Direxia Hawkes laid down her duster, and turned a troubled face to the visitor. "There!" she said, "I'm glad you've come, Willy. I can't do nothin' with that man. He ain't eat a thing this day, only just a mossel of toast and a sosser of hominy. It's foolishness, I will say. Mis' Tree may have had her ways, – I expect we all do, if all was known, – but I will say she eat her victuals and relished 'em. I don't see why or wherfore I was left if there ain't anybody ever going to eat anythin' in this house again; there! I don't."

"Oh, Dexy, don't be foolish!" said Will. "I'm coming out this minute to get a doughnut. You will have to live till my wife learns to make as good ones as yours, and that will be some time. Just wait till I see Mr. Homer a minute, and then I'll come out and make love to you, you dear old thing."

Direxia brightened. "Don't she make 'em good?" she asked. "Well, she's young yet. I dono as I had just the hang of 'em when I was her age. Doughnuts is a thing you've got to have the hang of, I've always said."

She retired, beaming, to heap goodies on fine china dishes for her darling, and Jaquith turned his steps toward "the Captain's room." This was a small room looking out over the harbor, and had been Captain Tree's special sanctum. It was fitted like a ship's cabin, with lockers and swinging shelves, all in teak-wood and brass. On the walls were ranged telescopes, spyglasses, and speaking-trumpets of all sizes and varieties, and over the desk hung a picture of the good ship Marcia D. of Quahaug, Ethan Tree, master. This picture was a triumph of Japanese embroidery, having been done in colored silks while the ship lay in the harbor of Nagasaki, and, next to his wife's miniature, it was the Captain's most precious possession. The year after it was made, the Marcia D. had gone down in a typhoon in the South Seas: all hands were saved, to be tossed about for three days on a life-raft, and then tossed ashore on a wild island. The bright shells which framed the picture had been picked up by his wife on the shore, where she watched all day for a coming sail, while master and mariners caught fish and turtles, and gathered strange fruits for her, their lady and their queen. Ethan Tree used to say that that week on the island was one of the best in his life, even though he had lost his ship.

"True blue!" he would murmur, looking up at the picture. "She showed her colors that time. She never flinched, little Marcia. Her baby coming, and not a woman or a doctor within a thousand miles; but she never flinched. Only her cheeks flew the flag and her eyes signalled, when I sung out, 'Sail ho!' True blue, little wife!"

Now, instead of the stalwart figure of Captain Tree, the slender form of Mr. Homer Hollopeter occupied, but did not fill, the chair beneath the picture. The little gentleman sat huddled disconsolately over some papers, and it was a melancholy face that he lifted in response to Will Jaquith's cheery "How are you, Mr. Homer? pretty well this morning?"

Mr. Homer sighed. "I thank you, William, I thank you!" he said. "My corporal envelope is, I am obliged to you, robust; – a – vigorous; – a – exempt for the moment from the ills that flesh is heir to – Shakespeare; we perceive that even our greatest did not disdain upon occasion to conclude a phrase with a preposition, though the practice is one generally reprehended; – a – condemned; – a – denied the sanction of the critics of our own day. I trust you find yourself in health and spirits, William?"

"Capital!" said Will. "Lily and I and the boy, all as well as can be. I have brought the mail, Mr. Homer. I thought you might not feel like coming down this morning, as you were not well yesterday."

As he spoke, he laid the mail-bag on the table, and, seating himself, proceeded to unlock it. Mr. Homer's eyes brightened in spite of himself; his face grew animated. "That was kind of you, William!" he said. "That was – a – considerate; that was – a – benevolent. I am greatly obliged to you; greatly obliged to you."

He opened the bag with trembling fingers, and began to sort the letters it contained.

"The occupation of twenty years," he continued, plaintively, "is not to be relinquished lightly. If I did not feel that I was leaving it in worthy hands, I – ah! here is a letter for Susan Jennings, from her son. There is an enclosure, William. Probably Jacob is doing better, and is sending his mother a little money. She is a worthy woman, a worthy woman; I rejoice for Susan. A dutiful son, sir, is an oasis in the desert; a – fountain in a sandy place; a – a number of gratifying things which I cannot at this moment name. You were a dutiful son, William. That must be an unspeakable satisfaction to you, now that your sainted mother has – a – departed; has – a – gone from us; has – a – ascended on wings of light to the empyrean. You were a dutiful son, sir."

William Jaquith colored high. "Not always, Mr. Homer," he said. "In thinking of these late happy years, you must not forget the others that went before. I should be dead, or a castaway, this day, but for Mrs. Tree."

"I rejoice at it, my dear sir!" cried Mr. Homer, his gentle eyes kindling. "That is to say – I would not wish to be understood as – but I am sure you apprehend me, William. I would say that my respect, my – a – reverence, my – a – affection and admiration for my cousin Marcia, sir, are enhanced a hundredfold by the knowledge of what she did for you. It cheers me, sir; it – a – invigorates me; it – a – causes a bud of spring to blow in a bosom which – a – was sealed, as I may say, with ice of – a – in short, with ice: – a – what is that pink envelope, William?"

"For Joe Breck, sir; from S. E. Willow, South Verona. That is Sophy, I suppose?"

Mr. Homer quivered with pleasure as he took the long, slim note in his hand. "This is from Sophia!" he said. "Sophia Willow is a sweet creature, William; – a – dewy flower, as the lamented Keats has it; a – milk-white lamb that bleats for man's protection, as he also observes. And Joseph Breck, sir, is a worthy youth. He has 'sighed and looked and sighed again' (Dryden, sir! a great poet, though unduly influenced by the age in which he lived) these two years past, I have had reason to think. Of late his letters to Sophia have been more frequent; there was one only yesterday, if you remember, a bulky one, probably containing – a – remarks of a tender nature; – a – outpourings of an ardent description. This is the response. Its rosy hue leads me to hope that it is a favorable one, William. The shape, too: a square envelope has always something of self-assertion about it; but this long, slender, graceful note has in its very appearance something – a – yielding; something – a – acquiescent; something – a – indicative of the budding of the tender passion. I augur happily from the aspect of this note. A – I trust your sentiments accord with mine, William?"

"Yes, indeed, sir," said Will, heartily. "I am sure Sophy would not have the heart to say 'no' on such pretty paper as this; not that I think she ever meant to. But here is a letter for you, Mr. Homer, and this is a long envelope, too, only it is green instead of pink. Postmark Bexley."

Mr. Homer started. "Not Bexley, William!" he said, nervously. "I trust you are mistaken; look again, if you will be so good. I cannot conceive why I should receive a letter from Bexley."

"I'm sorry, sir," replied Will, "but Bexley it is. Would you like me to open it, Mr. Homer?"

Mr. Homer cast a glance of aversion at the green envelope; it certainly was somewhat vivid in tint, and was rather liberally than delicately scented.

"I should be glad if you would do so, William," he said. "I seem to feel – a – less vigorous than when you first came in. I should be obliged if you would look it over, William."

With a glance wherein compassion struggled with amusement, Jaquith opened the letter and glanced through it.

"From Mrs. Pryor," he said, briefly.

Mr. Homer moved uneasily in his seat. "I – a – apprehended as much," he said. "Go on, William."

With another compassionate twinkle, Will complied, and read as follows:

"'My dearest Homer:'"

Mr. Homer winced, and wiped his forehead nervously.

"'Ever since that dreadful day which I will not name, I have been prostrated with grief and mortification; grief on my own account; mortification – I blush to say it – for the sake of one whose present condition seals my lips. Need I say that I allude to Aunt Marcia? For some time I felt that all relations between me and Elmerton must be closed forever.'"

Mr. Homer looked up.

"'But in the end a more Christian spirit prevailed.'"

Mr. Homer looked down again.

"'I have conquered my pride; you can imagine what a struggle it was, for you know what the Darracott pride is, though the Hollopeters only intermarried with us in your grandfather's time. I came out of the struggle a physical wreck.'"

Mr. Homer looked up once more.

"'But with me, as all who know me are aware, flesh is nothing, spirit is all! I have resolved to let bygones be bygones, Homer; to put all this sad and shocking business behind me, and strive to forget that it ever existed. In this spirit, my dear cousin, I write to offer you the affection of a sister.'"

Mr. Homer uttered a hollow groan, and dropped his head in his hands.

"'We are both alone, Homer. My girls are married; and, though the greater portion of my heart is in the grave with Mr. Pryor, enough of it yet breathes to keep a warm corner for you, my nearest living relative. The extraordinary and iniquitous document, which I will not further describe, has laid a heavy burden on your shoulders; and I feel it a duty to give you all the aid in my power in the work of arranging and classifying the collection of worldly trifles by which our late unhappy relative set such store. I, Homer, have outgrown such matters. It is for Aunt Marcia's own sake that I feel, as you must, the necessity of something like an equitable arrangement in regard to all this trumpery. My duty to my children obliges me, much against my will, to protest against Vesta Strong's having all the lace and jewelry. If she had any sense of decency, she would not accept what was clearly the raving of senile dementia. As to the grasping and mercenary spirit shown by her and her husband, I say nothing: let their consciences deal with them, if they own such an article; I am above it.

"'Let me know, dearest Homer, when you are ready for me, and I will come to you on the instant. I will bring an excellent maidservant to replace the old creature, whom I trust you have dismissed ere this. If not, let me urge you strongly to get rid of her at once. She is not a fit person to have charge of you. I feel that the sooner I come to you the better; let us lose no time, so pray write at once, dear Homer, to

"'Your loving cousin,
"'Maria Darracott Pryor.'"

Will's eyes were twinkling as he folded up the letter, but they were very tender as he turned them on Mr. Homer, sitting crumpled like a withered leaf in his chair.

"Cheer up, Mr. Homer!" said the young postmaster. "Look up, my dear friend. You don't suppose we are going to let her come, do you? She shall not put her foot inside the door, I promise you."

Mr. Homer groaned again. "She will come, William!" he said. "I feel it; I know it. She will come, and she will stay. I have not strength to resist her. Oh, Cousin Marcia, Cousin Marcia, you little thought what you were doing when you laid this burden on me. I don't think I can bear it, William! I will go away; I will leave the village. I do – not – think – I can bear it!"

"Oh, I think you can, sir," said Will Jaquith. "Consider the wishes of our dear old friend. Think how hard it would be for us all to see strangers in this house, so full of memories of her. I hope that after awhile you can grow to feel at home, and to be happy here. Then, too, the work will be of a kind that will interest you. The arrangement of all these rare and curious objects, the formation of a museum, – why, Mr. Homer, you are made for the work, and the work for you. Cheer up, my good friend!"

Mr. Homer sighed heavily. "I thank you, William," he said. "I thank you. You are always sympathetic and comforting to me. Your words are – are as balm; as – as dew upon Hermon; as – oil which runs down – " The poor gentleman broke off, and looked piteously at his companion. "My metaphor misleads me," he said. "It is often the case at the present time. I – I am apprehensive that my mind is not what it was; that I am in danger of loss of the intellect; of the – a – power of thought; of the – a – chair, where Reason sits – or in happier days did sit – enthroned. I am a wreck, William, a wreck."

He sighed again, hesitated, and went on. "All you say is true, my friend, and I could, I think, find much interest and even inspiration in the task entrusted to me by my venerated and deplored relative, if – I could do it in my own way: but – I am hampered, sir. I am – trammelled; I am – a – set upon behind and before. The ladies – a – in short – Hark! what is that?"

He started nervously as a knock was heard at the front door, and clutched Will Jaquith's coat with a feverish grasp. "Don't leave me, William!" he cried. "On no account leave me! It is a woman. I – I – cannot be left alone with them. They come about me – like locusts, William! Listen!"

A wheezy, unctuous voice was heard:

"Mr. Hollopeter feelin' any better to-day?"

"No, he ain't," came the reply in Direxia's crisp accents.

"I'm real sorry. I've brought him a little relish to eat with his supper. I made it myself, and it's nourishin' and palatable. Shall I take it in to him?"

"I'll take it," said Direxia. "He won't tetch it, I can tell you that."

"You never can tell," said the voice. "Sometimes a new hand will give victuals a freshness. Besides, Homer must be real lonesome. I'm comin' in to set with him a spell, and maybe read him a chapter. I've ben through affliction myself, Direxia, well you know, and the sufferin' seeks their like. You let me in now! You ain't no right to keep me out, Direxia Hawkes. This ain't your house, and I'll take no sarce from you, so now I tell you."

Mr. Homer started from his seat with a wild look, but Will Jaquith laid a quiet hand on his shoulder.

"Sit still, sir!" he said. "I'll take charge of this one, and Tommy will be back soon. Cheer up, Mr. Homer!"

He passed out. Mr. Homer, listening feverishly, heard a few words spoken in a cheerful, decided voice; then the door closed. Mr. Homer drew a long breath, but started again nervously as Direxia's brown head popped in at the door.

"Mis' Weight brung some stuff," she said, briefly. "Looks like skim-milk blue-monge bet up with tapioky. Want it?"

"No!" cried Mr. Homer, with something as near a snarl as his gentle voice could compass.

"Well, you needn't take my head off!" said Direxia. "I didn't make it. I'll give it to the parrot; he's rugged."

She vanished, and Mr. Homer's head dropped in his hands again.

"Like locusts!" he murmured. "Like locusts! Oh, Cousin Marcia, how could you?"

CHAPTER VII
CONCHOLOGY AND OTHER THINGS

The two trustees had had a busy day. They had just begun upon the collection of shells which for years had lain packed away in boxes in the attic. There were thousands of them, and now as they lay spread out on long tables in the workshop, the glass-covered room where the Captain used to keep his tools and his turning-lathe, Mr. Homer's mind was divided between admiration of their beauty, and dismay at the clumsiness of the names which Tommy Candy read out – painfully, with finger on the page and frequent moppings of an anxious brow, for the polysyllabic was still something of a nightmare to Tommy, spite of his twenty years and his Academy diploma.

"Look at this, Thomas," said Mr. Homer, carefully polishing on his sleeve a whorl of rosy pearl. "Observe this marvel of nature, Thomas! This should have a name of beauty, to match its aspect; a name of – a – poetry; of – divine affluence. 'Aurora's Tear' would, I am of opinion, fitly express this exquisite object. Number 742: how does it stand in the volume, Thomas?"

"Spiral Snork," said Thomas.

Mr. Homer sighed, and laid the shell down. "This is sad, Thomas," he said. "This is – a – painful; this is – a – productive of melancholy. I have never been of the opinion – though it is matter of distress to disagree in any opinion with the immortal Bard of Avon – that 'a rose by any other name' – you are doubtless familiar with the quotation, Thomas. To my mind there is much in a name – much. 'Snork!' The title is repellent; is – a – in a manner suggestive of swine. Pork – snort – snork! the connotation is imperative, I am of opinion. How, why, I ask you, Thomas, should such a name be applied to this exquisite object?"

"Named for Simeon Snork, mariner, who first brought it to England," said Tommy, his finger on the paragraph. "Rare: value ten pounds sterling."

The little gentleman sighed again. "We must put the name down, Thomas," he said. "We must write it clearly and legibly; duty compels us so to do. But do you think that we should be violating our trust if we suggested – possibly in smaller type – the alternative, 'sometimes known as Aurora's Tear'? There could be no harm in that, I fancy, Thomas? It is known as Aurora's Tear to me. I can never bring myself to think of this delicate production of – nature's loom – as 'Spiral – a – Snork.' My spirit rebels; – a – revolts; – a – "

"Jibs?" suggested Tommy Candy.

"I was about to say 'rises up in opposition,'" said Mr. Homer, gently. "Your expression is terse, Thomas, but – a – more colloquial than I altogether – but it is terse, and perhaps expressive. You see no objection to writing the alternative, Thomas?"

"None in life!" said Tommy. "Have ten of 'em if you like, Mr. Homer; give folks their choice."

"A – I think not, Thomas," said Mr. Homer. "I am of opinion that that would be unadvisable. We will put the single alternative, if you please. I thank you. Now to proceed. Here again."

He selected another shell, breathed on it, and rubbed it on his coat-sleeve.

"Here again is an exquisite – a – emanation from nature's loo – I would rather say from nature's workshop. Observe, Thomas, the rich blending of hues, violet and crimson, in this beautiful object. I trust that we shall be more fortunate this time in the matter of nomenclature. Number 743, Thomas. How is it set down in the book?"

"Hopkins's Blob," said Tommy.

"Dear! dear!" said Mr. Homer. "This is sad, Thomas; this is sad, indeed. Blob! a most unlovely word. And yet" – he paused for a moment – "it rhymes – it rhymes with 'sob.' Do me the favor to pause an instant, Thomas. I have an idea: a – an effluence; – a – an abstraction of the spirit into the realms of poesy."

He was silent, while Tommy Candy watched him with twinkling gray eyes. At first the little gentleman's face wore a look of intense gravity; but soon it lightened. He passed his hand twice or thrice across his brow, and sighed, a long, happy sigh; then he turned a beaming look on his companion.

"I do not know, my young friend," he said, mildly, "whether you have ever given much thought to – a – the Muse; but it may interest you to note the manner in which she occasionally wings her flight. A moment ago, this gracious object" – he waved the shell gently – "was, so far as we are aware, unsung; – a – uncelebrated; – a – lacking its meed of mellifluous expression. Now – but you shall judge, sir. In this brief moment of silence, the following lines crystallized in my brain. Ahem!"

He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and folded his hands meekly; then began to recite in a kind of runic chant:

"The poet-heart doth sigh,
The poet-soul doth sob,
To see a sight
Of beauty bright
Oppressed by name of 'blob'!

"O cacophonic crowd!
O unmellifluous mob!
The poet's lip
Would nectar sip,
But scorns to browse on 'blob'!

The expression is condensed," said Mr. Homer, with modest pride; "but I am of opinion that condensation often lends strength; – a – are you also of that opinion, Thomas?"

"Every time!" said Tommy Candy.

Mr. Homer looked bewildered, but bowed gently, accepting the commendation expressed in Tommy's voice. "I am glad that my little effusion meets with your approval, Thomas," he said. "It is the first effort I have been able to make since the death of my lamented relative. A – a simple movement, sir, of the Muse's wing; a – a – "

"Flap?" suggested Tommy Candy.

Mr. Homer looked still more bewildered, but bowed again, waving his hands with a gesture of mingled protest and deprecation.

"I am of opinion, Thomas," he said, "that prose is the vehicle in which your thoughts are most apt to find expression. The wings of the Muse do not, in my opinion, – a – a – flap. But it is a matter – a – scarcely germane to the occasion. We will pursue our researches, if you please."

The next names were more fortunate. The Golden Gem was followed by the Mermaid's Comb, and Mr. Homer glowed with poetic joy as he placed the pretty things on the shelves of the cabinet that awaited them.

"I foresee, Thomas," he exclaimed, joyfully, "a resuscitation of the poetic faculty. I feel that, surrounded by these shapes of beauty, and not oppressed by such inappropriate cacophonies as Blork and Snob – I would say Snork and Blob – I shall often joyfully, as well as strictly, meditate the – I find myself unable to characterize the Muse as 'thankless,' in spite of my profound admiration for the immortal Milton. My spirit will, I feel it, once more sing, and – wing, sir! 'Mermaid's Comb!' In gazing on this symmetrical shape, my young friend, may we not in our mind's eye, Horatio – I would say Thomas – the remark is Hamlet's, as you are without doubt aware – behold it in the hand of some fair nymph, or siren, or – or person of that description – and behold her 'sleeking her soft alluring locks,' in Milton's immortal phrase? A – candor compels me to state, Thomas, that on the few – the very few – occasions when – when I have seen the locks of the fair sex in a state of – a – dampness; – of – humidity; – a – of – moisture, I have not thought" (Mr. Homer blushed very red) "that the condition was one which enhanced; which – a – added to, the charms with which that sex is – in a large number of cases – endowed."

"That's so!" said Tommy. "Take 'em after a shampoo, and they're a sight, even the good-lookin' ones."

Mr. Homer blushed still redder, and took out his handkerchief. "I have never, – " he began, and then coughed, and waved the subject delicately away.

"It is probable," he said, "that if – a – such semi-celestial individuals as those described by the poet existed – a – possessed a corporal envelope – a – were endowed with a local habitation and a name – Shakespeare – they would not be subject to conditions which – which tend to the – a – obscuration of beauty; but we will proceed, if you please, Thomas. Hark! was that a knock at the door?"

They listened. There was a silence; then, beyond question, came a knock on the outer door; a loud, imperative rap, with a suggestion of rhythm, almost of flourish, in its repetition. "Rat-ta-tat, rat-ta-tat, rat-ta-tat!" Then silence again.

"Direxia is in bed," said Tommy Candy. "I'll go."

"Wait; wait a moment, Thomas!" said Mr. Homer, nervously. "Do you think – it is near nine o'clock – do you think that courtesy absolutely demands our opening the door?"

Tommy looked at him in amazement.

"It – it is probably a lady!" said Mr. Homer, piteously. "She is without doubt bringing me – a – food; – a – bodily pabulum; – a – refreshment for the inner man. Thomas, I – I do not feel as if I could receive another dish at present. I have received four – have I not? – assaults – a – I would say, gifts, to-day, all tending to – overtax the digestive powers, even if Direxia's friendly ministrations did not invite – or more properly demand – all the powers of that description which I possess."

"Pineapple cream, Miss Wax," replied Tommy Candy, briefly. "That was good; I ate it myself. Lobster salad, Miss Goby; claws round it; might have boiled her own for a garnish; calf's-foot jelly, Widder Ketchum; plum cake, Mis' Pottle. Seth Weaver says that when Doctor Pottle is short of patients, the old lady always bakes a batch of fruit-cake and sends it round. It's sure to fetch somebody; you could ballast a schooner with it, Seth says. Yes, that makes four, sir. But maybe this isn't a woman, Mr. Homer. I don't think it sounds like one, and anyhow, I wouldn't let one in, noways. You'd better let me go, sir."

The knock sounded again, still more imperative; and now a voice was heard, a man's voice, thin and high, crying, impatiently: "Within there! house! what ho! within!"

Mr. Homer gasped, and loosened his necktie convulsively.

"My mind is probably failing," he said. "That voice – is probably a hallucination; – a – an aberration; a – you hear no voice, I should surmise, Thomas?"

He gazed eagerly at Tommy, who, really alarmed for his friend's reason, stared at him in return.

"Of course I hear it, sir," he said. "He's hollering fit to raise the roof. Riled, I expect; you'd better let me go, Mr. Homer."

Mr. Homer relaxed his hold. "Thomas," he said, solemnly, "I think it improbable that you will find any corporal substance at that door: nevertheless, open it, if you will be so good! open it, Thomas!"

Greatly wondering, Tommy Candy ran to the door and flung it wide open. There on the threshold stood a man, his hand raised in the act of knocking again. A little man, in a flyaway cloak, with a flyaway necktie and long, fluttering mustaches; a little man who looked in the dim light like a cross between a bat and the Flying Dutchman.

"House!" said the little man. "Within there!"

"Well," said Tommy, slowly, "I never said it was a monument!"

The stranger made a gesture of brushing him away.

"Minion," he said, "bandy no words, but straightway tell me, does Homer Hollopeter lurk within?"

"Did you wish to see him?" inquired Tommy, civilly yet cautiously. A backward glance over his shoulder gave him a curious impression. Mr. Homer's shadow, as he stood just within the parlor door, was thrown on the pale shining wood of the hall floor; this shadow seemed to flutter, with motions singularly like those of the stranger. Another moment, and the little gentleman came forward, carrying a candle. He was trembling violently, and, as he held the candle high, its wavering light fell on the countenance of the stranger.

"Gee whiz!" muttered Tommy Candy. "It's himself over again in black."

"It is my brother Pindar!" cried Mr. Homer, dropping the candle. "It is my only brother, whom I thought dead – a – defunct; – a – wafted to – my dear fellow, my dear brother, how are you? This is a joyful moment; this is – a – an auspicious occasion; this is – a – an oasis in the arid plains which – "

"Encircle us!" said Mr. Pindar. "Precisely! Homer, embrace me!"

He flung his arms abroad, and the batlike cloak fluttered out to its fullest width. Mr. Homer seemed to shrink together, and it was himself he embraced, with a frightened gesture.

"Oh, quite so!" he cried, hurriedly. "Very much so, indeed, my dear brother. The spirit, Pindar, the spirit, returns your proffered salute; but foreign customs, sir, have never obtained in Quahaug. I bid you heartily, heartily welcome, my dear brother. Come in, come in!"

Mr. Pindar flung up his hand with a lofty gesture. "My benison upon this house!" he cried. "The wanderer returns. The traveller – a – sets foot upon his native heath – I would say door-step. Flourish and exeunt. Set on!"

The two brothers vanished. Tommy Candy, still standing on the threshold, stared after them with his mouth wide open, and slowly rumpled his hair till it stood on end in elfish spikes, as it had done in his childhood.

"I swan!" said Tommy Candy. "I swan to everlastin' gosh! the Dutch is beat this time!"