Bab Bab 21 · The Red Lion Becomes Dangerous

. The Red Lion Becomes Dangerous

The boys were glad to find a blazing fire awaiting them upon their

return to the Red Lion. Carl and his party were there first. Soon

afterward Peter and Jacob came in. They had inquired in vain concerning

Dr. Boekman. All they could ascertain was that he had been seen in

Haarlem that morning.

“As for his being in Leyden,” the landlord of the Golden Eagle had said

to Peter, “the thing is impossible. He always lodges here when in town.

By this time there would be a crowd at my door waiting to consult him.

Bah! People make such fools of themselves!”

“He is called a great surgeon,” said Peter.

“Yes, the greatest in Holland. But what of that? What of being the

greatest pill choker and knife slasher in the world? The man is a bear.

Only last month on this very spot, he called me a PIG, before three

customers!”

“No!” exclaimed Peter, trying to look surprised and indignant.

“Yes, master--A PIG,” repeated the landlord, puffing at his pipe with an

injured air. “Bah! If he did not pay fine prices and bring customers

to my house, I would sooner see him in the Vleit Canal than give him

lodging.”

Perhaps mine host felt that he was speaking too openly to a stranger, or

it may be he saw a smile lurking in Peter’s face, for he added sharply,

“Come, now, what more do you wish? Supper? Beds?”

“No, mynheer, I am but searching for Dr. Boekman.”

“Go find him. He is not in Leyden.”

Peter was not to be put off so easily. He succeeded in obtaining

permission to leave a note for the famous surgeon, or rather, he BOUGHT

from his amiable landlord the privilege of writing it there, and a

promise that it should be promptly delivered when Dr. Boekman arrived.

This accomplished, Peter and Jacob returned to the Red Lion.

This inn had once been a fine house, the home of a rich burgher, but

having grown old and shabby, it had passed through many hands, until

finally it had fallen into the possession of Mynheer Kleef. He was fond

of saying as he looked up at its dingy, broken walls, “Mend it and paint

it, and there’s not a prettier house in Leyden.” It stood six stories

high from the street. The first three were of equal breadth but of

various heights, the last three were in the great, high roof, and grew

smaller and smaller like a set of double steps until the top one was

lost in a point. The roof was built of short, shining tiles, and the

windows, with their little panes, seemed to be scattered irregularly

over the face of the building, without the slightest attention to

outward effect. But the public room on the ground floor was the

landlord’s joy and pride. He never said, “Mend it and paint it,” there,

for everything was in the highest condition of Dutch neatness and order.

If you will but open your mind’s eye, you may look into the apartment.

Imagine a large, bare room, with a floor that seemed to be made of

squares cut out of glazed earthen pie-dishes, first a yellow piece, then

a red, until the whole looked like a vast checkerboard. Fancy a dozen

high-backed wooden chairs standing around; then a great hollow chimney

place all aglow with its blazing fire, reflected a hundred times in the

polished steel firedogs; a tiled hearth, tiled sides, tiled top, with

a Dutch sentence upon it; and over all, high above one’s head, a narrow

mantleshelf, filled with shining brass candlesticks, pipe lighters, and

tinderboxes. Then see, in one end of the room, three pine tables; in

the other, a closet and a deal dresser. The latter is filled with mugs,

dishes, pipes, tankards, earthen and glass bottles, and is guarded at

one end by a brass-hooped keg standing upon long legs. Everything is dim

with tobacco smoke, but otherwise as clean as soap and sand can make it.

Next, picture two sleepy, shabby-looking men, in wooden shoes, seated

near the glowing fireplace, hugging their knees and smoking short,

stumpy pipes; Mynheer Kleef walking softly and heavily about, clad in

leather knee breeches, felt shoes, and a green jacket wider than it

is long; then throw a heap of skates in the corner and put six tired

well-dressed boys, in various attitudes, upon the wooden chairs, and

you will see the coffee room of the Red Lion just as it appeared at nine

o’clock upon the evening of December 6, 184--. For supper, gingerbread

again, slices of Dutch sausage, rye bread sprinkled with anise seed,

pickles, a bottle of Utrecht water, and a pot of very mysterious coffee.

The boys were ravenous enough to take all they could get and pronounce

it excellent. Ben made wry faces, but Jacob declared he had never eaten

a better meal. After they had laughed and talked awhile, and counted

their money by way of settling a discussion that arose concerning their

expenses, the captain marched his company off to bed, led on by a greasy

pioneer boy who carried skates and a candlestick instead of an ax.

One of the ill-favored men by the fire had shuffled toward the dresser

and was ordering a mug of beer, just as Ludwig, who brought up the rear,

was stepping from the apartment. “I don’t like that fellow’s eye,” he

whispered to Carl. “He looks like a pirate or something of that kind.”

“Looks like a granny!” answered Carl in sleepy disdain.

Ludwig laughed uneasily.

“Granny or no granny,” he whispered, “I tell you he looks just like one

of those men in the voetspoelen.”

“Pooh!” sneered Carl, “I knew it. That picture was too much for you.

Look sharp now, and see if yon fellow with the candle doesn’t look like

the other villain.”

“No, indeed, his face is as honest as a Gouda cheese. But, I say, Carl,

that really was a horrid picture.”

“Humph! What did you stare at it so long for?”

“I couldn’t help it.”

By this time the boys had reached the “beautiful room with three beds in

it.” A dumpy little maiden with long earrings met them at the doorway,

dropped them a curtsy, and passed out. She carried a long-handled thing

that resembled a frying pan with a cover.

“I am glad to see that,” said Van Mounen to Ben.

“What?”

“Why, the warming pan. It’s full of hot ashes; she’s been heating our

beds.”

“Oh, a warming pan, eh! Much obliged to her, I’m sure,” said Ben, too

sleepy to make any further comment.

Meantime, Ludwig still talked of the picture that had made such a strong

impression upon him. He had seen it in a shop window during their walk.

It was a poorly painted thing, representing two men tied back to

back, standing on shipboard, surrounded by a group of seamen who were

preparing to cast them together into the sea. This mode of putting

prisoners to death was called voetspoelen, or feet washing, and was

practiced by the Dutch upon the pirates of Dunkirk in 1605; and again by

the Spaniards against the Dutch, in the horrible massacre that followed

the siege of Haarlem. Bad as the painting was, the expression upon the

pirates’ faces was well given. Sullen and despairing as they seemed,

they wore such a cruel, malignant aspect that Ludwig had felt a secret

satisfaction in contemplating their helpless condition. He might have

forgotten the scene by this time but for that ill-looking man by the

fire. Now, while he capered about, boylike, and threw himself with an

antic into his bed, he inwardly hoped that the voetspoelen would not

haunt his dreams.

It was a cold, cheerless room; a fire had been newly kindled in the

burnished stove and seemed to shiver even while it was trying to burn.

The windows, with their funny little panes, were bare and shiny, and the

cold waxed floor looked like a sheet of yellow ice. Three rush-bottomed

chairs stood stiffly against the wall, alternating with three narrow

wooden bedsteads that made the room look like the deserted ward of

a hospital. At any other time the boys would have found it quite

impossible to sleep in pairs, especially in such narrow quarters, but

tonight they lost all fear of being crowded and longed only to lay their

weary bodies upon the feather beds that lay lightly upon each cot.

Had the boys been in Germany instead of Holland, they might have been

covered, also, by a bed of down or feathers. This peculiar form of

luxury was at that time adopted only by wealthy or eccentric Hollanders.

Ludwig, as we have seen, had not quite lost his friskiness, but the

other boys, after one or two feeble attempts at pillow firing, composed

themselves for the night with the greatest dignity. Nothing like fatigue

for making boys behave themselves!

“Good night, boys!” said Peter’s voice from under the covers.

“Good night,” called back everybody but Jacob, who already lay snoring

beside the captain.

“I say,” shouted Carl after a moment, “don’t sneeze, anybody. Ludwig’s

in a fright!”

“No such thing,” retorted Ludwig in a smothered voice. Then there was a

little whispered dispute, which was ended by Carl saying, “For my part,

I don’t know what fear is. But you really are a timid fellow, Ludwig.”

Ludwig grunted sleepily, but made no further reply.

It was the middle of the night. The fire had shivered itself to death,

and, in place of its gleams, little squares of moonlight lay upon the

floor, slowly, slowly shifting their way across the room. Something else

was moving also, but the boys did not see it. Sleeping boys keep but a

poor lookout. During the early hours of the night, Jacob Poot had been

gradually but surely winding himself with all the bed covers. He now lay

like a monster chrysalis beside the half-frozen Peter, who, accordingly,

was skating with all his might over the coldest, bleakest of dreamland

icebergs.

Something else, I say, besides the moonlight, was moving across

the bare, polished floor--moving not quite so slowly, but quite as

stealthily.

Wake up, Ludwig! The voetspoelen is growing real!

No. Ludwig does not waken, but he moans in his sleep.

Does not Carl hear it--Carl the brave, the fearless?

No. Carl is dreaming of the race.

And Jacob? Van Mounen? Ben?

Not they. They, too, are dreaming of the race, and Katrinka is singing

through their dreams--laughing, flitting past them; now and then a wave

from the great organ surges through their midst.

Still the thing moves, slowly, slowly.

Peter! Captain Peter, there is danger!

Peter heard no call, but in his dream, he slid a few thousand feet from

one iceberg to another, and the shock awoke him.

Whew! How cold he was! He gave a hopeless, desperate tug at the

chrysalis in vain. Sheet, blanket, and spread were firmly wound around

Jacob’s inanimate form.

Clear moonlight, he thought. We shall have pleasant weather tomorrow.

Halloo! What’s that?

He saw the moving thing, or rather something black crouching upon the

floor, for it had halted as Peter stirred.

He watched in silence.

Soon it moved again, nearer and nearer. It was a man crawling upon hands

and feet!

The captain’s first impulse was to call out, but he took an instant to

consider matters.

The creeper had a shining knife in one hand. This was ugly, but Peter

was naturally self-possessed. When the head turned, Peter’s eyes were

closed as if in sleep, but at other times, nothing could be keener,

sharper than the captain’s gaze.

Closer, closer crept the robber. His back was very near Peter now. The

knife was laid softly upon the floor. One careful arm reached forth

stealthily to drag the clothes from the chair by the captain’s bed--the

robbery was commenced.

Now was Peter’s time! Holding his breath, he sprang up and leaped with

all his strength upon the robber’s back, stunning the rascal with the

force of the blow. To seize the knife was but a second’s work. The

robber began to struggle, but Peter sat like a giant astride the

prostrate form.

“If you stir,” said the brave boy in as terrible a voice as he could

command, “stir but one inch, I will plunge this knife into your neck.

Boys! Boys! Wake up!” he shouted, still pressing down the black head and

holding the knife at pricking distance. “Give us a hand! I’ve got him!”

The chrysalis rolled over, but made no other sign.

“Up, boys!” cried Peter, never budging. “Ludwig! Lambert! Donder! Are

you all dead?”

Dead? Not they! Van Mounen and Ben were on their feet in an instant.

“Hey! What now?” they shouted.

“I’ve got a robber here,” said Peter coolly. “Lie still, you scoundrel,

or I’ll slice your head off! Now, boys, cut out your bed cord--plenty of

time--he’s a dead man if he stirs.”

Peter felt that he weighed a thousand pounds. So he did, with that knife

in his hand.

The man growled and swore but dared not move.

Ludwig was up by this time. He had a great jackknife, the pride of his

heart, in his breeches pocket. It could do good service now. They bared

the bedstead in a moment. It was laced backward and forward with a rope.

“I’ll cut it,” cried Ludwig, sawing away at the knot. “Hold him tight,

Peter!”

“Never fear!” answered the captain, giving the robber a warning prick.

The boys were soon pulling at the rope like good fellows. It was out at

last--a long, stout piece.

“Now, boys,” commanded the captain, “lift up his rascally arms! Cross

his hands over his back! That’s right--excuse me for being in the

way--tie them tight!”

“Yes, and his feet too, the villain!” cried the boys in great

excitement, tying knot after knot with Herculean jerks.

The prisoner changed his tone.

“Oh--oh!” he moaned. “Spare a poor sick man--I was but walking in my

sleep.”

“Ugh!” grunted Lambert, still tugging away at the rope. “Asleep, were

you? Well, we’ll wake you up.”

The man muttered fierce oaths between his teeth, then cried in a piteous

voice, “Unbind me, good young masters! I have five little children at

home. By Saint Bavon I swear to give you each a ten-guilder piece if you

will but free me!”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Peter.

“Ha! ha!” laughed the other boys.

Then came threats, threats that made Ludwig fairly shudder, though he

continued to bind and tie with redoubled energy.

“Hold up, mynheer housebreaker,” said Van Mounen in a warning voice.

“That knife is very near your throat. If you make the captain nervous,

there is no telling what may happen.”

The robber took the hint, and fell into a sullen silence.

Just at this moment the chrysalis upon the bed stirred and sat erect.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, without opening his eyes.

“Matter!” echoed Ludwig, half trembling, half laughing. “Get up, Jacob.

Here’s work for you. Come sit on this fellow’s back while we get into

our clothes, we’re half perished.”

“What fellow? Donder!”

“Hurrah for Poot!” cried all the boys as Jacob, sliding quickly to the

floor, bedclothes and all, took in the state of affairs at a glance and

sat heavily beside Peter on the robber’s back.

Oh, didn’t the fellow groan then!

“No use in holding him down any longer, boys,” said Peter, rising, but

bending as he did so to draw a pistol from the man’s belt. “You see I’ve

been keeping a guard over this pretty little weapon for the last ten

minutes. It’s cocked, and the least wriggle might have set it off. No

danger now. I must dress myself. You and I, Lambert, will go for the

police. I’d no idea it was so cold.”

“Where is Carl?” asked one of the boys.

They looked at one another. Carl certainly was not among them.

“Oh!” cried Ludwig, frightened at last. “Where is he? Perhaps he’s had a

fight with the robber and got killed.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Peter quietly as he buttoned his stout jacket.

“Look under the beds.”

They did so. Carl was not there.

Just then they heard a commotion on the stairway. Ben hastened to

open the door. The landlord almost tumbled in; he was armed with a big

blunderbuss. Two or three lodgers followed; then the daughter, with an

upraised frying pan in one hand and a candle in the other; and behind

her, looking pale and frightened, the gallant Carl!

“There’s your man, mine host,” said Peter, nodding toward the prisoner.

Mine host raised his blunderbuss, the girl screamed, and Jacob, more

nimble than usual, rolled quickly from the robber’s back.

“Don’t fire,” cried Peter, “he is tied, hand and foot. Let’s roll him

over and see what he looks like.”

Carl stepped briskly forward, with a bluster, “Yes. We’ll turn him over

in a way he won’t like. Lucky we’ve caught him!”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Ludwig. “Where were you, Master Carl?”

“Where was I?” retorted Carl angrily. “Why, I went to give the alarm, to

be sure!”

All the boys exchanged glances, but they were too happy and elated to

say anything ill-natured. Carl certainly was bold enough now. He took

the lead while three others aided him in turning the helpless man.

While the robber lay faceup, scowling and muttering, Ludwig took the

candlestick from the girl’s hand.

“I must have a good look at the beauty,” he said, drawing closer, but

the words were no sooner spoken than he turned pale and started so

violently that he almost dropped the candle.

“The voetspoelen!” he cried! “Why, boys, it’s the man who sat by the

fire!”

“Of course it is,” answered Peter. “We counted out money before him like

simpletons. But what have we to do with voetspoelen, brother Ludwig? A

month in jail is punishment enough.”

The landlord’s daughter had left the room. She now ran in, holding up a

pair of huge wooden shoes. “See, father,” she cried, “here are his great

ugly boats. It’s the man that we put in the next room after the young

masters went to bed. Ah! It was wrong to send the poor young gentlemen

up here so far out of sight and sound.”

“The scoundrel!” hissed the landlord. “He has disgraced my house. I go

for the police at once!”

In less than fifteen minutes two drowsy-looking officers were in the

room. After telling Mynheer Kleef that he must appear early in the

morning with the boys and make his complaint before a magistrate, they

marched off with their prisoner.

One would think the captain and his band could have slept no more that

night, but the mooring has not yet been found that can prevent youth and

an easy conscience from drifting down the river of dreams. The boys were

much too fatigued to let so slight a thing as capturing a robber bind

them to wakefulness. They were soon in bed again, floating away to

strange scenes made of familiar things. Ludwig and Carl had spread their

bedding upon the floor. One had already forgotten the voetspoelen,

the race--everything; but Carl was wide-awake. He heard the carillons

ringing out their solemn nightly music and the watchman’s noisy clapper

putting in discord at the quarter hours; he saw the moonshine glide away

from the window and the red morning light come pouring in, and all the

while he kept thinking, Pooh! what a goose I have made of myself!

Carl Schummel, alone, with none to look or to listen, was not quite so

grand a fellow as Carl Schummel strutting about in his boots.