Who is first? Not Rychie, Katrinka, Annie, nor Hilda, nor the girl in yellow--but Gretel--Gretel, the fleetest sprite of a girl that ever skated. She was but playing in the earlier race, _now_ she is in earnest, or rather something within her has determined to win. That lithe little form makes no effort; but it cannot stop--not until the goal is passed! In vain the crier lifts his voice--he cannot be heard. He has no news to tell--it is already ringing through the crowd. _Gretel has won the Silver Skates!_ Like a bird she has flown over the ice, like a bird she looks about her in a timid, startled way. She longs to dart to the sheltered nook where her father and mother stand. But Hans is beside her--the girls are crowding round. Hilda's kind, joyous voice breathes in her ear. From that hour, none will despise her. Goose-girl or not, Gretel stands acknowledged Queen of the Skaters! 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. I tried to tighten my strap--to make a new hole--and this botheration of a knife has cut it nearly in two." "Mynheer," said Hans, at the same time pulling off a skate--"you must use my strap!" "Not I, indeed, Hans Brinker," cried Peter, looking up, "though I thank you warmly. Go to your post, my friend, the bugle will sound in a minute." "Mynheer," pleaded Hans in a husky voice, "you have called me your friend. Take this strap--quick! There is not an instant to lose. I shall not skate this time--indeed I am out of practice. Mynheer, you _must_ take it"--and Hans blind and deaf to any remonstrance, slipped his strap into Peter's skate and implored him to put it on. "Come, Peter!" cried Lambert, from the line, "we are waiting for you." "For madame's sake," pleaded Hans, "be quick. She is motioning to you to join the racers. There the skate is almost on; quick, mynheer, fasten it. I could not possibly win. The race lies between Master Schummel and yourself." "You are a noble fellow, Hans!" cried Peter yielding at last. He sprang to his post just as the white handkerchief fell to the ground. The bugle sends forth its blast, loud, clear and ringing. Off go the boys! "Mine gott," cries a tough old fellow from Delft. "They beat everything, 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. Mercury and his troop of winged cousins are in full chase. They will catch him! Now Carl is the runaway--the pursuit grows furious--Ben is foremost!