It seemed to Polly as if she had only breathed twice, and had not
turned over once, when there was Mamsie's voice calling her, and there
was Mamsie's face looking into hers over the edge of the berth. "Wake
up, Polly, child, you have only about ten minutes to dress in."
"O dear me! what--where?" exclaimed Polly, springing to a sitting
position, thereby giving her brown head a smart thump on the ceiling of
the berth, "where are we, Mamsie? why, it is the middle of the night,
isn't it?" she cried, not stopping to pity her poor head.
"We are almost at the Hook of Holland," said Mrs. Fisher, busily
buttoning Phronsie's shoes. Phronsie sat on the lower berth, her sleepy
little legs dangling over the edge, and her sleepy little head going
nid-nodding, despite all her efforts to keep herself awake.
"O dear me!" cried Polly, remorsefully, when she saw that. "I ought to
have dressed Phronsie. Why didn't you wake me up earlier, Mamsie?"
"Because I wanted you to sleep all you could," said Mrs. Fisher, "and
now if you'll only dress Polly Pepper as quickly as possible, that's
all I ask."
"I will dress Polly Pepper in a twinkling, Mamsie," declared Polly,
laughing merrily; "O dear me, where _is_ my other stocking?" She stuck
out one black foot ready for its boot. "Is it down there, Mamsie?" All
the while she was shaking the bedclothes violently for any chance
glimpse of it in the berth.
"Where did you put it last night when you took it off, Polly?" asked
Mrs. Fisher, buttoning away for dear life on Phronsie's shoes. "There
now, Pet, those are done; hop out now, and fly into your clothes."
"I thought I put 'em both in the corner here," cried poor Polly,
twitching everything loose. Thereupon her big hat, hung carefully upon
a high hook, slipped off and fell to the floor.
"Take care, Polly," warned her mother, "haste only makes matters worse."
"But I can't go with only one stocking on," said Polly, quite gone in
despair now. "Oh, dear Mrs. Henderson, don't you see it on the floor?"
For that good woman had dropped to her knees, and was busily prowling
around among the accumulation of bags and clothing.
"That's what I'm hoping to do," she answered, "but I don't see it as
yet, Polly."
"I'll help Polly to find it," cried Phronsie, now thoroughly awake and
dropping her small skirts to get down on the floor by Mrs. Henderson's
side. "Don't feel badly, Polly; I'll find your stocking for you."
"No, Phronsie," said her mother, "you must get into your own clothes.
And then Mrs. Henderson is nearly all ready, and you can go out with
her, and that will leave more room, so that Polly and I can search more
carefully. And the stocking has got to come, for it couldn't walk off
of itself," she added cheerily as she saw Polly's face. "Why--what?" as
she happened to look upward. And then Polly looked, too, and there was
her stocking dangling from the very high hook where the big hat had
been.
"You tossed it up there, I suppose, when you shook up the bedclothes so
quickly," said Mrs. Fisher. "Well, now," as Polly pounced on the
stocking, "see how fast you can hop into your clothes, daughter." Then
she began to put the things for the bags into their places, and
Matilda, coming in, finished the work; and Polly flew around, buttoning
and tying and patting herself into shape, and by the time that little
Dr. Fisher's voice called at the door, "Well, wife, are you ready?"
there they all were, trim and tidy as ever for a start.
"Where is it, Grandpapa?" asked Phronsie, peering around on either
side,--Dr. Fisher and Jasper had gone off to attend to the examination
of the luggage by the customs inspectors,--and then coming up gently to
pull his arm. "I don't see it anywhere."
"What, child?" answered Grandpapa, looking down at her. "See here, wait
a minute," to the others who were ahead, "Phronsie has lost something."
"Oh, no, Grandpapa, I haven't," began Phronsie, in gentle protestation,
"all my things are in here." She patted her little bag that hung on her
arm, a gift of old Mr. King's for her to carry her very own things in,
that yielded her immense satisfaction every time she looked at it,
which was very often.
"Didn't you say you wanted to find something, dear?" he asked, quite
puzzled, while the others surrounded them wonderingly.
"No," said Phronsie, "only where is the hook, Grandpapa? I don't see
it." She lifted her little face and gazed up at him confident that he
knew everything.
"She has lost her button-hook!" exclaimed Polly, "the cunning little
silver one Auntie Whitney gave her Christmas. I'll run back and get it;
it must be in the state-room."
"Stay, Polly," commanded Mr. King. And, "Oh, no, I haven't," piped
Phronsie, as Polly was flying off. "It's here in my bag," patting
Grandpapa's gift hanging on her arm. "I couldn't lose that, Polly," she
cried in horror at the thought, as Polly hurried back.
"Well, what is it, then, you've lost?" demanded Polly, breathlessly.
"I haven't lost anything," reiterated Phronsie, pushing back the yellow
hair from her face. "Grandpapa, tell them, please, I haven't lost
anything," she kept repeating, appealing to him.
"She says she hasn't lost anything, so we won't say that again," echoed
old Mr. King. "Now, Phronsie, child, tell me what it is you mean; what
hook you want."
"The hook," said Phronsie; "here, Grandpapa," and she looked all around
in a troubled way, "they said it was here; I don't see it, Grandpapa."
"She means the Hook of Holland," burst out Polly, "don't you, Phronsie
pet?" And she threw her arms around her while Mr. Henderson exclaimed,
"Of course, why didn't we think of it, to be sure?"
"Yes, Polly." Phronsie gave a glad little cry, and wriggled in great
satisfaction in her arms. "Grandpapa, where is it,--the Hook of
Holland?"
"Oh, bless me, child!" exclaimed Mr. King, "that is the name of the
place; at least, to be accurate, it is Hoek van Holland. Now, just as
soon as we get fairly started on our way to Rotterdam, I'll tell you
all about it, or Polly shall, since she was clever enough to find out
what you meant."
"Oh, no, Grandpapa," cried Polly, "I'd so much rather you told
her--please do, dear Grandfather?"
"And so I will," he promised, very much pleased, for Mr. King dearly
loved to be the one to relate the history and anecdotes about the
places along which they travelled. And so, when they were steaming off
toward Rotterdam, as he sat in the centre of the compartment he had
reserved for their use, Phronsie next to him, and Polly and Jasper
opposite, he told the whole story. The others tucked themselves in the
remaining four seats, and did not lose a word. Matilda and Mr. King's
valet, in a second-class compartment, took charge of the luggage.
"I like it very much," declared Phronsie, when the story was all
finished, and smoothing down her little brown gown in satisfaction.
"I like it very much, Grandpapa's telling it," said Polly, "but the
Hook of Holland isn't anything to what we shall see at Rotterdam,
while, as for The Hague and Amsterdam--oh, Grandpapa!"
That "oh, Grandpapa" just won his heart, and Mr. King beamed at her as
her glowing face was turned first to one window and then to the other,
that she might not lose anything as the train rumbled on.
"Just wait till we get to Marken," broke in Jasper, gaily, "then if you
want to see the Dutch beat the Dutch--well, you may!" he ended with a
laugh.
"Oh, Jasper, do they really beat each other?" cried Phronsie, quite
horrified, and slipping away from Grandpapa to regard him closely.
"Oh, no! I mean--they go ahead of everything that is most Dutch,"
Jasper hastened to say; "I haven't explained it very well."
"No, I should think not," laughed his father, in high good humour.
"Well, Phronsie, I think you will like the folks on the Island of
Marken, for they dress in funny quaint costumes, just as their
ancestors did, years upon years ago."
"Are there any little children there?" asked Phronsie, slipping back
into her place again, and nestling close to his side.
"Hundreds of them, I suppose," replied Mr. King, with his arm around
her and drawing her up to him, "and they wear wooden shoes or sabots,
or klompen as they call them, and--"
"Wooden shoes!" cried Phronsie; "oh, Grandpapa," clasping her hands,
"how do they stay on?"
"Well, that's what I've always wondered myself when I've been in
Holland. A good many have left off the sabots, I believe, and wear
leather shoes made just like other people's."
"Oh, Grandpapa," cried Phronsie, leaning forward to peer into his face,
"don't let them leave off the wooden shoes, please."
"I can't make them wear anything but what they want to," said old Mr.
King, with a laugh; "but don't be troubled, child, you'll see all the
wooden shoes you desire, in Rotterdam, and The Hague, too, for that
matter."
"Shall I?" cried Phronsie, nestling back again quite pleased.
"Grandpapa, I wish I could wear wooden shoes," she whispered presently
in a burst of confidence, sticking out her toes to look at them.
"Bless me! you couldn't keep them on," said Mr. King.
"Don't the little Dutch children keep them on?" asked Phronsie. "Oh,
Grandpapa, I think I could; I really think I could," she added
earnestly.
"Yes, they do, because they are born and brought up to it, although,
for the life of me, I don't see how they do it; but you couldn't,
child, you'd fall the first minute and break your nose, most likely."