that I was a gamin, and that he would call the police. Now it is true that I was close to the girl, but it gave me no pleasure. I cried, I begged for mercy, for I was in terrible fear. But it was of no avail. The Greek held me by my arm, and kicked me. I looked for my mates—we had that very morning dealt a great deal with Scaevola, who put his hand into the fire, and in their Latin compositions they had considered this so very fine—yes, indeed! But never a one remained behind to put a hand into the fire for me.
So I thought. But behold: suddenly my Shawlman rushed into the booth through the back door. He was neither tall nor strong, and only about thirteen, but he was a smart and plucky little fellow. I still see his eyes flashing—they were usually dim—he gave the Greek a blow with his fist, and I was saved. Afterwards I heard that the Greek had beaten him severely, but as it is a fixed principle with me never to meddle with things that do not concern me, I immediately ran away. So I did not see it.
This then is the reason why his features reminded me so of scent, and of the way one may get into a quarrel with a Greek in Amsterdam. At subsequent fairs, when this man stood again with his booth in the Westermarket, I always sought my entertainment elsewhere.
As I am very fond of philosophical observations, I just want to say to you, reader, how wonderfully the affairs of this world hang together. If the eyes of that girl had been less black, if her plaits had been shorter, or if someone had not thrown me against that counter, you would not now be reading this book. Be thankful, therefore, that it happened thus. Believe me, everything in the world is good, just as it is, and discontented people who for ever complain are not my friends. Take for instance Busselinck & Waterman . . . but I must proceed, for my book must be finished before the Springsale.
Frankly speaking—for I like the truth—seeing this person again was not agreeable to me. I at once realized that it was not
