“Wat blixum!” muttered Boss Boomptie, “when you count a dozen you must count dirdeen! je mag even wel met un stokje in de goot roeron! I never heard of such counting. By Saint Johannes de Dooper, put Saint Nicholas is a great plockhead!”
Just as he uttered this blasphemy against the excellent Saint Nicholas, he saw through the pane of glass, in the door leading from the spare room to the shop, the little ugly old woman, with the sharp eyes, sharp nose, sharp chin, sharp voice, and leather spectacles, alighting from a broomstick, at the street door.
“Dere is de duyvel's kint come again,” quoth he, in one of his cross humours, which was aggravated by his getting just then a great box on the ear from the invisible hand. However, he went grumbling into the shop, for it was part of his religion never to neglect a customer, let the occasion be what it might.
“I want a dozen Newyear cookies,” screamed the old beauty, as usual, and as usual Boss Boomptie counted out twelve.
“I want another one,” screamed she still louder.
“Aha!” thought Boss Boomptie, doubtless inspired by the jolly little caitiff, Saint Nicholas—”Aha! Het is goed visschen in troebel water—when you count dwalf, you must count dirdeen. Ha—ha! ho—ho—ho!” And he counted out the thirteenth cooky like a brave fellow.
The old woman made him a low courtesy, and laughed till she might have shown her teeth, if she had had any.
“Friend Boomptie,” said she, in a voice exhibiting the perfection of a nicely modulated scream—“Friend Boomptie, I love such generous little fellows as you, in my heart. I salute you,” and she advanced to kiss him. Boss Boomptie did not at all like the proposition; but, doubtless inspired by Saint Nicholas, he submitted with indescribable grace.
At that moment, an explosion was heard inside the little glass pane, and the voice of Mrs. Boomptie crying out,
“You false-hearted villain, have I found out your tricks at last!”