“IN ONE HAND A HAIR-BRUSH, IN THE OTHER A COMB.”
In the first-class sat eight boys, between the ages of twelve and fifteen. But it soon became apparent that six of the eight were mere lay figures; the questions were addressed to all, but the answers, evidently, expected from Anton van Duijn and William Ochtenraat only.
They represented two distinct types, as they sat there side by side. William had a fresh, rosy face, large blue eyes, and a white forehead, crowned with blonde curls,—he was a prize specimen of a Dutch boy. Anton, with his dark hair and jet-black eyes, clear-cut brown face, and tall slight figure, was a handsome sinjo; for he had inherited his looks more from his Creole mother than his Dutch father.
Mevrouw Ochtenraat had spoken truth when she assured Mevrouw van Duijn just now that it gave her much pleasure to see how clever and hard-working Anton was.
To-day, however, it seemed as though Anton did not know so much more than his schoolfellow. Was it the fault of the questions put by the master, who seemed still more agitated than common, and became so amazingly tragic in his simplest movements and gestures that he seemed to be reciting one of Racine’s tragedies rather than conducting a school examination?
Or was it the way the master knitted his brows and rolled his eyes, wriggled and writhed and stretched himself, that confused Anton?
Or could it have been the little piece of paper that had just been put into his hand, and on which Heer Hendriks had written in pencil, “Keep cool, don’t let them make you lose your head!”—could that have been the reason why Anton every now and then failed to answer a question?
William Ochtenraat, on the other hand, seemed in particularly good spirits that morning. Again and again the master managed to bring him round to one or other of the few subjects in which he was at home. He made him tell the story of Alexander the Great’s horse, and of the faithful hound who died on the grave of William the Silent, and, finally, of the turf-boat by means of which Breda was surprised. William’s eyes sparkled as he told of Bucephalus; and his mother would have liked to kiss him when he nearly choked over William of Orange’s dog; and when he laughed over the discomfiture of the Spaniards, the whole room laughed with him.
Meanwhile, poor Anton became more and more uneasy; he no longer nodded encouragingly to his mother, as he had done at first, but his anxious looks sought Heer Hendriks, who was quite as pale as he.
The arithmetic began. Here dogs, horses, and jokes were alike out of place; the thing, therefore, was to ask the Governor’s son as few questions as possible.