Poot was bending over the edge of the high wall. It would be just like
him to grow dizzy and tumble off. Ben turned impatiently away. If the
fellow, with his weak head, knew no better than to be venturesome, why,
let him tumble. Horror! What mean that heavy, crashing sound?

Ben could not stir. He could only gasp. "Jacob!"

"Jacob!" cried another startled voice and another. Ready to faint, Ben
managed to turn his head. He saw a crowd of boys on the edge of the wall
opposite, but Jacob was not there!

"Good heavens!" he cried, springing forward, "where is my cousin?"

The crowd parted. It was only four boys, after all. There sat Jacob in
their midst, holding his sides and laughing heartily.

"Did I frighten you all?" he said in his native Dutch. "Well, I will
tell you how it was. There was a big stone lying on the wall and I put
my--my foot out just to push it a little, you see, and the first thing I
knew, down went the stone all the way to the bottom and left me sitting
here on top with both my feet in the air. If I had not thrown myself
back at that moment, I certainly should have rolled over after the
stone. Well, it is no matter. Help me up, boys."

"You're hurt!" said Ben, seeing a shade of seriousness pass over his
cousin's face as they lifted him to his feet.

Jacob tried to laugh again. "Oh, no--I feels a little hurt ven I stant
up, but it ish no matter."

The monument to Van der Werf in the Hooglandsche Kerk was not accessible
that day, but the boys spent a few pleasant moments in the Stadhuis
or town hall, a long irregular structure somewhat in the Gothic style,
uncouth in architecture but picturesque from age. Its little steeple,
tuneful with bells, seemed to have been borrowed from some other
building and hastily clapped on as a finishing touch.

Ascending the grand staircase, the boys soon found themselves in a
rather gloomy apartment, containing the masterpiece of Lucas van Leyden,
or Hugens, a Dutch artist born three hundred and seventy years ago, who
painted well when he was ten years of age and became distinguished
in art when only fifteen. This picture, called the Last Judgment,
considering the remote age in which it was painted, is truly a
remarkable production. The boys, however, were less interested in
tracing out the merits of the work than they were in the fact of its
being a triptych--that is, painted on three divisions, the two outer
ones swung on hinges so as to close, when required