“Four. But see here. I ain’t given you inducement to buy, it seems. Rot me ef I don’t think you are about the toughest tree I ever tried to climb. Now look at me, and see a man always ready to sacrifice himself for the good of the people. Here are a pair of combs. They are worth money—they are _good_ combs. I throw them into the pile, and what else? Here is a good pair of shoe-buckles. I throw them in, and beg you to take the pile away for six shillings. You won’t? I thought so. You ain’t capable of it, more’s the pity. I’ll again hurt my own feelings by saying five-and-six. If you don’t take them at that I must shut up my pack. Hans Drinker, you were born to good luck. I don’t think, upon my word and honor, that any one ever had such a chance since the days of Noah. I don’t, sart’inly.” “You talk so fast dat I has nottings to zay mitout speaking. Vell, I takes dem. Py Shoseph, if tey ish not goot, I kills you mit a mistake, shure!” “I’ve half a mind to take it back. I think—” “Nix, splitzen, nean; I puys dem goots. Dey ish mine. Vive-unt-sax; dere it ish.” “Well, take them,” said Boston, with a sigh of resignation. “I lose by you, but I gave you my word, and you may have them.” Having thus effected a sale of the articles, which were dear at eighteen pence, Boston lifted his pack and proceeded blithely on his way, while Hans Drinker hurried away to display his treasures, and chuckle over his bargain. Boston was not fated to proceed far, when he was arrested by a yell from a house by the roadside. “Holt on, dere! you sleutzen Yankee, holt on!” “He-he,” chuckled Boston, “That’s old Swedlepipe. Now _he_ will give me rats about that horse.” As he spoke, the person who had stopped him threw open the door of his cottage, and rushed out into the road. He was a stout-built old man, very red in the face, and flourishing a staff over his head. “Dear me,” cried Boston. “Is it possible that I see my dear friend Mynheer Swedlepipe? Give me your hand, mynheer. This is, indeed, a sight for sore eyes.” “It vill be a sight for sore heads, pefore you go, or else my name is not Paul Swedlepipe. Vat you do, you Yankee rascal? You comes to Good Hope mid your flimpsy goots, unt sell dem to honest Dootchmen. I vill preak every pone in your skin.” “Now, Mynheer Swedlepipe, my dear mynheer, what _have_ I done? Just tell me what I have done? Shake hands.” “You dry to shake hands mit me unt I preak your head. Vat you done to your tear Mynheer Swedlepipe, eh? Vell, den, I dells you. You prings to dish place von old hoss dat ish not vorth _von_ guilder. Hein, you curry him unt you comb him, unt you make him look ver’ nice. I dinks it ish von ver’ goot horse, unt I pays you von hunder guilders! _Sturm unt wetter!_ Ish dat nottings, eh? _Hagel!_ I kills you deat ash von schmoke-herring.”