Boys and Girls

By the time the boys reached the village of Voorhout, which stands near the grand canal, about halfway between The Hague and Haarlem, they were forced to hold a council. The wind, though moderate at first, had grown stronger and stronger, until at last they could hardly skate against it. The weather-vanes throughout the country had evidently entered into a conspiracy.

“No use trying to face such a blow as this,” said Ludwig. “It cuts its way down a man’s throat like a knife.”

“Keep your mouth shut, then,” grunted the affable Carl, who was as strong-chested as a young ox. “I’m for keeping on.”

“In this case,” interposed Peter, “we must consult the weakest of the party rather than the strongest.”

The captain’s principle was all right, but its application was not flattering to Master Ludwig. Shrugging his shoulders, he retorted, “Who’s weak? Not I, for one, but the wind’s stronger than any of us. I hope you’ll condescend to admit that!”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Van Mounen, who could barely keep his feet. “So it is.”

Just then the weather-vanes telegraphed to each other by a peculiar twitch – and, in an instant, the gust came. It nearly threw the strong-chested Carl; it almost strangled Jacob and quite upset Ludwig.

“This settles the question,” shouted Peter. “Off with your skates! We’ll go into Voorhout.”

At Voorhout they found a little inn with a big yard. The yard was well-stocked, and better than all, was provided with a complete set of skittles, so our boys soon turned the detention into a frolic. The wind was troublesome even in that sheltered quarter, but they were on good standing ground and did not mind it.

First a hearty dinner – then the game. With pins as long as their arms and balls as big as their heads, plenty of strength left for rolling, and a clean sweep of sixty yards for the strokes – no wonder they were happy.

That night Captain Peter and his men slept soundly. No prowling robber came to disturb them, and, as they were distributed in separate rooms, they did not even have a bolster battle in the morning.

Such a breakfast as they ate! The landlord looked frightened. When he had asked them where they “belonged,” he made up his mind that the Broek people starved their children. It was a shame. “Such fine young gentlemen too!”

Fortunately the wind had tired itself out and fallen asleep in the great sea cradle beyond the dunes. There were signs of snow; otherwise the weather was fine.

It was mere child’s play for the well-rested boys to skate to Leyden. Here they halted awhile, for Peter had an errand at the Golden Eagle.

He left the city with a lightened heart; Dr. Boekman had been at the hotel, read the note containing Hans’s message, and departed for Broek.

“I cannot say that it was your letter sent him off so soon,” explained the landlord. “Some rich lady in Broek was taken bad very sudden, and he was sent for in haste.”

Peter turned pale.

“What was the name?” he asked.

“Indeed, it went in one ear and out of the other, for all I hindered it. Plague on people who can’t see a traveler in comfortable lodgings, but they must whisk him off before one can breathe.”

“A lady in Broek, did you say?”

“Yes.” Very grufly. “Any other business, young master?”

“No, mine host, except that I and my comrades here would like a bite of something and a drink of hot coffee.”

“Ah,” said the landlord sweetly, “a bite you shall have, and coffee, too, the finest in Leyden. Walk up to the stove, my masters – now I think again – that was a widow lady from Rotterdam, I think they said, visiting at one Van Stoepel’s if I mistake not.”

“Ah!” said Peter, greatly relieved. “They live in the white house by the Schlossen Mill. Now, mynheer, the coffee, please!”

What a goose I was, thought he, as the party left the Golden Eagle, to feel so sure that it was my mother. But she may be somebody’s mother, poor woman, for all that. Who can she be? I wonder.

There were not many upon the canal that day, between Leyden and Haarlem. However, as the boys neared Amsterdam, they found themselves once more in the midst of a moving throng. The big ysbreeker had been at work for the first time that season, but there was any amount of skating ground left yet.

“Three cheers for home!” cried Van Mounen as they came in sight of the great Western Dock (Westelijk Dok). “Hurrah! Hurrah!” shouted one and all. “Hurrah! Hurrah!”

This trick of cheering was an importation among our party. Lambert van Mounen had brought it from England. As they always gave it in English, it was considered quite an exploit and, when circumstances permitted, always enthusiastically performed, to the sore dismay of their quiet-loving countrymen.

Therefore, their arrival at Amsterdam created a great sensation, especially among the small boys on the wharf.

The Y was crossed. They were on the Broek canal.

Lambert’s home was reached first.

“Good-bye, boys!” he cried as he left them. “We’ve had the greatest frolic ever known in Holland.”

“So we have. Good-bye, Van Mounen!” answered the boys.

“Good-bye!”

Peter hailed him. “I say, Van Mounen, the classes begin tomorrow!”

“I know it. Our holiday is over. Good-bye, again.”

“Good-bye!”

Broek came in sight. Such meetings! Katrinka was upon the canal! Carl was delighted. Hilda was there! Peter felt rested in an instant. Rychie was there! Ludwig and Jacob nearly knocked each other over in their eagerness to shake hands with her.

Dutch girls are modest and generally quiet, but they have very glad eyes. For a few moments it was hard to decide whether Hilda, Rychie, or Katrinka felt the most happy.

Annie Bouman was also on the canal, looking even prettier than the other maidens in her graceful peasant’s costume. But she did not mingle with Rychie’s party; neither did she look unusually happy.

The one she liked most to see was not among the newcomers. Indeed, he was not upon the canal at all. She had not been near Broek before, since the Eve of Saint Nicholas, for she was staying with her sick grandmother in Amsterdam and had been granted a brief resting spell, as the grandmother called it, because she had been such a faithful little nurse night and day.

Annie had devoted her resting-spell to skating with all her might toward Broek and back again, in the hope of meeting her mother on the canal, or, it might be, Gretel Brinker. Not one of them had she seen, and she must hurry back without even catching a glimpse of her mother’s cottage, for the poor helpless grandmother, she knew, was by this time moaning for someone to turn her upon her cot.

Where can Gretel be? thought Annie as she flew over the ice; she can almost always steal a few moments from her work at this time of day. Poor Gretel! What a dreadful thing it must be to have a dull father! I should be woefully afraid of him, I know – so strong, and yet so strange!

Annie had not heard of his illness. Dame Brinker and her affairs received but little notice from the people of the place.

If Gretel had not been known as a goose girl, she might have had more friends among the peasantry of the neighborhood. As it was, Annie Bouman was the only one who did not feel ashamed to avow herself by word and deed the companion of Gretel and Hans.

When the neighbors’ children laughed at her for keeping such poor company, she would simply flush when Hans was ridiculed, or laugh in a careless, disdainful way, but to hear little Gretel abused always awakened her wrath.

“Goose girl, indeed!” she would say. “I can tell you that any of you are fitter for the work than she. My father often said last summer that it troubled him to see such a bright-eyed, patient little maiden tending geese. Humph! She would not harm them, as you would, Janzoon Kolp, and she would not tread upon them, as you might, Kate Wouters.”

This would be pretty sure to start a laugh at the clumsy, ill-natured Kate’s expense, and Annie would walk loftily away from the group of young gossips. Perhaps some memory of Gretel’s assailants crossed her mind as she skated rapidly toward Amsterdam, for her eyes sparkled ominously and she more than once gave her pretty head a defiant toss. When that mood passed, such a bright, rosy, affectionate look illuminated her face that more than one weary working man turned to gaze after her and to wish that he had a glad, contented lass like that for a daughter.

There were five joyous households in Broek that night.

The boys were back safe and sound, and they found all well at home. Even the sick lady at neighbor Van Stoepel’s was out of danger.

But the next morning! Ah, how stupidly school bells will ding-dong, ding-dong, when one is tired.

Ludwig was sure that he had never listened to anything so odious. Even Peter felt pathetic on the occasion. Carl said it was a shameful thing for a fellow to have to turn out when his bones were splitting. And Jacob soberly bade Ben “Goot-pye!” and walked off with his satchel as if it weighed a hundred pounds.

The Crisis

While the boys are nursing their fatigue, we will take a peep into the Brinker cottage.

Can it be that Gretel and her mother have not stirred since we saw them last? That the sick man upon the bed has not even turned over? It was four days ago, and there is the sad group just as it was before. No, not precisely the same, for Raff Brinker is paler; his fever is gone, though he knows nothing of what is passing. Then they were alone in the bare, clean room. Now there is another group in an opposite corner.

Dr. Boekman is there, talking in a low tone with a stout young man who listens intently. The stout young man is his student and assistant. Hans is there also. He stands near the window, respectfully waiting until he shall be accosted.

“You see, Vollenhoven,” said Dr. Boekman, “it is a clear case of – ” And here the doctor went off into a queer jumble of Latin and Dutch that I cannot conveniently translate.

After a while, as Vollenhoven looked at him rather blankly, the learned man condescended to speak to him in simpler phrase.

“It is probably like Rip Donderdunck’s case,” he exclaimed in a low, mumbling tone. “He fell from the top of Voppelploot’s windmill. After the accident the man was stupid and finally became idiotic. In time he lay helpless like yon fellow on the bed, moaned, too, like him, and kept constantly lifting his hand to his head. My learned friend Von Choppem performed an operation upon this Donderdunck and discovered under the skull a small dark sac, which pressed upon the brain. This had been the cause of the trouble. My friend Von Choppem removed it – a splendid operation! You see, according to Celsus – ” And here the doctor again went off into Latin.

“Did the man live?” asked the assistant respectfully.

Dr. Boekman scowled. “That is of no consequence. I believe he died, but why not fix your mind on the grand features of the case? Consider a moment how – ” And he plunged into Latin mysteries more deeply than ever.

“But mynheer,” gently persisted the student, who knew that the doctor would not rise to the surface for hours unless pulled at once from his favorite depths. “Mynheer, you have other engagements today, three legs in Amsterdam, you remember, and an eye in Broek, and that tumor up the canal.”

“The tumor can wait,” said the doctor reflectively. “That is another beautiful case – a beautiful case! The woman has not lifted her head from her shoulder for two months – magnificent tumor, sir!”

The doctor by this time was speaking aloud. He had quite forgotten where he was.

Vollenhoven made another attempt.

“This poor fellow on the bed, mynheer. Do you think you can save him?”

“Ah, indeed, certainly,” stammered the doctor, suddenly perceiving that he had been talking rather off the point. “Certainly, that is – I hope so.”

“If anyone in Holland can, mynheer,” murmured the assistant with honest bluntness, “it is yourself.”

The doctor looked displeased, growled out a tender request for the student to talk less, and beckoned Hans to draw near.

This strange man had a great horror of speaking to women, especially on surgical matters. “One can never tell,” he said, “what moment the creatures will scream or faint.” Therefore he explained Raff Brinker’s case to Hans and told him what he believed should be done to save the patient.

Hans listened attentively, growing red and pale by turns and throwing quick, anxious glances toward the bed.

“It may KILL the father – did you say, mynheer?” he exclaimed at last in a trembling whisper.

“It may, my boy. But I have a strong belief that it will cure and not kill. Ah! If boys were not such dunces, I could lay the whole matter before you, but it would be of no use.”

Hans looked blank at this compliment.

“It would be of no use,” repeated Dr. Boekman indignantly. “A great operation is proposed, but one might as well do it with a hatchet. The only question asked is, ‘Will it kill?’”

“The question is EVERYTHING to us, mynheer,” said Hans with tearful dignity.

Dr. Boekman looked at him in sudden dismay.

“Ah! Exactly so. You are right, boy, I am a fool. Good boy. One does not wish one’s father killed – of course I am a fool.”

“Will he die, mynheer, if this sickness goes on?”

“Humph! This is no new illness. The same thing growing worse ever instant – pressure on the brain – will take him off soon like THAT,” said the doctor, snapping his fingers.

“And the operation MAY save him,” pursued Hans. “How soon, mynheer, can we know?”

Dr. Boekman grew impatient.

“In a day, perhaps, an hour. Talk with your mother, boy, and let her decide. My time is short.”

Hans approached his mother; at first, when she looked up at him, he could not utter a syllable; then, turning his eyes away, he said in a firm voice, “I must speak with the mother alone.”

Quick little Gretel, who could not quite understand what was passing, threw rather an indignant look at Hans and walked away.

“Come back, Gretel, and sit down,” said Hans, sorrowfully.

She obeyed.

Dame Brinker and her boy stood by the window while the doctor and his assistant, bending over the bedside, conversed together in a low tone. There was no danger of disturbing the patient. He appeared like one blind and deaf. Only his faint, piteous moans showed him to be a living man. Hans was talking earnestly, and in a low voice, for he did not wish his sister to hear.

With dry, parted lips, Dame Brinker leaned toward him, searching his face, as if suspecting a meaning beyond his words. Once she gave a quick, frightened sob that made Gretel start, but, after that, she listened calmly.

When Hans ceased to speak, his mother turned, gave one long, agonized look at her husband, lying there so pale and unconscious, and threw herself on her knees beside the bed.

Poor little Gretel! What did all this mean? She looked with questioning eyes at Hans; he was standing, but his head was bent as if in prayer – at the doctor. He was gently feeling her father’s head and looked like one examining some curious stone – at the assistant. The man coughed and turned away – at her mother. Ah, little Gretel, that was the best you could do – to kneel beside her and twine your warm, young arms about her neck, to weep and implore God to listen.

When the mother arose, Dr. Boekman, with a show of trouble in his eyes, asked grufly, “Well, jufvrouw, shall it be done?”

“Will it pain him, mynheer?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“I cannot say. Probably not. Shall it be done?”

“It MAY cure him, you said, and – mynheer, did you tell my boy that – perhaps – perhaps…” She could not finish.

“Yes, jufvrouw, I said the patient might sink under the operation, but we hope it may prove otherwise.” He looked at his watch. The assistant moved impatiently toward the window. “Come, jufvrouw, time presses. Yes or no?”

Hans wound his arm about his mother. It was not his usual way. He even leaned his head against her shoulder.

“The meester awaits an answer,” he whispered.

Dame Brinker had long been head of her house in every sense. Many a time she had been very stern with Hans, ruling him with a strong hand and rejoicing in her motherly discipline. NOW she felt so weak, so helpless. It was something to feel that firm embrace. There was strength even in the touch of that yellow hair.

She turned to her boy imploringly.

“Oh, Hans! What shall I say?”

“Say what God tells thee, Mother,” answered Hans, bowing his head.

One quick, questioning prayer to Heaven rose from the mother’s heart.

The answer came.

She turned toward Dr. Boekman.

“It is right, mynheer. I consent.”

“Humph!” grunted the doctor, as if to say, “You’ve been long enough about it.” Then he conferred a moment with his assistant, who listened with great outward deference but was inwardly rejoicing at the grand joke he would have to tell his fellow students. He had actually seen a tear in “old Boekman’s” eye.

Meanwhile Gretel looked on in trembling silence, but when she saw the doctor open a leather case and take out one sharp, gleaming instrument after another, she sprang forward.

“Oh, Mother! The poor father meant no wrong. Are they going to MURDER him?”

“I do not know, child,” screamed Dame Brinker, looking fiercely at Gretel. “I do not know.”

“This will not do, jufvrouw,” said Dr. Boekman sternly, and at the same time he cast a quick, penetrating look at Hans. “You and the girl must leave the room. The boy may stay.”

Dame Brinker drew herself up in an instant. Her eyes flashed. Her whole countenance was changed. She looked like one who had never wept, never felt a moment’s weakness. Her voice was low but decided. “I stay with my husband, mynheer.”

Dr. Boekman looked astonished. His orders were seldom disregarded in this style. For an instant his eye met hers.

“You may remain, jufvrouw,” he said in an altered voice.

Gretel had already disappeared.

In one corner of the cottage was a small closet where her rough, boxlike bed was fastened against the wall. None would think of the trembling little creature crouching there in the dark.

Dr. Boekman took off his heavy coat, filled an earthen basin with water, and placed it near the bed. Then turning to Hans he asked, “Can I depend upon you, boy?”

“You can, mynheer.”

“I believe you. Stand at the head, here – your mother may sit at your right – so.” And he placed a chair near the cot.

“Remember, jufvrouw, there must be no cries, no fainting.”

Dame Brinker answered him with a look.

He was satisfied.

“Now, Vollenhoven.”

Oh, that case with the terrible instruments! The assistant lifted them. Gretel, who had been peering with brimming eyes through the crack of the closet door, could remain silent no longer.

She rushed frantically across the apartment, seized her hood, and ran from the cottage.