A little bit embarrassed, Ramsay dressed hurriedly. The working day in this country began with dawn and ended with dark. Everything that needed doing—and there was much to be done—had to be crowded into such daylight as there was, and there was never enough. Hurrying down the steps leading to the kitchen, he saw Hans Van Doorst at the table. Marta greeted him pleasantly, "Good morning."
"Good morning," Ramsay replied. "I overslept! I didn't mean to. Why didn't somebody call me?"
"Yaah!" Marta laughed. "Pieter said not to. You earned your sleep, Pieter said. Sit down with Hans and have some breakfast."
Hans said, "Men who are not hungry are sick. Sit down."
Ramsay sat, and felt a free and easy sense of comradeship, as though he and the Dutch fisherman had something in common. They felt alike and thought alike. Hans Van Doorst had thanked Ramsay with his eyes for rescuing him, but not once had he spoken of it and not once had he mentioned the wreck of the Spray. The boy was grateful for that; he knew that he would be embarrassed if his part in yesterday's incident were brought into the limelight.
Marta busied herself at the big wood-burning stove, and Ramsay speculated on the difficulties involved in just getting such a stove into this country. Marta laughed. "While I make you the breakfast, you listen to the crazy tales the crazy fisherman tells you."
Hans turned his twinkling eyes on Ramsay. "Marta is a good girl," he said. "A good Dutch girl. She thinks all men are crazy."
"They all are," Marta said. "Especially you. What you need is a good farm and stay away from that wild lake."
"Farms and me wouldn't get along, Marta." Hans laughed. "I told you I'm a fisherman."
"Yaah? You lost everything with the Spray. How are you going to go fishing again?"