By twelve o'clock the spicy beverage, sacred to holydays at that time, began to mount up into Boss Boomptie's head, and he was vociferating a Dutch ditty in praise of St. Nicholas with marvellous discordance, when just as the old clock in one corner of the room struck the hour that ushers in the new year, a loud knock was heard on the counter, which roused the dormant spirit of trade within his bosom. He went into the shop, where he found a little ugly old thing of a woman, with a sharp chin, resting on a crooked black stick, which had been burned in the fire and then polished; two high sharp cheek bones; two sharp black eyes; skinny lips, and a most diabolical pair of leather spectacles on a nose ten times sharper than her chin.
“I want a dozen Newyear cookies,” screamed she, in a voice sharper than her nose.
“Vel, den, you needn't sbeak so loud,” replied Boss Boomptie, whose ear being just then attuned to the melody of his own song, was somewhat outraged by this shrill salutation.
“I want a dozen Newyear cookies,” screamed she again, ten times louder and shriller than ever.
“Duyvel—I an't teaf den,” grumbled the worthy man, as he proceeded to count out the cakes, which the other very deliberately counted after him.
“I want a dozen,” screamed the little woman; “here is only twelve.”
“Vel, den, and what de duyvel is dwalf but a dozen?” said Boomptie.
“I tell you I want one more,” screamed she, in a voice that roused Mrs. Boomptie in the back room, who came and peeped through the pane of glass, as she often did when she heard the boss talking to the ladies.
Boss Boomptie waxed wroth, for he had a reasonable quantity of hot spiced rum in his noddle, which predisposes a man to valour.
“Vel, den,” said he, “you may co to de duyvel and get anoder, for you won't get it here.”