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Updated: May 28, 2025
At Elm Street a couple of fellows jostled against me, and when the mix-up was over the parcel containing my two sample records was gone. That was all that had been wanted; my watch, pin, and money had not been touched. "It was plain, then, that some one had an interest in preventing my tracing up these particular records. Not Hugens, of course, but his client, whoever he might be.
"Nay, Hartog," answered Hugens, whom the others now pushed forward to be their spokesman, "there must be an end to such talk. We shall never get away from this valley. What need then for so much rule when death is certain?" "Certain it is for thee," cried Hartog, placing his hand on Hugen's shoulder, and tightening his grip so that the man winced with pain.
Then he rose, and stretched himself; drawing himself up to his full height, he stood before me, the finest specimen of a man I have ever met. "You are right, Peter," he said. "I deserve the scolding you have given me. Show me the man who will not obey me, and I will talk to him." Now there was one, Hoft Hugens, a Swede, who had made himself a leader among the mutinous and lazy crew.
I had intended dealing with this man myself, but it now occurred to me that his schooling would serve to rouse Hartog from his apathy. "If you must know, then," I answered, "it is Hoft Hugens to whom the men look as leader." The next minute Hartog was striding through the town, a native club in his hand, which he had taken from the Queen's house.
Hartog released Hugens, and, hurrying to the Queen's house, shortly afterwards returned with his spyglass, with which he anxiously scanned the horizon. "God be thanked, Peter," he said presently, "our ship is coming back to us, convoyed by a frigate."
Ascending the grand staircase, the boys soon found themselves in a rather gloomy apartment, containing the masterpiece of Lucas van Leyden, or Hugens, a Dutch artist born three hundred and seventy years ago, who painted well when he was ten years of age and became distinguished in art when only fifteen.
But after spending a blank week interviewing the makers of phonographic records I began to feel doubtful of my economic theory. Nowhere could I find the slightest trace of this particular job of record-making. And then one day I ran across a chap named Hugens, who was in the business in a small way. His place was three blocks east of the Bowery, but I've forgotten the name of the cross street.
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