The Red Lion Becomes Dangerous
The boys were glad to find a blazing fire awaiting them upon
their return to the Red Lion. Carl and his party were there
first. Soon afterward Peter and Jacob came in. They had
inquired in vain concerning Dr. Boekman. All they could
ascertain was that he had been seen in Haarlem that morning.
"As for his being in Leyden," the landlord of the Golden Eagle
had said to Peter, "the thing is impossible. He always lodges
here when in town. By this time there would be a crowd at my
door waiting to consult him. Bah! People make such fools of
themselves!"
"He is called a great surgeon," said Peter.
"Yes, the greatest in Holland. But what of that? What of being
the greatest pill choker and knife slasher in the world? The man
is a bear. Only last month on this very spot, he called me a
PIG, before three customers!"
"No!" exclaimed Peter, trying to look surprised and indignant.
"Yes, master--A PIG," repeated the landlord, puffing at his pipe
with an injured air. "Bah! If he did not pay fine prices and
bring customers to my house, I would sooner see him in the Vleit
Canal than give him lodging."
Perhaps mine host felt that he was speaking too openly to a
stranger, or it may be he saw a smile lurking in Peter's face, for he added sharply, "Come, now, what more do you wish? Supper? Beds?"
"No, mynheer, I am but searching for Dr. Boekman."
"Go find him. He is not in Leyden."
Peter was not to be put off so easily. He succeeded in obtaining
permission to leave a note for the famous surgeon, or rather, he
BOUGHT from his amiable landlord the privilege of writing it
there, and a promise that it should be promptly delivered when
Dr. Boekman arrived. This accomplished, Peter and Jacob returned
to the Red Lion.
This inn had once been a fine house, the home of a rich burgher, but having grown old and shabby, it had passed through many hands, until finally it had fallen into the possession of Mynheer Kleef. He was fond of saying as he looked up at its dingy, broken walls, "Mend it and paint it, and there's not a prettier house in Leyden." It stood six stories high from the street. The first three were of equal breadth but of various heights, the last three were in the great, high roof, and grew smaller and smaller like a set of double steps until the top one was lost in a point. The roof was built of short, shining tiles, and the windows, with their little panes, seemed to be scattered irregularly over the face of the building, without the slightest attention to outward effect. But the public room on the ground floor was the landlord's joy and pride. He never said, "Mend it and paint it," there, for everything was in the highest condition of Dutch neatness and order. If you will but open your mind's eye, you may look into the apartment.
Imagine a large, bare room, with a floor that seemed to be made
of squares cut out of glazed earthen pie-dishes, first a yellow
piece, then a red, until the whole looked like a vast
checkerboard. Fancy a dozen high-backed wooden chairs standing
around; then a great hollow chimney place all aglow with its
blazing fire, reflected a hundred times in the polished steel
firedogs; a tiled hearth, tiled sides, tiled top, with a Dutch
sentence upon it; and over all, high above one's head, a narrow
mantleshelf, filled with shining brass candlesticks, pipe
lighters, and tinderboxes. Then see, in one end of the room, three pine tables; in the other, a closet and a deal dresser. The latter is filled with mugs, dishes, pipes, tankards, earthen and glass bottles, and is guarded at one end by a brass-hooped keg standing upon long legs. Everything is dim with tobacco smoke, but otherwise as clean as soap and sand can make it.