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

“What is the man saying, Lambert?” asked Ben, who was holding his mittened hands against his cheeks to ward off the cutting air.

“He says we’re about two pipes from Leyden. Half the boors[206] here on the canal measure distance by the time it takes them to finish a pipe.”

“How ridiculous.”

“See here, Benjamin Dobbs,” retorted Lambert, growing unaccountably indignant at Ben’s quiet smile. “See here, you’ve a way of calling every other thing you see on THIS side of the German ocean ‘ridiculous.’ It may suit YOU, this word, but it doesn’t suit ME. When you want anything ridiculous, just remember your English custom of making the Lord Mayor of London, at his installation, count the nails in a horseshoe to prove HIS LEARNING.”

“Who told you we had any such custom as that?” cried Ben, looking grave in an instant.

“Why, I KNOW it, no use of anyone telling me. It’s in all the books – and it’s true. It strikes me,” continued Lambert, laughing in spite of himself, “that you have been kept in happy ignorance of a good many ridiculous things on YOUR side of the map.”

“Humph!” exclaimed Ben, trying not to smile. “I’ll inquire into that Lord Mayor business when I get home. There must be some mistake. B-r-r-roooo! How fast we’re going. This is glorious!”

It was a grand sail, or ride, I scarcely know which to call it; perhaps FLY would be the best word, for the boys felt very much as Sinbad[207] did when, tied to the roc’s leg, he darted through the clouds; or as Bellerophon[208] felt when he shot through the air on the back of his winged horse Pegasus.

Sailing, riding, or flying, whichever it was, everything was rushing past, backward, and before they had time to draw a deep breath, Leyden itself, with its high, peaked roofs, flew halfway to meet them.

When the city came in sight, it was high time to waken the sleeper. That feat accomplished, Peter’s prophecy came to pass. Master Jacob was quite restored and in excellent spirits.

The schipper made a feeble remonstrance when Peter, with hearty thanks, endeavored to slip some silver pieces into his tough brown palm.

“Ye see, young master,” said he, drawing away his hand, “the regular line o’ trade’s ONE thing, and a favor’s another.”

“I know it,” said Peter, “but those boys and girls of yours will want sweets when you get home. Buy them some in the name of Saint Nicholas.”

The man grinned. “Aye, true enough, I’ve young ’uns in plenty, a clean boatload of them. You are a sharp young master at guessing.[209]”

This time the knotty hand hitched forward again, quite carelessly, it seemed, but its palm was upward. Peter hastily dropped in the money and moved away.

The sail came tumbling down. Scrape, scrape went the brake, scattering an ice shower round the boat.

“Good-bye, schipper!” shouted the boys, seizing their skates and leaping from the deck one by one. “Many thanks to you!”

“Good-bye! good-b… – Hold! Here! Stop! I want my coat.”

Ben was carefully assisting his cousin over the side of the boat.

“What is the man shouting about? Oh, I know, you have his wrapper round your shoulders.”

“Dat ish true,” answered Jacob, half-jumping, half-tumbling down upon the framework, “dat ish vot make him sho heavy.”

“Made YOU so heavy, you mean, Poot?”

“Ya, made you sho heavy – dat ish true,” said Jacob innocently as he worked himself free of the big wrapper. “Dere, now you hands it mit him, straits way, and tells him I vos much tanks for dat.”

“Ho! for an inn!” cried Peter as they stepped into the city. “Be brisk, my fine fellows!”

Mynheer Kleef and His Bill of Fare [210]

The boys soon found an unpretending establishment near the Breedstraat (Broad Street) with a funnily painted lion over the door. This was the Rood Leeuw or Red Lion, kept by one Huygens Kleef, a stout Dutchman with short legs and a very long pipe.

By this time they were in a ravenous condition. The tiffin, taken at Haarlem, had served only to give them an appetite, and this had been heightened by their exercise and swift sail upon the canal.

“Come, mine host! Give us what you can!” cried Peter rather pompously.

“I can give you anything – everything,” answered Mynheer Kleef, performing a difficult bow.

“Well, give us sausage and pudding.”

“Ah, mynheer, the sausage is all gone. There is no pudding.”

“Salmagundi[211], then, and plenty of it.”

“That is out also, young master.”

“Eggs, and be quick.”

“Winter eggs are VERY poor eating,” answered the innkeeper, puckering his lips and lifting his eyebrows.

“No eggs? Well – caviar.”

The Dutchman raised his fat hands:

“Caviar! That is made of gold! Who has caviar to sell?”

Peter had sometimes eaten it at home; he knew that it was made of the roes of the sturgeon and certain other large fish, but he had no idea of its cost.

“Well, mine host, what have you?”

“What have I? Everything. I have rye bread, sauerkraut, potato salad, and the fattest herring in Leyden.”

“What do you say, boys?” asked the captain. “Will that do?”