Boston came into Good Hope on a bright morning in the early part of the month of June. His pack had been replenished in Hartford, and he hoped to diminish its contents among the Dutch. He was a middle-sized, active-looking man, about forty years of age, clad in a suit of gray homespun. His pack was, as usual strapped upon his back, while he led a forlorn-looking Narragansett pony, which paced slowly along behind its master, like a captive led to the stake. Boston had some misgivings that certain things sold to these people must have come to grief since his last visit. But this was not by any means the first time he had been tackled by them for selling bad wares, and he never was at a loss for an answer. The families of the Dutch had built up a little village about the fort, and he entered boldly. The first man he met was an unmistakable Teuton, with a broad, bulky figure, built after the manner of Wouter Von Twiller, then Governor of New Netherlands. This individual at once rushed upon the Yankee, exhibiting the blade of a knife, severed from the handle. “Ah-ha, Yankee! You see dat, eh? You sell dat knife to me; you sheat me mit dat knife.” “You git eout,” replied the Yankee. “I never sold you _that_ knife!” “Yaw! Dat ish von lie; dat ish von _pig_ lie! You vas sell dat knife mit me.” Boston lowered the pack from his shoulder and took the despised blade in his hand. “Now then, Dutchy, what’s the matter with this knife, I should like to know?” “Donner unt blitzen! Das ish von big sheat knife. Goot for nix. Das knife not coot preat, py Shoseph!” “How did you break it?” asked the peddler, fitting the pieces of the knife together and taking a wire from his pocket. “This is a good knife, I reckon. You broke the rivet. Now look at me, and see how far we are in advance of you in the arts and sciences. I tell you, Hans Drinker, you don’t know any thing about these matters—blamed if you do.” As he spoke, he took out a pair of pincers, riveted the blade in, pounded it, and held up the knife for inspection. “Look at that, neow, Hans Drinker. Any one but a Dutchman would have done that long ago, instead of waiting for a poor fellow who sold you the knife at a _sacrifice_.” “Vat ish dat, eh? I no care for dat? I says de knife vill not cut preat,” cried Hans. “See here—where have you had this knife? You put it in hot water, I know. Tell the truth and shame the adversary—didn’t you, now?” “Vell, I did; but dat no hurt.” “All you know. Of _course_ it hurts! What do you expect a knife to be that you can buy for a shilling, English money? It took the temper out of it, I allow.” “Vat ish demper?” “Never you mind. That knife is spoiled, and I know how. I wouldn’t give an English penny for it to-day. For why? A Dutchman don’t know how to use a knife. Consequence—he spoils it.”