By the time the boys reached the village of Voorhout which stands near the grand canal, about half-way between the Hague and Haarlem, they were forced to hold a council. The wind, though moderate at first, had grown stronger and stronger, until at last they could hardly skate against it. The weather-vanes throughout the country had evidently entered into a conspiracy.
"No use trying to face such a blow as this," said Ludwig. "It cuts its way down a man's throat like a knife."
"Keep your mouth shut, then," grunted the affable Carl, who was strong-chested as a young ox. "I'm for keeping on."
"In this case," interposed Peter, "we must consult the weakest of the party rather than the strongest."
The captain's principle was all right, but its application was not flattering to Master Ludwig; shrugging his shoulders, he retorted:
"Who's weak? Not I, for one—but the wind's stronger than any of us. I hope you'll condescend to admit that!"
"Ha! ha!" laughed Van Mounen, who could barely keep his feet, "so it is."
Just then the weather-vanes telegraphed to each other by a peculiar twitch—and, in an instant, the gust came. It nearly threw the strong-chested Carl; it almost strangled Jacob; and quite upset Ludwig.
"This settles the question," shouted Peter; "off with your skates! We'll go into Voorhout."
At Voorhout they found a little inn with a big yard. The yard was well bricked, and better than all, was provided with a complete set of skittles, so our boys soon turned the detention into a frolic. The wind was troublesome even in that sheltered quarter, but they were on good standing-ground—and did not mind it.