Poor Jacob! If that willing Mrs. Poot had only appeared just then, her services would have been invaluable. It was as much as the boys could do to hoist him into the boat. All were in at last. The schipper, puffing away at his pipe, let out the sail, lifted the brake, and sat in the stern with folded arms. “Whew! How fast we go!” cried Ben. “This is something like! Feel better, Jacob?” “Much petter, I tanks you.” “Oh, you’ll be as good as new in ten minutes. This makes a fellow feel like a bird.” Jacob nodded and blinked his eyes. “Don’t go to sleep, Jacob, it’s too cold. You might never wake up, you know. Persons often freeze to death in that way.” “I no sleep,” said Jacob confidently, and in two minutes he was snoring. Carl and Ludwig laughed. “We must wake him!” cried Ben. “It is dangerous, I tell you--Jacob! Ja-a-c--” Captain Peter interfered, for three of the boys were helping Ben for the fun of the thing. “Nonsense! Don’t shake him! Let him alone, boys. One never snores like that when one’s freezing. Cover him up with something. Here, this cloak will do. Hey, schipper?” and he looked toward the stern for permission to use it. The man nodded. “There,” said Peter, tenderly adjusting the garment, “let him sleep. He will be as frisky as a lamb when he wakes. How far are we from Leyden, schipper?” “Not more’n a couple of pipes,” replied a voice, rising from smoke like the genii in fairy tales (puff! puff!). “Likely not more’n one an’ a half”--puff! puff!--“if this wind holds.” Puff! puff! puff! “What is the man saying, Lambert?” asked Ben, who was holding his mittened hands against his cheeks to ward off the cutting air. “He says we’re about two pipes from Leyden. Half the boors here on the canal measure distance by the time it takes them to finish a pipe.” “How ridiculous.” “See here, Benjamin Dobbs,” retorted Lambert, growing unaccountably indignant at Ben’s quiet smile. “See here, you’ve a way of calling every other thing you see on THIS side of the German ocean ‘ridiculous.’ It may suit YOU, this word, but it doesn’t suit ME. When you want anything ridiculous, just remember your English custom of making the Lord Mayor of London, at his installation, count the nails in a horseshoe to prove HIS LEARNING.” “Who told you we had any such custom as that?” cried Ben, looking grave in an instant. “Why, I KNOW it, no use of anyone telling me. It’s in all the books--and it’s true. It strikes me,” continued Lambert, laughing in spite of himself, “that you have been kept in happy ignorance of a good many ridiculous things on YOUR side of the map.” “Humph!” exclaimed Ben, trying not to smile. “I’ll inquire into that Lord Mayor business when I get home. There must be some mistake. B-r-r-roooo! How fast we’re going. This is glorious!”