Hans Brinker [49]
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 Anderson 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, 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!"
Ben sprang hastily forward.
"Jacob! Jacob, are you hurt?"
Peter and Carl were lifting him. The face was white enough now. It seemed like a dead face--even the good-natured look was gone.
A crowd collected. Peter unbuttoned the poor boy's jacket, loosened his red tippet, and blew between the parted lips.
"Stand off, good people!" he cried. "Give him air!"
"Lay him down," called out a woman from the crowd.
"Stand him upon his feet," shouted another.
"Give him wine," growled a stout fellow who was driving a loaded sled.
"Yes! yes, give him wine!" echoed everybody.
Ludwig and Lambert shouted in concert, "Wine! Wine! Who has wine?"
A sleepy-headed Dutchman began to fumble mysteriously under the heaviest of blue jackets, saying as he did so, "Not so much noise, young masters, not so much noise! The boy was a fool to faint like a girl."
"Wine, quick!" cried Peter, who, with Ben's help, was rubbing Jacob from head to foot.
Ludwig stretched forth his hand imploringly toward the Dutchman, who, with an air of great importance, was still fumbling beneath the jacket.
"DO hurry! He will die! Has anyone else any wine?"
"He IS dead!" said an awful voice from among the bystanders.
This startled the Dutchman.
"Have a care!" he said, reluctantly drawing forth a small blue flask. "This is schnapps. A little is enough."
A little WAS enough. The paleness gave way to a faint flush. Jacob opened his eyes, and, half bewildered, half ashamed, feebly tried to free himself from those who were supporting him.
There was no alternative, now, for our party but to have their exhausted comrade carried, in some way, to Leyden. As for expecting him to skate anymore that day, the thing was impossible. In truth, by this time each boy began to entertain secret yearnings toward iceboats, and to avow a Spartan resolve not to desert Jacob. Fortunately a gentle, steady breeze was setting southward. If some accommodating schipper would but come along, matters would not be quite so bad after all.
Peter hailed the first sail that appeared. The men in the stern would not even look at him. Three drays on runners came along, but they were already loaded to the utmost. Then an iceboat, a beautiful, tempting little one, whizzed past like an arrow. The boys had just time to stare eagerly at it when it was gone.
"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 Anderson 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, 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!"
Ben sprang hastily forward.
"Jacob! Jacob, are you hurt?"
Peter and Carl were lifting him. The face was white enough now. It seemed like a dead face--even the good-natured look was gone.
A crowd collected. Peter unbuttoned the poor boy's jacket, loosened his red tippet, and blew between the parted lips.
"Stand off, good people!" he cried. "Give him air!"
"Lay him down," called out a woman from the crowd.
"Stand him upon his feet," shouted another.
"Give him wine," growled a stout fellow who was driving a loaded sled.
"Yes! yes, give him wine!" echoed everybody.
Ludwig and Lambert shouted in concert, "Wine! Wine! Who has wine?"
A sleepy-headed Dutchman began to fumble mysteriously under the heaviest of blue jackets, saying as he did so, "Not so much noise, young masters, not so much noise! The boy was a fool to faint like a girl."
"Wine, quick!" cried Peter, who, with Ben's help, was rubbing Jacob from head to foot.
Ludwig stretched forth his hand imploringly toward the Dutchman, who, with an air of great importance, was still fumbling beneath the jacket.
"DO hurry! He will die! Has anyone else any wine?"
"He IS dead!" said an awful voice from among the bystanders.
This startled the Dutchman.
"Have a care!" he said, reluctantly drawing forth a small blue flask. "This is schnapps. A little is enough."
A little WAS enough. The paleness gave way to a faint flush. Jacob opened his eyes, and, half bewildered, half ashamed, feebly tried to free himself from those who were supporting him.
There was no alternative, now, for our party but to have their exhausted comrade carried, in some way, to Leyden. As for expecting him to skate anymore that day, the thing was impossible. In truth, by this time each boy began to entertain secret yearnings toward iceboats, and to avow a Spartan resolve not to desert Jacob. Fortunately a gentle, steady breeze was setting southward. If some accommodating schipper would but come along, matters would not be quite so bad after all.
Peter hailed the first sail that appeared. The men in the stern would not even look at him. Three drays on runners came along, but they were already loaded to the utmost. Then an iceboat, a beautiful, tempting little one, whizzed past like an arrow. The boys had just time to stare eagerly at it when it was gone.