It was the middle of the night. The fire had shivered itself to death, and, in place of its gleams, little squares of moonlight lay upon the floor, slowly, slowly shifting their way across the room. Something else was moving also, but the boys did not see it. Sleeping boys keep but a poor lookout. During the early hours of the night, Jacob Poot had been gradually but surely winding himself with all the bed covers. He now lay like a monster chrysalis beside the half-frozen Peter, who, accordingly, was skating with all his might over the coldest, bleakest of dreamland icebergs. Something else, I say, besides the moonlight, was moving across the bare, polished floor--moving not quite so slowly, but quite as stealthily. Wake up, Ludwig! The voetspoelen is growing real! No. Ludwig does not waken, but he moans in his sleep. Does not Carl hear it--Carl the brave, the fearless? No. Carl is dreaming of the race. And Jacob? Van Mounen? Ben? Not they. They, too, are dreaming of the race, and Katrinka is singing through their dreams--laughing, flitting past them; now and then a wave from the great organ surges through their midst. Still the thing moves, slowly, slowly. Peter! Captain Peter, there is danger! Peter heard no call, but in his dream, he slid a few thousand feet from one iceberg to another, and the shock awoke him. Whew! How cold he was! He gave a hopeless, desperate tug at the chrysalis in vain. Sheet, blanket, and spread were firmly wound around Jacob’s inanimate form. Clear moonlight, he thought. We shall have pleasant weather tomorrow. Halloo! What’s that? He saw the moving thing, or rather something black crouching upon the floor, for it had halted as Peter stirred. He watched in silence. Soon it moved again, nearer and nearer. It was a man crawling upon hands and feet! The captain’s first impulse was to call out, but he took an instant to consider matters. The creeper had a shining knife in one hand. This was ugly, but Peter was naturally self-possessed. When the head turned, Peter’s eyes were closed as if in sleep, but at other times, nothing could be keener, sharper than the captain’s gaze. Closer, closer crept the robber. His back was very near Peter now. The knife was laid softly upon the floor. One careful arm reached forth stealthily to drag the clothes from the chair by the captain’s bed--the robbery was commenced. Now was Peter’s time! Holding his breath, he sprang up and leaped with all his strength upon the robber’s back, stunning the rascal with the force of the blow. To seize the knife was but a second’s work. The robber began to struggle, but Peter sat like a giant astride the prostrate form. “If you stir,” said the brave boy in as terrible a voice as he could command, “stir but one inch, I will plunge this knife into your neck. Boys! Boys! Wake up!” he shouted, still pressing down the black head and holding the knife at pricking distance. “Give us a hand! I’ve got him!”