mond rings. "You have an odd name, my friend," he
says, looking at me very hard. "It is Jan Daal," I says, "and it is
that which was given to me at the church font." He reddened a little at
this, and goes on, "What church?" "Saint Niklas," I reply, "in the good
city of Amsterdam, so I have heard my mother (rest her soul) say." "And
I, too," he begins again, reddening more than ever, "was christened at
the Oude Sant Niklas Kerke; and I am of the Daals of Amsterdam, and I am
your brother Hendrik." On this he embraced me; and I went along with
him to the caboose behind the shop; and he gave me crackers and cheese,
and a dram of Schiedam, and a pipe of tobacco to smoke. We had a long
talk about old times, and he told me how well he had got on in the
world, and what great bankers he and his partners, Peanut and McCute
(one a Scotchman, t'other a Yankee, and both a match for all the
Jacobsons that ever cheated you out of ten stuyvers in the guilder)
were; but when I told him that I had met with no very great luck in
life, and that the hundred and fifty dollars I was going to draw was all
the money I had in the world, he did not seem quite so fond of me as
before. "And what do you call yourself Van Daal, brother of mine, for,"
says I. "It's not fair sailing. There are no more Vans in our family
than in a brood of Mother Cary's chickens." At this he looks very high
and mighty, and talks about different positions in society, and industry
and integrity, and all the rest of it. "If that's the course you mean
to steer, brother," says I, "I wish you the middle of the stream, and a
clear course, and a very good morning; only take you good care that you
don't run foul of some bigger craft than yourself that's really called
Van, and will run you down and send you to the bottom with all hands."
I was always a crusty old fellow, I dare say; but I like neither ships
nor skippers that give themselves names that don't belong to them. If a
ship's name is the _Mary Jane_, let her sail as the _Mary Jane_, and not
as the _Highflier_. If she changes her name, ten to one there's
something the matter with her. So I went back to the office, and says I
to the clerk, "Now, old Nipcheese,"--I called him "Nipcheese," for he
looked like a kind of purser--"I want my hundred and fifty dollars--and
that's what's the matter with me!" He paid me, looking as sour as
lime-juice that has been kept too long, and deducting (the stingy old
screw!) fo