This was the third member of the crew, a lanky youth with whitish
eyebrows and a foolish face. He stammered, and made a queer noise
when he laughed: "Chee-hee-hee." Twice he had been turned down in the
confirmation classes; after all, what was the use of learning lessons
out of a book when nobody ever had patience to wait while he said them?

Together they ran the boat down to the water's edge, got it afloat, and
scrambled in, with much waving of patched trouser legs. "Hi!" cried a
voice up on the beach, "let me come too!"

"There's Klaus," said Martin. "Shall we take him along?"

"No," said Peter Ronningen.

"Oh yes, let's," said Peer.

Klaus Brock, the son of the district doctor, was a blue-eyed youngster
in knickerbockers and a sailor blouse. He was playing truant, no
doubt--Klaus had his lessons at home with a private tutor--and would
certainly get a thrashing from his father when he got home.

"Hurry up," called Peer, getting out an oar. Klaus clambered in, and the
white-straked four-oar surged across the bay, rocking a little as the
boys pulled out of stroke. Martin was rowing at the bow, his eyes fixed
on Peer, who sat in the stern in command with his eyes dancing, full of
great things to be done. Martin, poor fellow, was half afraid already;
he never could understand why Peer, who was to be a parson when he grew
up, was always hitting upon things to do that were evidently sinful in
the sight of the Lord.