"Mein Gott!" cries a tough old fellow from Delft. "They beat every
thing,--these Amsterdam youngsters. See them!"

See them, indeed! They are winged Mercuries, every one of them. What
mad errand are they on?

Ah, I know: they are hunting Peter van Holp. He is some fleet-footed
runaway from Olympus. Mercury and his troop of winged cousins are in
full chase. They will catch him! Now Carl is the runaway. The pursuit
grows furious. Ben is foremost.

The chase turns in a cloud of mist. It is coming this way. Who is
hunted now? Mercury himself. It is Peter, Peter van Holp! Fly, Peter!
Hans is watching you. He is sending all his fleetness, all his
strength, into your feet. Your mother and sister are pale with
eagerness. Hilda is trembling, and dare not look up. Fly, Peter! The
crowd has not gone deranged: it is only cheering. The pursuers are
close upon you. Touch the white column! It beckons; it is reeling
before you--it--

"Huzza! Huzza! Peter has won the silver skates!"

"PETER VAN HOLP!" shouted the crier. But who heard him? "Peter van
Holp!" shouted a hundred voices; for he was the favorite boy of the
place. "Huzza! Huzza!"

Now the music was resolved to be heard. It struck up a lively air,
then a tremendous march. The spectators, thinking something new was
about to happen, deigned to listen and to look.