All this was very indiscreet. Hilda, in an impenitent sort of
way, felt it to be so.
But it is always so delightful to impart pleasant or surprising
news!
She went tripping along by the canal, quite resolved to repeat
the sin, ad infinitum, and tell nearly every girl and boy in the
school.
Meantime Janzoon Kolp came skating by. Of course, in two
seconds, he was striking slippery attitudes and shouting saucy
things to the coachman, who stared at him in indolent disdain.
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.
Pages:
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296