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Updated: May 18, 2025
And don't you pester yourself on account of old Billy Oarew's palsy. A man's nimble enough in the legs when he can git to the dimmy-john." "Well, I'm sorry for Jack, Sister Jane," exclaimed the Squire, heartily. "I am, from the bottom of my heart. The boy is too lonesome in his ways. He needs comp'ny; he needs to be holp up, Sister Jane. He does, certain and shore."
An' I motioned ter Pig-wigs ter come quick I hed fund suthin'. An' ez Pig-wigs couldn't put the deedie down, he laid the grant on top o' the boards ez kivered the pit. But the wind war brief, an' kem mighty nigh blowin' that grant away. So Pig-wigs jes' stuck it down 'twixt two planks, an' kem ter holp me ketch the rabbit. But Pig-wigs warn't no 'count ter holp. An' the rabbit got away.
Ah jes' couldn't holp worryin', Marse Kenneth, 'bout you all. Ah sez to mahself, ef Marse Kenneth he ain' got no fitten place to lay his weary haid " "Oh, then you were not kept awake by noises or by the by, did you hear any noises?" "Noises? No, SUH! Dis yere cabin hit was like a grave. Thass what kep' me awake, mos' likely. Ah reckon Ah is used to noises.
Heah's plenty o' cawn pone, hom'ny, bacon an' taters, I reckon; 'sides cawn an' oats an' stable room fur yer nag. All we ax is thet you nevah say board to us agin. But, ef you like," he added kindly, "you kin holp Henry an' Cissy some o' nights in ther books, an' mek a hand to wuck roads, one Sat'dy in each month tell snow comes."
"I tell yer, Marse John," he resumed, after a thoughtful pause, "dey's one word o' ole marster's I don'no' huccome it slipped my min', but hit was a long glorified word, an' I often wishes hit'd come back ter me. Ef I could ricollec' dat word, hit'd holp me powerful in my preachin'. "Wonder ef you wouldn't call out a few dic'sh'nary words fur me, please, sir? Maybe you mought strike it."
Henry'll holp you Sat'days to cl'ar off breshwood an' cut down trees, so's to let in the sun to dry yer ground in time fer yer spring plowin'. I'll spar' you Rube an' Tom this wintah sometimes, when thar ain't much a-doin' at home, an' you kin hev the ox team, too, to haul off the bresh.
"We can stop at Haarlem, Jacob, and show your cousin the big organ," said Peter van Holp eagerly, "and at Leyden, too, where there's no end to the sights; and spend a day and night at the Hague, for my married sister, who lives there, will be delighted to see us; and the next morning we can start for home." "All right!" responded Jacob, who was not much of a talker.
The bugle sends forth its blast, loud, clear, and ringing. Off go the boys. "Mein Gott!" cries a tough old fellow from Delft. "They beat every thing, these Amsterdam youngsters. See them!" See them, indeed! They are winged Mercuries, every one of them. What mad errand are they on? Ah, I know: they are hunting Peter van Holp. He is some fleet-footed runaway from Olympus.
Almost at the same moment the wood-cutter who had gone out to attend to the stock appeared at the door of the stable and called out to Rodney: "Say, you Louisanner fellar, where's your critter?" And then he stopped and looked at Nels. "Do you say the prisoner has lit out?" he shouted. "Then he's done took another hoss to holp him on his way."
With natural pride, Hans turns to see if Peter van Holp is witnessing his sister's triumph. Peter is not looking toward them at all. He is kneeling, bending his troubled face low, and working hastily at his skate-strap. Hans is beside him at once. "Are you in trouble, mynheer?" "Ah, Hans! that you? Yes, my fun is over.
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