“Oh,” said I, “it is all right as it is. You don’t need it translated. ‘Monster’ is quite good English—and very expressive.”
“Then,” said he; “that is it—Worthless Monster. That must you write—on the package. Then will it cost you a dubbeltje; and it will go off at once. No wax will be needed, and no papers. No trouble of any kind.”
MONSTER ZONDER WAARDE.
“I am delighted with your kindness,” said I to him. “You have relieved my mind.”
“Will you put the name on it now?” he enquired courteously, reaching me his own pen from behind his ear. “Please write legibly the English declaration. I shall do the Dutch for you. It must be plain.”
“If you don’t mind,” I said, “as you are so kind, might I ask you just to write both English and Dutch?”
A glance had shown me that these curious words would have to come uncomfortably near my aunt’s name; and as my aunt is rather a particular old lady with very definite notions about her own dignity, I judged it prudent that this title of distinction with which she was going to be invested should be drawn up in other handwriting than her nephew’s. She had a hawk’s eye and could detect every scratch I made with the pen.
“If it’s not too much trouble, please put the whole declaration on it yourself. You’ll find a place here”, I said, turning over the unsightly object. “There’s a little room left here, I think—just beside the address”.
He looked it all over. It was quite true. The parcel was all a mass of red wax and “N. J.’s” except round about the address, where we had kept the wax well off it for fear of infringing some other regulation.