"Ah, Hans! that you? Yes, my fun is over. I tried to tighten my strap,
to make a new hole; and this botheration of a knife has cut it nearly
in two."

"Mynheer," said Hans, at the same time pulling off a skate, "you must
use my strap!"

"Not I, indeed, Hans Brinker!" cried Peter, looking up, "though I
thank you warmly. Go to your post, my friend: the bugle will sound in
a minute."

"Mynheer!" pleaded Hans in a husky voice. "You have called me your
friend. Take this strap--quick! There is not an instant to lose. I
shall not skate this time; indeed, I am out of practice. Mynheer, you
_must_ take it;" and Hans, blind and deaf to any remonstrance, slipped
his strap into Peter's skate, and implored him to put it on.

"Come, Peter!" cried Lambert from the line: "we are waiting for you."

"For madame's sake," pleaded Hans, "be quick! She is motioning to you
to join the racers. There, the skate is almost on: quick, mynheer,
fasten it. I could not possibly win. The race lies between Master
Schummel and yourself."

"You are a noble fellow, Hans!" cried Peter, yielding at last. He
sprang to his post just as the white handkerchief fell to the ground.
The bugle sends forth its blast, loud, clear, and ringing.

Off go the boys.