About the same time a sober respectable cat, that for years had done nothing but sit purring in the chimney corner, all at once got the duyvel in her, and after scratching the poor man half to death, jumped out of the chimney and disappeared. A Whitehall boatman afterwards saw her in Buttermilk Channel, with nothing but the tail left, swimming against the tide as easy as kiss your hand. Poor Mrs. Boomptie had no peace of her life, what with pinchings, stickings of needles, and talking without opening her mouth. But the climax of the malice of the demon which beset her was in at last tying up her tongue, so that she could not speak at all, but did nothing but sit crying and wringing her hands in the chimney corner.
These carryings on brought round Newyear's eve again, when Boss Boomptie thought he would have a frolic, “in spite of de duyvel,” as he said, which saying was, somehow or other, afterwards applied to the creek at Kingsbridge. So he commanded his wife to prepare him a swinging mug of hot spiced rum, to keep up his courage against the assaults of the brickbats. But what was the dismay of the little man when he found that every time he put the beverage to his lips he received a great box on the ear, the mug was snatched away by an invisible hand, and every single drop drank out of it before it came to Boss Boomptie's turn. Then as if it was an excellent joke, he heard a most diabolical laugh down in the cellar.
“Goeden Hemel! Is het mogelyk!” exclaimed the little man in despair. This was attacking him in the very intrenchments of his heart. It was worse than the brickbats.
“Saint Nicholas! Saint Nicholas! what will become of me—what sal ich doon, mynheer?”
Scarcely had he uttered this pathetic appeal, when there was a sound of horses' hoofs in the chimney, and presently a light wagon, drawn by a little, fat, gray 'Sopus pony, came trundling into the room, loaded with all sorts of knickknacks. It was driven by a jolly, fat, little rogue of a fellow, with a round sparkling eye, and a mouth which would certainly have been laughing had it not been for a glorious Meershaum pipe, which would have chanced to fall out in that case. The little rascal had on a three-cornered cocked hat, decked with old gold lace; a blue Dutch sort of a short pea jacket, red waistcoat, breeks of the same colour, yellow stockings, and honest thick-soled shoes, ornamented with a pair of skates. Altogether he was a queer figure—but there was something so irresistibly jolly and good-natured in his face, that Boss Boomptie felt his heart incline towards the stranger as soon as he saw him.
“Orange Boven!” cried the good saint, pulling off his cocked hat, and making a low bow to Mrs. Boomptie, who sat tonguetied in the chimney corner.
“Wat donderdag is dat?” said Boss Boomptie, speaking for his wife, which made the good woman very angry, that he should take the words out of her mouth.
“You called on Saint Nicholas. Here am I,” quoth the jolly little saint. “In one word—for I am a saint of few words, and have my hands full of business to-night—in one word, tell me what you want.”
“I am pewitched,” quoth Boss Boomptie. “The duyvel is in me, my house, my wife, my Newyear cookies, and my children. What shall I do?”
“When you count a dozen you must count thirteen,” answered the wagon driver, at the same time cracking his whip, and clattering up the chimney, more like a little duyvel than a little saint.