The burgomaster looked at his factotum with a paternal air of approbation.
“Kobus!” said he, “something may be made of you yet!”
“Does your worship think that?” cried Kobus, in an ecstasy,—and a rosy prospect instantly appeared before his mind’s eye—chief agent in a large town, commissioner of police, nay, perhaps,—but that he would not have dared to say out loud for any money in the world,—perhaps, one day, even burgomaster!
“But now to business, Kobus! This very night we will try to catch the thief; and my name is not Gerrit Rond if we don’t succeed. We’ll hide in Jan’s orchard, and when he comes we’ll collar him, and then....”
Here the burgomaster-detective pointed downwards. Under the tower of the court-house there was a vault or cellar of masonry, which usually served as a receptacle for old iron and thieves; the latter destination, however, was unknown, save by tradition, for only the very oldest inhabitants of the village dimly remembered an evil-doer being imprisoned there.
Kobus then suggested that it might be as well to take his son Hannes with him on their expedition, a suggestion which might have been unkindly interpreted by outsiders, for there were unpleasant reports current about the brave garde-champêtre’s reluctance to pursue criminals alone. The suggestion, however, found favour in the eyes of the magistrate, as it would enable them to take forty winks while the boy watched for the appearance of the thief. This being settled, Kobus withdrew, to reappear at the appointed time that evening. But he had not been gone long when a loud knocking startled the burgomaster out of an incipient reverie.
“Come in!” he cried, somewhat ungraciously, and the opening door revealed Kobus’s bearded face; but this time with so scared an expression, and such wildly rolling eyes, that Gerrit turned rigid with terror and, pale as death, held on to the back of his chair for support, as he stammered,
“Wh—wh—what is it, Kobus?”
“Burrgemeesterr,” rolled out Kobus, hoarsely, making as much as possible of the r’s, and putting his head round the door without coming into the room, “the thief of the apples that were stolen from Piet Stein a year and a half ago, and this thief of the pears....”
“The same,” sighed the burgomaster, struck with consternation.