XLIII
A DISCOVERY
The next sun brought a busy day to the Brinkers.
In the first place the news of the thousand guilders had of course to be told to the father. Such tidings as that surely could not harm him. Then while Gretel was diligently obeying her mother's injunction to "clean the place fresh as a new brewing," Hans and the dame sallied forth to revel in the purchasing of peat and provisions.
Hans was careless and contented; the dame was filled with delightful anxieties caused by the unreasonable demands of ten thousand guilders' worth of new wants that had sprung up like mushrooms in a single night. The happy woman talked so largely to Hans on their way to Amsterdam, and brought back such little bundles after all, that he scratched his bewildered head as he leaned against the chimneypiece, wondering whether, "bigger the pouch, tighter the string" was in Jacob Cats, and therefore true, or whether he had dreamed it when he lay in a fever.
"What thinking on, Big-eyes?" chirruped his mother, half reading his thoughts as she bustled about, preparing the dinner. "What thinking on? Why, Raff, would ye believe it, the child thought to carry half Amsterdam back on his head. Bless us! he would have bought as much coffee as would have filled this fire-pot; 'no – no – my lad,' says I, 'no time for leaks when the ship is rich laden' – and then how he stared – aye – just as he stares this minute. Hoot lad! fly around a mite. Ye'll grow to the chimney-place with your staring and wondering. Now, Raff, here's your chair at the head of the table, where it should be, for there's a man to the house now – I'd say it to the king's face. Aye, that's the way – lean on Hans; there's a strong staff for you! growing like a weed too, and it seems only yesterday since he was toddling. Sit by, my man, sit by."
"Can you call to mind, vrouw," said Raff, settling himself cautiously in the big chair, "the wonderful music-box that cheered your working in the big house at Heidelberg?"
"Aye, that I can," answered the dame, "three turns of a brass key, and the witchy thing would send the music fairly running up and down one's back – I remember it well – but, Raff," (growing solemn in an instant) "you would never throw our guilders away for a thing like that?"
"No, no, not I, vrouw – for the good Lord has already given me a music-box without pay."
All three cast quick, frightened glances at one another and at Raff – were his wits on the wing again?
"Aye, and a music-box that fifty pouch-full would not buy from me," insisted Raff; "and it's set going by the turn of a mop handle, and it slips and glides around the room, everywhere in a flash, carrying the music about till you'd swear the birds were back again."
"Holy St. Bavon!" screeched the dame, "what's in the man?"
"Comfort and joy, vrouw, that's what's in him! Ask Gretel, ask my little music-box Gretel, if your man has lacked comfort and joy this day."
"Not he, mother," laughed Gretel. "He's been my music-box, too. We sang together half the time you were gone."
"Aye, so," said the dame, greatly relieved. "Now, Hans, you'll never get through with a piece like that; but never mind, chick, thou'st had a long fasting; here, Gretel, take another slice of the sausage; it'll put blood in your cheeks."
"Oh! Oh! mother," laughed Gretel, eagerly holding forth her platter, "blood don't grow in girls' cheeks – you mean roses – isn't it roses, Hans?"
While Hans was hastily swallowing a mammoth mouthful in order to give a suitable reply to this poetic appeal, Dame Brinker settled the matter with a quick:
"Well, roses or blood it's all one to me, so the red finds its way on your sunny face. It's enough for mother to get pale and weary-looking, without – "
"Hoot, vrouw," spoke up Raff hastily, "thou'rt fresher and rosier this minute than both our chicks put together."
This remark though not bearing very strong testimony to the clearness of Raff's newly awakened intellect, nevertheless afforded the dame intense satisfaction; the meal accordingly passed off in the most delightful manner.
After dinner, the affair of the watch was talked over and the mysterious initials duly discussed.
Hans had just pushed back his stool, intending to start at once for Mynheer van Holp's, and his mother had risen to put the watch away in its old hiding place, when they heard the sound of wheels upon the frozen ground.
Some one knocked at the door, opening it at the same time.
"Come in," stammered Dame Brinker hastily trying to hide the watch in her bosom. "Oh! is it you, mynheer! Good day; the father is nearly well, as you see. It's a poor place to greet you in, mynheer, and the dinner not cleared away."
Dr. Boekman scarcely noticed the dame's apology. He was evidently in haste.
"Ahem!" he exclaimed, "not needed here, I perceive. The patient is mending fast."
"Well he may, mynheer," cried the dame, "for only last night we found a thousand guilders that's been lost to us these ten years."
Dr. Boekman opened his eyes.
"Yes, mynheer," said Raff. "I bid the vrouw tell you, though it's to be held a secret among us, for I see you can keep your lips closed as well as any man."
The doctor scowled. He never liked personal remarks.
"Now, mynheer," continued Raff, "you can take your rightful pay. God knows you have earned it, if bringing such a poor tool back to the world, and his family, can be called a service. Tell the vrouw what's to pay, mynheer; she will hand out the sum right willingly."
"Tut! tut!" said the doctor kindly, "say nothing about money. I can find plenty of such pay any time, but gratitude comes seldom. That boy's 'thank you,'" he added, nodding sidewise toward Hans, "was pay enough for me."
"Like enough ye have a boy of your own," said Dame Brinker, quite delighted to see the great man becoming so sociable.
Dr. Boekman's good-nature vanished at once. He gave a growl (at least, it seemed so to Gretel) but made no actual reply.
"Do not think the vrouw meddlesome, mynheer," said Raff; "she has been sore touched of late about a lad whose folks have gone away, none know where; and I had a message for them from the young gentleman."
"The name was Boomphoffen," said the dame eagerly. "Do you know aught of the family, mynheer?"
The doctor's reply was brief and gruff.
"Yes. A troublesome set. They went long since to America."
"It might be, Raff," persisted Dame Brinker, timidly, "that the meester knows somebody in that country, though I'm told they are mostly savages over there. If he could get the watch to the Boomphoffens with the poor lad's message, it would be a most blessed thing."
"Tut! vrouw, why pester the good meester and dying men and women wanting him everywhere. How do ye know ye have the true name?"
"I'm sure of it," she replied. "They had a son Lambert, and there's an L for Lambert and a B for Boomphoffen, on the back; though to be sure there's an odd J too, but the meester can look for himself."
So saying, she drew forth the watch.
"L. J. B.!" cried Dr. Boekman springing toward her.
Why attempt to describe the scene that followed! I need only say that the lad's message was delivered to his father at last – delivered while the great surgeon was sobbing like a little child.
"Laurens! my Laurens?" he cried, gazing with yearning eyes at the watch as he held it tenderly in his palm. "Ah, if I had but known sooner! Laurens a homeless wanderer – Great Heaven! he may be suffering, dying at this moment! Think, man, where is he? Where did my boy say the letter must be sent?"
Raff shook his head sadly.
"Think!" implored the doctor. Surely the memory so lately awakened through his aid could not refuse to serve him in a moment like this.
"It is all gone, mynheer," sighed Raff.
Hans, forgetting distinctions of rank and station, forgetting everything but that his good friend was in trouble, threw his arms round the doctor's neck.
"I can find your son, mynheer. If alive, he is somewhere. The earth is not so very large. I will devote every day of my life to the search. Mother can spare me, now. You are rich, mynheer; send me where you will."
Gretel began to cry. It was right for Hans to go but how could they ever live without him?
Dr. Boekman made no reply, neither did he push Hans away. His eyes were fixed anxiously upon Raff Brinker. Suddenly he lifted the watch, and with trembling eagerness attempted to open it. Its stiffened spring yielded at last; the case flew open, disclosing a watch-paper in the back bearing a group of blue forget-me-nots. Raff, seeing a shade of intense disappointment pass over the doctor's face, hastened to say:
"There was something else in it, mynheer, but the young gentleman tore it out before he handed it to me. I saw him kiss it as he put it away."
"It was his mother's picture," moaned the doctor; "she died when he was ten years old. Thank God! the boy had not forgotten. Both dead? It is impossible!" he cried, starting up. "My boy is alive. You shall hear his story. Laurens acted as my assistant. By mistake he portioned out the wrong medicine for one of my patients – a deadly poison – but it was never administered, for I discovered the error in time. The man died that day. I was detained with other bad cases until the next evening. When I reached home, my boy was gone. Poor Laurens!" sobbed the doctor, breaking down completely, "never to hear from me through all these years. His message disregarded. Oh, what must he have suffered!"
Dame Brinker ventured to speak. Anything was better than to see the meester cry.
"It is a mercy to know the young gentleman was innocent. Ah! how he fretted! Telling you, Raff, that his crime was like unto murder. It was sending the wrong physic he meant. Crime indeed! why our own Gretel might have done that! Like enough the poor young gentleman heard that the man was dead – that's why he ran, mynheer. He said, you know, Raff, that he never could come back to Holland again, unless" – she hesitated – "ah, your honor, ten years is a dreary time to be waiting to hear from – "
"Hist, vrouw!" said Raff sharply.
"Waiting to hear," groaned the doctor, "and I, like a fool, sitting stubbornly at home, thinking he had abandoned me. I never dreamed, Brinker, that the boy had discovered the mistake. I believed it was youthful folly – ingratitude – love of adventure, that sent him away. My poor, poor Laurens!"
"But you know all, now, mynheer," whispered Hans. "You know he was innocent of wrong, that he loved you and his dead mother. We will find him. You shall see him again, dear meester."
"God bless you!" said Dr. Boekman, seizing the boy's hand, "it may be as you say. I shall try – I shall try – and, Brinker, if ever the faintest gleam of recollection concerning him should come to you, you will send me word at once?"
"Indeed we will!" cried all but Hans, whose silent promise would have satisfied the doctor even had the others not spoken.
"Your boy's eyes," he said, turning to Dame Brinker, "are strangely like my son's. The first time I met him it seemed that Laurens himself was looking at me."
"Aye, mynheer," replied the mother proudly. "I have marked that you were much drawn to the child."
For a few moments the meester seemed lost in thought; then, arousing 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.
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 fête. 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.