288 Hans Brinker

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.

“JT 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 propor-
tion.

“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 counte-
nance showed signs of a collapse.

“ That ’s right, old fellow!” pursued his tempter. ‘ Hurry
up; what news? old Biinker 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, — whether in Africa, Japan, Amsterdam or
Paris, — he scampered toward them, forgetting coachman, gin-
gerbread, everything but the wonderful news.