CHAPTER IX—THE VALIANT DUTCH BOY
Where was Hans?
The Dutch boy, who by reason of his roly-poly body and fat, short legs, was not well adapted to mountain climbing, was much fatigued by the headlong haste with which his friends proceeded.
“Some volks peen plame vools enough to call dos sbort,” he secretly grumbled, panting along at the heels of the procession. “Maype it vos sbort vor me, alretty, py shimminy! put don’t you pelief me! Ven I vos caughd py a voolishness like dot again, I hope I vill gick someboty.”
He was stumping along in this manner, dropping gradually behind, when at a short turn in the path his friends vanished. At the same moment a pebble that had found its way into one of his shoes began to cut his foot so that he could hardly walk.
“Wa-ow!” he gurgled. “Dot feel shust like I pit a snake by. Dunder and blitzens! Dot toe vos cud off, I pelief me!”
He stared along at the dim path and at the bushes beyond which he heard the voices of his friends, then plumped himself down on a rock and began hastily to unloose the shoe lace.
“Uf I get oudt uf dis scrabe, anudder vun von’t go into me right avay, I dell you!” he muttered. “I haf to haf a boultice vor dot toe, I pelief me, der vay id veels. Waow!”
He pulled off the shoe with a jerk, felt of the injured toe, and gave the shoe a shake to remove the pebble.
It rolled out, a tiny thing, not larger than a small shot, but with a cutting edge almost as hard as a diamond.