Ben professed great sympathy upon the occasion, but
Jacob insisted that it was "notting."
"Then why did you screw your face so when it hit you?"
"What for screw mine face?" repeated Jacob soberly. "Vy, it vash
de--de--"
"That what?" insisted Ben maliciously.
"Vy, de-de-vat you call dis, vat you taste mit de nose?"
Ben laughed. "Oh, you mean the smell."
"Yesh. Dat ish it," said Jacob eagerly. "It wash de shmell. I
draw mine face for dat!"
"Ha! ha!" roared Ben. "That's a good one. A Dutch boy smell a
cheese! You can never make me believe THAT!"
"Vell, it ish no matter," replied Jacob, trudging on beside Ben
in perfect good humor. "Vait till you hit mit cheese--dat ish
all."
Soon he added pathetically, "Penchamin, I no likes to be call
Tuch--dat ish no goot. I bees a Hollander."
Just as Ben was apologizing, Lambert hailed him.
"Hold up! Ben, here is the fish market. There is not much to be
seen at this season. But we can take a look at the storks if you
wish."
Ben knew that storks were held in peculiar reverence in Holland
and that the bird figured upon the arms of the capital. He had
noticed cart wheels placed upon the roofs of Dutch cottages to
entice storks to settle upon them; he had seen their huge nests,
too, on many a thatched gable roof from Broek to The Hague.
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