Holland.
This Janzoon Kolp, you see, was----There, I cannot tell the story just
now. The race is about to commence.
Twenty girls are formed in a line. The music has ceased.
A man, whom we shall call The Crier, stands between the columns and the
first judges' stand. He reads the rules in a loud voice:
"THE GIRLS AND BOYS ARE TO RACE IN TURN, UNTIL ONE GIRL AND ONE BOY HAS
BEATEN TWICE. THEY ARE TO START IN A LINE FROM THE UNITED COLUMNS--SKATE
TO THE FLAGSTAFF LINE, TURN, AND THEN COME BACK TO THE STARTING-POINT;
THUS MAKING A MILE AT EACH RUN."
A flag is waved from the judges' stand. Madame van Gleck rises in her
pavilion. She leans forward with a white handkerchief in her hand. When
she drops it, a bugler is to give the signal for them to start.
The handkerchief is fluttering to the ground. Hark!
They are off!
No. Back again. Their line was not true in passing the judges' stand.
The signal is repeated.
Off again. No mistake this time. Whew! how fast they go!
The multitude is quiet for an instant, absorbed in eager, breathless
watching.
Cheers spring up along the line of spectators. Huzza! five girls are
ahead. Who comes flying back from the boundary mark? We cannot tell.
Something red, that is all. There is a blue spot flitting near it, and a
dash of yellow nearer still. Spectators at this end of the line strain
their eyes and wish they had taken their post nearer the flagstaff.
The wave of cheers is coming back again. Now we can see! Katrinka is
ahead!
She passes the Van Holp pavilion. The next is Madame van Gleck's. That
leaning figure gazing from it is a magnet. Hilda shoots past Katrinka,
waving her hand to her mother as she passes. Two others are close now,
whizzing on like arrows. What is that flash of red and gray? Hurrah, it
is Gretel! She, too, weaves her hand, but toward no gay pavilion. The
crowd is cheering, but she hears only her father's voice, "Well done,
little Gretel!" Soon Katrinka, with a quick merry laugh, shoots past
Hilda. The girl in yellow is gaining now. She passes them all, all
except Gretel. The judges lean forward without seeming to lift their
eyes from their watches. Cheer after cheer fills the air; the very
columns seem rocking. Gretel has passed them. She has won.
"GRETEL BRINKER--ONE MILE!"--shouts the crier.
The judges nod. They write something upon a tablet which each holds in
his hand.
While the girls are resting--some crowding eagerly around our frightened
little Gretel, some standing aside in high disdain--the boys form in a
line.
Mynheer van Gleck drops the handkerchief this time. The buglers give a
vigorous blast!
The boys have started.
Half-way already! Did ever you see the like!
Three hundred legs flashing by in an instant. But there are only twenty
boys. No matter, there were hundreds of legs I am sure! Where are they
now? There is such a noise one gets bewildered. What are the people
laughing at? Oh, at that fat boy in the rear. See him go! See him! He'll
be down in an instant, no, he won't. I wonder if he knows he is all
alone; the other boys are nearly at the boundary line. Yes, he knows it.
He stops! He wipes his hot face. He takes off his cap and looks about
him. Better to give up with a good grace. He has made a hundred friends
by that hearty, astonished laugh. Good Jacob Poot!
The fine fellow is already among the spectators gazing as eagerly as the
rest.
A cloud of feathery ice flies from the heels of the skaters as they
"bring to" and turn at the flagstaffs.
Something black is coming now, one of the boys--it is all we know. He
has touched the _vox humana_ stop of the crowd; it fairly roars. Now
they come nearer--we can see the red cap. There's Ben--there's
Peter--there's Hans!
Hans is ahead! Young Madame van Gend almost crushes the flowers in her
hand; she had been quite sure that Peter would be first. Carl Schummel
is next, then Ben, and the youth with the red cap. The others are
pressing close. A tall figure darts from among them. He passes the red
cap, he passes Ben, then Carl. Now it is an even race between him and
Hans. Madame van Gend catches her breath.
It is Peter! He is ahead! Hans shoots past him. Hilda's eyes fill with
tears. Peter _must_ beat. Annie's eyes flash proudly. Gretel gazes with
clasped hands--four strokes more will take her brother to the columns.
He is there! Yes, but so was young Schummel just a second before. At the
last instant, Carl, gathering his powers, had whizzed between them and
passed the goal.
"CARL SCHUMMEL! ONE MILE!" shouts the crier.
Soon Madame van Gleck rises again. The falling handkerchief starts the
bugle; and the bugle, using its voice as a bowstring, shoots off twenty
girls like so many arrows.
It is a beautiful sight, but one has not long to look; before we can
fairly distinguish them they are far in the distance. This time they
are close upon one another; it is hard to say as they come speeding back
from the flagstaff which will reach the columns first. There are new
faces among the foremost--eager, glowing faces, unnoticed before.
Katrinka is there, and Hilda, but Gretel and Rychie are in the rear.
Gretel is wavering, but when Rychie passes her, she starts forward
afresh. Now they are nearly beside Katrinka. Hilda is still in advance;
she is almost "home." She has not faltered since that bugle note sent
her flying; like an arrow still she is speeding toward the goal. Cheer
after cheer rises in the air. Peter is silent but his eyes shine like
stars. "Huzza! Huzza!"
The crier's voice is heard again.
"HILDA VAN GLECK, ONE MILE!"
A loud murmur of approval runs through the crowd, catching the music in
its course, till all seems one sound, with a glad rhythmic throbbing in
its depths. When the flag waves all is still.
Once more the bugle blows a terrific blast. It sends off the boys like
chaff before the wind--dark chaff I admit, and in big pieces.
It is whisked around at the flagstaff, driven faster yet by the cheers
and shouts along the line. We begin to see what is coming. There are
three boys in advance this time, and all abreast. Hans, Peter and
Lambert. Carl soon breaks the ranks, rushing through with a whiff! Fly,
Hans, fly, Peter, don't let Carl beat again. Carl the bitter, Carl the
insolent. Van Mounen is flagging, but you are strong as ever. Hans and
Peter, Peter and Hans; which is foremost? We love them both. We scarcely
care which is the fleeter.
Hilda, Annie and Gretel seated upon the long crimson bench, can remain
quiet no longer. They spring to their feet--so different, and yet one in
eagerness. Hilda instantly reseats herself; none shall know how
interested she is, none shall know how anxious, how filled with one
hope. Shut your eyes then, Hilda--hide your face rippling with joy.
Peter has beaten.
"PETER VAN HOLP, ONE MILE!" calls the crier.
The same buzz of excitement as before, while the judges take notes, the
same throbbing of music through the din--but something is different. A
little crowd presses close about some object, near the column. Carl has
fallen. He is not hurt, though somewhat stunned. If he were less sullen
he would find more sympathy in these warm young hearts. As it is they
forget him as soon as he is fairly on his feet again.
The girls are to skate their third mile.
How resolute the little maidens look as they stand in a line! Some are
solemn with a sense of responsibility, some wear a smile half bashful,
half provoked, but one air of determination pervades them all.
This third mile may decide the race. Still if neither Gretel nor Hilda
win, there is yet a chance among the rest for the Silver Skates.
Each girl feels sure that this time she will accomplish the distance in
one-half the time. How they stamp to try their runners, how nervously
they examine each strap--how erect they stand at last, every eye upon
Madame van Gleck!
The bugle thrills through them again. With quivering eagerness they
spring forward, bending, but in perfect balance. Each flashing stroke
seems longer than the last.
Now they are skimming off in the distance.
Again the eager straining of eyes--again the shouts and cheering, again
the thrill of excitement as, after a few moments, four or five, in
advance of the rest, come speeding back, nearer, nearer to the white
columns.
Who is first? Not Rychie, Katrinka, Annie, nor Hilda, nor the girl in
yellow--but Gretel--Gretel, the fleetest sprite of a girl that ever
skated. She was but playing in the earlier race, _now_ she is in
earnest, or rather something within her has determined to win. That
lithe little form makes no effort; but it cannot stop--not until the
goal is passed!
In vain the crier lifts his voice--he cannot be heard. He has no news to
tell--it is already ringing through the crowd. _Gretel has won the
Silver Skates!_
Like a bird she has flown over the ice, like a bird she looks about her
in a timid, startled way. She longs to dart to the sheltered nook where
her father and mother stand. But Hans is beside her--the girls are
crowding round. Hilda's kind, joyous voice breathes in her ear. From
that hour, none will despise her. Goose-girl or not, Gretel stands
acknowledged Queen of the Skaters!
With natural pride Hans turns to see if Peter van Holp is witnessing his
sister's triumph. Peter is not looking toward them at all. He is
kneeling, bending his troubled face low, and working hastily at his
skate-strap. Hans is beside him at once.
"Are you in trouble, mynheer?"
"Ah, Hans! that you? Yes, my fun is over. I tried to tighten my
strap--to make a new hole--and this botheration of a knife has cut it
nearly in two."
"Mynheer," said Hans, at the same time pulling off a skate--"you must
use my strap!"