A bet was made; Gerard whistled; in clattered Jack—for he was taught to come into a room with the utmost composure—and put his nose into his backer's hand.
“A pair of buckets!” shouted Gerard, “and let us see which of these two sons of asses can drink most at a draught.”
On another occasion two farmers had a dispute whose hay was the best. Failing to convince each other, they said, “We'll ask parson;” for by this time he was their referee in every mortal thing.
“How lucky you thought of me!” said Gerard, “Why, I have got one staying with me who is the best judge of hay in Holland. Bring me a double handful apiece.”
So when they came, he had them into the parlour, and put each bundle on a chair. Then he whistled, and in walked Jack.
“Lord a mercy!” said one of the farmers.
“Jack,” said the parson, in the tone of conversation, “just tell us which is the best hay of these two.”
Jack sniffed them both, and made his choice directly, proving his sincerity by eating every morsel. The farmers slapped their thighs, and scratched their heads. “To think of we not thinking o' that,” And they each sent Jack a truss.
So Gerard got to be called the merry parson of Gouda. But Margaret, who like most loving women had no more sense of humour than a turtle-dove, took this very ill. “What!” said she to herself, “is there nothing sore at the bottom of his heart that he can go about playing the zany?” She could understand pious resignation and content, but not mirth, in true lovers parted. And whilst her woman's nature was perturbed by this gust (and women seem more subject to gusts than men) came that terrible animal, a busybody, to work upon her. Catherine saw she was not happy, and said to her, “Your boy is gone from you. I would not live alone all my days if I were you.”
“He is more alone than I,” sighed Margaret.