This, to Janzoon, was equivalent to an invitation to draw nearer.
The coachman was now upon his box, gathering up the reins and grumbling at his horses.
Janzoon accosted him.
"I say. What's going on at the idiot's cottage? Is your boss in there?"Coachman nodded mysteriously.
"Whew!" whistled Janzoon, drawing closer. "Old Brinker dead?"The driver grew big with importance and silent in proportion.
"See here, old pincushion, I'd run home yonder and get you a chunk of gingerbread if I thought you could open your mouth."Old pincushion was human--long hours of waiting had made him ravenously hungry. At Janzoon's hint, his countenance showed signs of a collapse.
"That's right, old fellow," pursued his tempter. "Hurry up!
What news?--old Brinker dead?"
"No, CURED! Got his wits," said the coachman, shooting forth his words, one at a time, like so many bullets.
Like bullets (figuratively speaking) they hit Janzoon Kolp. He jumped as if he had been shot.
"Goede Gunst! You don't say so!"
The man pressed his lips together and looked significantly toward Master Kolp's shabby residence.
Just then Janzoon saw a group of boys in the distance. Hailing them in a rowdy style, common to boys of his stamp all over the world, weather in Africa, Japan, Amsterdam, or Paris, he scampered toward them, forgetting coachman, gingerbread, everything but the wonderful news.
Therefore, by sundown it was well known throughout the neighboring country that Dr. Boekman, chancing to stop at the cottage, had given the idiot Brinker a tremendous dose of medicine, as brown as gingerbread. It had taken six men to hold him while it was poured down. The idiot had immediately sprung to his feet, in full possession of all his faculties, knocked over the doctor or thrashed him (there was admitted to be a slight uncertainty as to which of these penalties was inflicted), then sat down and addressed him for all the world like a lawyer.
After that he had turned and spoken beautifully to his wife and children. Dame Brinker had laughed herself into violent hysterics. Hans had said, "Here I am, Father, your own dear son!" And Gretel had said, "Here I am, Father, your own dear Gretel!" And the doctor had afterward been seen leaning back in his carriage looking just as white as a corpse.
A New AlarmWhen Dr. Boekman called the next day at the Brinker cottage, he could not help noticing the cheerful, comfortable aspect of the place. An atmosphere of happiness breathed upon him as he opened the door. Dame Brinker sat complacently knitting beside the bed, her husband was enjoying a tranquil slumber, and Gretel was noiselessly kneading rye bread on the table in the corner.
The doctor did not remain long. He asked a few simple questions, appeared satisfied with the answers, and after feeling his patient's pulse, said, "Ah, very weak yet, jufvrouw. Very weak, indeed. He must have nourishment. You may begin to feed the patient. Ahem! Not too much, but what you do give him let it be strong and of the best.""Black bread, we have, mynheer, and porridge," replied Dame Brinker cheerily. "They have always agreed with him well.""Tut, tut!" said the doctor, frowning. "Nothing of the kind. He must have the juice of fresh meat, white bread, dried and toasted, good Malaga wine, and--ahem! The man looks cold. Give him more covering, something light and warm. Where is the boy?""Hans, mynheer, has gone into Broek to look for work. He will be back soon. Will the meester please be seated?
Whether the hard polished stool offered by Dame Brinker did not look particularly tempting, or whether the dame herself frightened him, partly because she was a woman, and partly because an anxious, distressed look had suddenly appeared in her face, I cannot say. Certain it is that our eccentric doctor looked hurriedly about him, muttered something about "an extraordinary case," bowed, and disappeared before Dame Brinker had time to say another word.
Strange that the visit of their good benefactor should have left a cloud, yet so it was. Gretel frowned, an anxious, childish frown, and kneaded the bread dough violently without looking up.
Dame Brinker hurried to her husband's bedside, leaned over him, and fell into silent but passionate weeping.
In a moment Hans entered.
"Why, Mother," he whispered in alarm, "what ails thee? Is the father worse?"She turned her quivering face toward him, making no attempt to conceal her distress.
"Yes. He is starving--perishing. A meester said it."Hans turned pale.
"What does this mean, Mother? We must feed him at once. Here, Gretel, give me the porridge.""Nay!" cried his mother, distractedly, yet without raising her voice. "It may kill him. Our poor fare is too heavy for him.
Oh, Hans, he will die--the father will DIE, if we use him this way. He must have meat and sweet wine and a dekbed. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?" she sobbed, wringing her hands.
"There is not a stiver in the house."
Gretel pouted. It was the only way she could express sympathy just then. Her tears fell one by one into the dough.
"Did the meester say he MUST have these things, Mother?" asked Hans.
"Yes, he did."
