“You talk so fast dat I has nottings to zay mitout speaking. Vell, I takes dem. Py Shoseph, if tey ish not goot, I kills you mit a mistake, shure!”
“I’ve half a mind to take it back. I think—”
“Nix, splitzen, nean; I puys dem goots. Dey ish mine. Vive-unt-sax; dere it ish.”
“Well, take them,” said Boston, with a sigh of resignation. “I lose by you, but I gave you my word, and you may have them.”
Having thus effected a sale of the articles, which were dear at eighteen pence, Boston lifted his pack and proceeded blithely on his way, while Hans Drinker hurried away to display his treasures, and chuckle over his bargain. Boston was not fated to proceed far, when he was arrested by a yell from a house by the roadside.
“Holt on, dere! you sleutzen Yankee, holt on!”
“He-he,” chuckled Boston, “That’s old Swedlepipe. Now he will give me rats about that horse.”
As he spoke, the person who had stopped him threw open the door of his cottage, and rushed out into the road. He was a stout-built old man, very red in the face, and flourishing a staff over his head.
“Dear me,” cried Boston. “Is it possible that I see my dear friend Mynheer Swedlepipe? Give me your hand, mynheer. This is, indeed, a sight for sore eyes.”