"Hello."
The man was tall and supple, with a frank, open face and intelligent,
blue eyes. He was perhaps six years older than Ramsay and he spoke with
a Dutch accent. Ramsay said, "I was sailing up to Three Points on the
_Holter_. Now she's wrecked and I must walk...."
"The _Holter's_ wrecked?" the other broke in.
"Yes."
"Any drowned people on the beach?"
"Two, but a man on a black-and-white horse took them away from me at
pistol point." Ramsay knew a rising impatience. "Why the dickens should
he do that?"
The other grinned faintly. "You get money for watching 'em until they
can be brought in and buried proper, and money is not easy to come by.
If there's a man already watching these, that would be Joe Mannis. He
combs the beach night and day after storms, and he's got as much money
as most people. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like something to eat before I go on to Three Points."
"That we can give you," the farmer said. "Come."
When the horse would have followed them to the house, the Dutch farmer
looked quizzically at Ramsay. The boy grinned.
"He's not mine. He was on the _Holter_ and we swam ashore together.
Without him I might not have made it."
"Then he is yours," the farmer said. "By right of salvage he is yours.
But Marta, she wouldn't like a horse in the house."
"It's hardly the place for a horse," Ramsay agreed. "Can we leave him
here?"
"Yaah."
The farmer opened the barnyard gate and Ramsay walked in. The horse
followed willingly. Ramsay stepped out and shut the gate. He saw the
little horse, its head over the bars, watching him as he walked toward
the house.
It was a clean house, and a scrubbed and shiny one. Even the big flat
stone that served as a back doorstep had almost an antiseptic
cleanliness. The house was filled with the odors of freshly baked bread
and spice and canned jam and curing hams. Ramsay smiled at the slim,
pleasant girl who met them at the door.
"Marta," the farmer said, "this man was ship-wrecked and is to be our
guest for as long as he wants to stay. He is...?"
"Ramsay Cartou," Ramsay supplied.
"Yaah! Ramsay Cartou. I am Pieter Van Hooven and this is my wife,
Marta."
Ramsay made himself comfortable in the neat kitchen while Marta Van
Hooven hurried efficiently about, preparing a meal. There was baked
whitefish, venison, roasted goose, fluffy mashed potatoes, crisp salad,
billowy fresh rolls, delicious cheese and milk.
Ramsay ate until he could eat no more, then pushed himself away from the
table and smiled graciously at Marta Van Hooven. "That was good!" he
said feelingly.
"You ate so little."
Ramsay grinned, "Not more than enough to feed three good-sized horses.
You can really cook."
Pieter Van Hooven glowed at this compliment extended to his wife. He
filled and lighted a clay pipe, and puffed contentedly. "What are you
going to do now?" he asked Ramsay.
"I," Ramsay hesitated, "I'd like to pay for the meal."