“ADMIRAL DE RUYTER.”
Dominie Pennewip could not trust his own eyes. He turned the sheet over and looked at the back, to see if the Virtue he had given Wouter as a subject was hidden there.
Alas, alas! there was no trace of virtue in Wouter’s composition.
Poor wig!
Yes—poor wig! For after having made it to undergo what no wig ever underwent before,—after having tugged, plucked, ill-used, and tormented it to an extent which would have taken more than the imagination of the whole De Wilde family to conceive,—Dominie Pennewip tore it from his head, doubled it up between his convulsively clenched hands,—stammered, “Heaven and earth! Gracious goodness! where in nature did he pick that up?”—banged it down on his head again, clapped his venerable three-cornered hat atop of it, and flew out of the front door like a man possessed. He went straight to the Pieterses’ house.
Juffrouw Pieterse, Wouter’s mother, had been entertaining a few of her friends and neighbours at a “little evening,” with tea and cake.
“Good evening, Juffrouw Pieterse; I am your obedient servant. I see you have company,—but——”
“Don’t mention it, sir! Just come in and sit down!... Will you take a cup with us—sage-milk?”
“Juffrouw Pieterse,” replied the master, solemnly, “I did not come here to drink sage-milk!”
“But please sit down, Dominie——”