Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates / Серебряные коньки. Книга для чтения на английском языке

Peter had, for the present, exhausted his stock of Haarlem anecdotes, and now, having nothing to do but skate, he and his three companions were hastening to catch up with Lambert and Ben.

“That English lad is fleet enough,” said Peter. “If he were a born Hollander, he could do no better. Generally these John Bulls make but a sorry figure on skates. Halloo!

Here you are, Van Mounen. Why, we hardly hoped for the honor of meeting you again. Whom were you flying from in such haste?”

“Snails,” retorted Lambert. “What kept you?”

“We have been talking, and besides, we halted once to give Poot a chance to rest.”

“He begins to look rather worn-out,” said Lambert in a low voice.

Just then a beautiful iceboat with reefed sail and flying streamers[195] swept leisurely by. Its deck was filled with children muffled up to their chins. Looking at them from the ice you could see only smiling little faces imbedded in bright-colored woolen wrappings. They were singing a chorus in honor of Saint Nicholas. The music, starting in the discord of a hundred childish voices, floated, as it rose, into exquisite harmony:

“Friend of sailors and of children!
Double claim have we,
As in youthful joy we’re sailing,
O’er a frozen sea!
Nicholas! Saint Nicholas!
Let us sing to thee!
While through wintry air we’re rushing,
As our voices blend,
Are you near us? Do you hear us,
Nicholas, our friend?
Nicholas! Saint Nicholas!
Love can never end.
Sunny sparkles, bright before us,
Chase away the cold!
Hearts where sunny thoughts are welcome, Never can grow old.
Nicholas! Saint Nicholas!
Never can grow old!
Pretty gift and loving lesson,
Festival and glee,
Bid us thank thee as we’re sailing
O’er the frozen sea.
Nicholas! Saint Nicholas!
So we sing to thee!”

Jacob Poot Changes the Plan

The last note died away in the distance. Our boys, who in their vain efforts to keep up with the boat[196] had felt that they were skating backward, turned to look at one another.

“How beautiful that was!” exclaimed Van Mounen.

“Just like a dream!”

Jacob drew close to Ben, giving his usual approving nod, as he spoke. “Dat ish goot. Dat ish te pest vay. I shay petter to take to Leyden mit a poat!”

“Take a boat!” exclaimed Ben in dismay. “Why, man, our plan was to SKATE, not to be carried like little children.”

“Tuyfels![197]” retorted Jacob. “Dat ish no little – no papies – to go for poat!”

The boys laughed but exchanged uneasy glances. It would be great fun to jump on an iceboat, if they had a chance, but to abandon so shamefully their grand undertaking – who could think of such a thing?

An animated discussion arose at once.

Captain Peter brought his party to a halt.

“Boys,” said he, “it strikes me that we should consult Jacob’s wishes in this matter. He started the excursion, you know.”

“Pooh!” sneered Carl, throwing a contemptuous glance at Jacob. “Who’s tired? We can rest all night in Leyden.”

Ludwig and Lambert looked anxious and disappointed. It was no slight thing to lose the credit of having skated all the way from Broek to The Hague and back again, but both agreed that Jacob should decide the question.

Good-natured, tired Jacob! He read the popular sentiment at a glance.

“Oh, no,” he said in Dutch. “I was joking. We will skate, of course.”

The boys gave a delighted shout and started on again with renewed vigor.

All but Jacob. He tried his best not to seem fatigued and, by not saying a word, saved his breath and energy for the great business of skating. But in vain. Before long, the stout body grew heavier and heavier – the tottering limbs weaker and weaker. Worse than all, the blood, anxious to get as far as possible from the ice, mounted to the puffy, good-natured cheeks, and made the roots of his thin yellow hair glow into a fiery red.

This kind of work is apt to summon vertigo, of whom good Hans Andersen[198] writes – the same who hurls daring young hunters from the mountains or spins them from the sharpest heights of the glaciers or catches them as they tread the stepping-stones of the mountain torrent.

Vertigo came, unseen[199], to Jacob. After tormenting him awhile, with one touch sending a chill from head to foot, with the next scorching every vein with fever, she made the canal rock and tremble beneath him, the white sails bow and spin as they passed, then cast him heavily upon the ice.

“Halloo!” cried Van Mounen. “There goes Poot!”