But Hans was bidden, and that, too, by a voice he seldom disregarded—his own conscience.
"Here comes the greatest doctor in the world," whispered the voice. "God has sent him; you have no right to buy skates when you might, with the same money, purchase such aid for your father!"
The wooden runners gave an exultant squeak. Hundreds of beautiful skates were gleaming and vanishing in the air above him. He felt the money tingle in his fingers. The old doctor looked fearfully grim and forbidding. Hans' heart was in his throat, but he found voice enough to cry out, just as he was passing:
"Mynheer Boekman!"
The great man halted, and sticking out his thin under lip, looked scowlingly about him.
Hans was in for it now.
"Mynheer," he panted, drawing close to the fierce-looking doctor, "I knew you could be none other than the famous Boekman. I have to ask a great favor——"
"Humph!" muttered the doctor, preparing to skate past the intruder,—"Get out of the way—I've no money—never give to beggars."
"I am no beggar, Mynheer," retorted Hans proudly, at the same time producing his mite of silver with a grand air. "I wish to consult with you about my father. He is a living man, but sits like one dead. He cannot think. His words mean nothing—but he is not sick. He fell on the dykes."
"Hey? what?" cried the doctor beginning to listen.