"Netteke has stopped. She won't go at all. I think she's run down!" Marie called back.
"Try coaxing her," cried the skipper. "Give her something to eat. Hold it in front of her nose."
"I have," answered Marie, "but she won't even look at it."
"Then it's no use," said Father De Smet mournfully. "She's balked and that is all there is to it. We'll just have to wait until she is ready to go again. When she has made up her mind she is as difficult to persuade as a setting hen."
Mother De Smet's head appeared beside her husband's over the boat-rail.
"Oh, dear!" said she; "I hoped we should get to the other side of the line before dark, but if Netteke's set, she's set, and we must just make the best of it. It's lucky it's dinner-time. We'll eat, and maybe by the time we are through she'll be willing to start." Father De Smet tossed a bucket on to the grass.
"Give her a good drink," he said, "and come aboard yourselves."
Jan filled the bucket from the river and set it down before Netteke, but she was in no mood for blandishments. She kept her ears back and would not touch the water.
"All right, then, Crosspatch," said Jan. Leaving the pail in front of her, he went back to the boat. The gangplank was put out, and he and Marie went on board. They found dinner ready in the tiny cabin, and because it was so small and stuffy, and there were too many of them, anyway, to get into it comfortably, they each took a bowl of soup as Mother De Smet handed it to them and sat down on the deck in front of the cabin to eat it. It was not until the middle of the afternoon that Netteke forgot her injuries, consented to eat and drink, and indicated her willingness to move on toward Antwerp.