“Ask for a deposit!” cried Walter quickly, rejoiced that he knew something. It’s doubtful if he knew what he was to draw the line through.
“Yes, a deposit. A florin a week for a volume. Then, you understand, when a volume’s gone, the cake’s dough with that volume. Later I will explain to you everything about the cigars and tobacco; but first I must know whether your mother—ask her right away! And now I’ve explained everything to you at least half a dozen times. For there’s no lack of boys that want to go into business; but when it comes to Moses and the Prophets—then they set the bow-sails. And that’s the main thing. Otherwise you look a little delicate, but I must know first if your mother can deposit a caution. Adieu!”
Walter went home in a peculiar frame of mind. At first the family did not think favorably of that “cash security.” Stoffel, however, had often heard of such things, and negotiations were opened with the said firm. It was finally agreed that a deposit of one hundred florins should be made, for which the firm agreed to pay 3½% interest. Juffrouw Pieterse was not quite satisfied with this, as she was accustomed to getting 4%; but “one must do something for one’s children.”
Stoffel, who represented the Pieterses in these negotiations, was surprised that he never got to see more than the first half of the firm—or, better, the first third. He even took the liberty of remarking on the peculiar circumstance, when he learned that the “Co.” was merely ornamental, while “Business” existed only in Mr. Motto’s imagination. In fact that handsome and worthy gentleman alone constituted the “responsible business firm,” and like an Atlas carried on his broad shoulders all the responsibilities incident to such a complicated and extensive undertaking. It was quite natural that he should desire to put a part of the burden on the back of some diligent, reliable Protestant boy, who could furnish cash security. For that was “the main thing.”
On the library side Walter developed a diligence against which only one thing could be urged: it was prejudicial to the tobacco industry adjoining. If he had smoked as much as he read, he would have made himself sick; and even his reading wasn’t the best thing in the world for his health.
He devoured everything indiscriminately—whether ripe or green. Most of that literary fruit was green. In a short time he was able to foretell the fate of the hero with a certainty that would have piqued the author. The cleverest literary craftsman couldn’t let the poor orphan boy be as poor as a church mouse for ten pages, but that Walter would see the flashing of the stars and knightly crucifixes with which he was to be decked out on the last page. One might think this would cause him to lose interest in the book; but, no! He was constant to the end—to the official triumph. For him it would have been a sin to call to the Saxons and Normans a second too soon: “See if Ivanhoe isn’t going to smash that big-mouthed Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert!” And all the time he felt as if he were—Ivanhoe? No, as if he were the deity, who must give the hero strength to overcome that infamous scoundrel, Brian de Bois-Guilbert.
Then all at once the door-bell would ring, and the magnanimous Walter would have to occupy himself with things less chivalrous.
The only thing he could do in such moments was to weigh accurately, and not give anybody a cigar from the “tens” instead of from the “eights.” Such conscienciousness, however, was futile, for in the cigar-boxes were cigars that ought to have been called “twenties.” Mr. Motto said that the customers were usually drunk, and that it was all right to give them cabbage leaves to smoke. “You must size up your customer. That’s the main thing.”
This was something Walter never could learn. With him, ten was ten, eight eight—no matter who the customer was. To take an unfair advantage, or tell a lie never occurred to him. From fear or embarrassment he might possibly tell an untruth; but if he had been asked a second time——
As strange as it may seem, this aversion to lying and deception was nourished by the books he read. The brave knight fought till he was victorious, or dead. Only the fatally wounded surrendered. All this had Walter’s hearty endorsement: He would not have acted differently. The beautiful heroine was loved by everybody; and the rejected suitors died of despair, or joined some desperate band. All quite proper. The good remained steadfast, in spite of the Devil and all his machinations—yes, in spite of tedium. Once selected by the author to be a high-toned, moral hero—then spotless garments! Walter wondered if such a one could have a pain in the stomach, or suffer other inconvenience. Certainly not in books!