Next afternoon on the wide pasture that extended in the east along the land side of the dike, one could see a dark crowd. Now it would stand motionless, now move gradually on, down from the long and low houses lying behind if, as soon as a wooden ball had twice shot forth from it over the ground now freed by the bright sun from frost. The teams of the "Eisbosler" were in the middle, surrounded by old and young, by all who lived with them in these houses or up in those of the higher land--the older men in long coats, pensively smoking their short pipes, the women in shawls or jackets, some leading children by the hand or carrying them on their arms. From the frozen ditches, which were being crossed gradually, the pale light of the afternoon sun was gleaming through the sharp points of the sedges. It was keen frost, but the game went on uninterruptedly, and the eyes of all were again and again following the flying ball, for upon it depended the honor of the whole village for the day. The score-keepers of the two sides carried a white stick with an iron point for the home team, a black one of the same kind for the team of the people from the upper land. Where the ball ended its flight, the stick was driven into the frozen ground, accompanied, as it happened, either by silent approval or the derisive laughter of the opposing side; and he whose ball had first reached the goal, had won the game for his team. Little was said by all these people; only when a capital throw had been made, a cry from the young men or women could be heard; sometimes, too, one of the old men would take his pipe out of his mouth and knock with it on the shoulder of the thrower with a few cheering words: "That was a good throw, said Zacharias, and threw his wife out of the door!" or: "That's the way your father threw, too; God bless him in eternity!" or some other friendly saying. Hauke had no luck with his first throw: just as he was swinging his arm backward in order to hurl off the ball, a cloud sailed away which had covered the sun so that now its bright beams shot into his eyes; the throw was too short, the ball fell on a ditch and remained stuck in the ice. "That doesn't count! That doesn't count! Hauke, once more!" called his partners. But the score-keeper of the people from the high land protested against this: "It'll have to count; a throw is a throw!" "Ole! Ole Peters!" cried the young folks of the marshes. "Where is Ole? Where the devil is he?" But there he was: "Don't scream so! Does Hauke have to be patched up somewhere? I thought as much." "Never mind! Hauke has to throw again; now show that your tongue is good for something!"