"Whew!" whistled Janzoon, drawing closer. "Old Brinker dead?"
The driver grew big with importance and silent in proportion.
"See here, old pincushion, I'd run home yonder and get you a chunk of gingerbread if I thought you could open your mouth."
Old pincushion was human--long hours of waiting had made him ravenously hungry. At Janzoon's hint, his countenance showed signs of a collapse.
"That's right, old fellow," pursued his tempter. "Hurry up! What news?--old Brinker dead?"
"No, CURED! Got his wits," said the coachman, shooting forth his words, one at a time, like so many bullets.
Like bullets (figuratively speaking) they hit Janzoon Kolp. He jumped as if he had been shot.
"Goede Gunst! You don't say so!"