الفصل الفصل 7 · Hans Has His Way

. Hans Has His Way

Broek, with its quiet, spotless streets, its frozen rivulets, its yellow

brick pavements and bright wooden houses, was nearby. It was a village

where neatness and show were in full blossom, but the inhabitants seemed

to be either asleep or dead.

Not a footprint marred the sanded paths where pebbles and seashells lay

in fanciful designs. Every window shutter was tightly closed as though

air and sunshine were poison, and the massive front doors were never

opened except on the occasion of a wedding, a christening, or a funeral.

Serene clouds of tobacco smoke were floating through hidden corners, and

children, who otherwise might have awakened the place, were studying

in out-of-the-way corners or skating upon the neighboring canal. A few

peacocks and wolves stood in the gardens, but they had never enjoyed

the luxury of flesh and blood. They were made out of boxwood hedges and

seemed to be guarding the grounds with a sort of green ferocity. Certain

lively automata, ducks, women, and sportsmen, were stowed away in summer

houses, waiting for the spring-time when they could be wound up and

rival their owners in animation; and the shining tiled roofs, mosaic

courtyards, and polished house trimmings flashed up a silent homage to

the sky, where never a speck of dust could dwell.

Hans glanced toward the village, as he shook his silver kwartjes and

wondered whether it were really true, as he had often heard, that some

of the people of Broek were so rich that they used kitchen utensils of

solid gold.

He had seen Mevrouw van Stoop’s sweet cheeses in market, and he knew

that the lofty dame earned many a bright silver guilder in selling them.

But did she set the cream to rise in golden pans? Did she use a golden

skimmer? When her cows were in winter quarters, were their tails really

tied up with ribbons?

These thoughts ran through his mind as he turned his face toward

Amsterdam, not five miles away, on the other side of the frozen Y.

*{Pronounced eye, an arm of the Zuider Zee.} The ice upon the canal was

perfect, but his wooden runners, so soon to be cast aside, squeaked a

dismal farewell as he scraped and skimmed along.

When crossing the Y, whom should he see skating toward him but the great

Dr. Boekman, the most famous physician and surgeon in Holland. Hans had

never met him before, but he had seen his engraved likeness in many

of the shop windows in Amsterdam. It was a face that one could never

forget. Thin and lank, though a born Dutchman, with stern blue eyes,

and queer compressed lips that seemed to say “No smiling permitted,” he

certainly was not a very jolly or sociable-looking personage, nor one

that a well-trained boy would care to accost unbidden.

But Hans WAS bidden, and that, too, by a voice he seldom

disregarded--his own conscience.

“Here comes the greatest doctor in the world,” whispered the voice. “God

has sent him. You have no right to buy skates when you might, with the

same money, purchase such aid for your father!”

The wooden runners gave an exultant squeak. Hundreds of beautiful skates

were gleaming and vanishing in the air above him. He felt the money

tingle in his fingers. The old doctor looked fearfully grim and

forbidding. Hans’s heart was in his throat, but he found voice enough to

cry out, just as he was passing, “Mynheer Boekman!”

The great man halted and, sticking out his thin underlip, looked

scowling about him.

Hans was in for it now.

“Mynheer,” he panted, drawing close to the fierce-looking doctor, “I

knew you could be none other than the famous Boekman. I have to ask a

great favor--”

“Hump!” muttered the doctor, preparing to skate past the intruder. “Get

out of the way. I’ve no money--never give to beggars.”

“I am no beggar, mynheer,” retorted Hans proudly, at the same time

producing his mite of silver with a grand air. “I wish to consult you

about my father. He is a living man but sits like one dead. He cannot

think. His words mean nothing, but he is not sick. He fell on the

dikes.”

“Hey? What?” cried the doctor, beginning to listen.

Hans told the whole story in an incoherent way, dashing off a tear once

or twice as he talked, and finally ending with an earnest “Oh, do see

him, mynheer. His body is well--it is only his mind. I know that this

money is not enough, but take it, mynheer. I will earn more, I know

I will. Oh! I will toil for you all my life, if you will but cure my

father!”

What was the matter with the old doctor? A brightness like sunlight

beamed from his face. His eyes were kind and moist; the hand that had

lately clutched his cane, as if preparing to strike, was laid gently

upon Hans’s shoulder.

“Put up your money, boy, I do not want it. We will see your father. It’s

hopeless, I fear. How long did you say?”

“Ten years, mynheer,” sobbed Hans, radiant with sudden hope.

“Ah! a bad case, but I shall see him. Let me think. Today I start for

Leyden, to return in a week, then you may expect me. Where is it?”

“A mile south of Broek, mynheer, near the canal. It is only a poor,

broken-down hut. Any of the children thereabout can point it out to your

honor,” added Hans with a heavy sigh. “They are all half afraid of the

place; they call it the idiot’s cottage.”

“That will do,” said the doctor, hurrying on with a bright backward nod

at Hans. “I shall be there. A hopeless case,” he muttered to himself,

“but the boy pleases me. His eye is like my poor Laurens’s. Confound it,

shall I never forget that young scoundrel!” And, scowling more darkly

than ever, the doctor pursued his silent way.

Again Hans was skating toward Amsterdam on the squeaking wooden runners;

again his fingers tingled against the money in his pocket; again the

boyish whistle rose unconsciously to his lips.

Shall I hurry home, he was thinking, to tell the good news, or shall I

get the waffles and the new skates first? Whew! I think I’ll go on!

And so Hans bought the skates.