The teams of the “Eisbosler” were in the middle, surrounded by old and young, by all who lived with them in these houses or up in those of the higher land—the older men in long coats, pensively smoking their short pipes, the women in shawls or jackets, some leading children by the hand or carrying them on their arms. From the frozen ditches, which were being crossed gradually, the pale light of the afternoon sun was gleaming through the sharp points of the sedges. It was keen frost, but the game went on uninterruptedly, and the eyes of all were again and again following the flying ball, for upon it depended the honor of the whole village for the day. The score-keepers of the two sides carried a white stick with an iron point for the home team, a black one of the same kind for the team of the people from the upper land. Where the ball ended its flight, the stick was driven into the frozen ground, accompanied, as it happened, either by silent approval or the derisive laughter of the opposing side; and he whose ball had first reached the goal, had won the game for his team.

Little was said by all these people; only when a capital throw had been made, a cry from the young men or women could be heard; sometimes, too, one of the old men would take his pipe out of his mouth and knock with it on the shoulder of the thrower with a few cheering words: “That was a good throw, said Zacharias, and threw his wife out of the door!” or: “That’s the way your father threw, too; God bless him in eternity!” or some other friendly saying.

Hauke had no luck with his first throw: just as he was swinging his arm backward in order to hurl off the ball, a cloud sailed away which had covered the sun so that now its bright beams shot into his eyes; the throw was too short, the ball fell on a ditch and remained stuck in the ice.

“That doesn’t count! That doesn’t count! Hauke, once more!” called his partners.

But the score-keeper of the people from the high land protested against this: “It’ll have to count; a throw is a throw!”

“Ole! Ole Peters!” cried the young folks of the marshes. “Where is Ole? Where the devil is he?”

But there he was: “Don’t scream so! Does Hauke have to be patched up somewhere? I thought as much.”

“Never mind! Hauke has to throw again; now show that your tongue is good for something!”

“Oh, it is all right!” cried Ole and stepped up to the scorekeeper of the other side and talked a lot of bosh. But the pointedness and sharpness of his usually so scintillating words were absent this time. Beside him stood the girl with the enigmatic eyebrows and looked at him sharply with angry glances; but she was not allowed to talk, for women had no say in the game.

“You are babbling nonsense,” cried the other scorekeeper, “because you can’t use any sense for this! Sun, moon and stars are alike for us all and always in the sky; the throw was awkward, and all awkward throws have to count!”

Thus they talked back and forth a little while, but the end of it was that, according to the decision of the umpire, Hauke was not allowed to repeat his throw.

“Come on!” called the people from the upper land, and their score-keeper pulled the black stick out of the ground, and the thrower came forward when his number was called and hurled the ball ahead. When the head man of the dikemaster wanted to watch the throw, he had to pass Elke Volkerts: “For whose sake have you left your brains at home to-day?” she whispered to him.

Then he looked at her almost grimly, and all joking was gone from his broad face. “For your sake,” he said, “for you have forgotten yours too!”

“Go, go—I know you, Ole Peters!” the girl replied, drawing herself up straight. But he turned his head away and pretended not to have heard.

And the game and the black and white stick went on. When Hauke’s turn to throw came again, his ball flew so far, that the goal, the great whitewashed barrel, came clearly in sight. He was now a solidly built young fellow, and mathematics and the art of throwing he had practised daily in his boyhood. “Why, Hauke!” there were cries from the crowd; “that was just as if the archangel Michael himself had thrown the ball!” An old woman with cake and brandy pushed her way through the crowd toward him; she poured out a glass for him and offered it to him: “Come,” she said, “we want to be friends: this to-day is better than when you killed my cat!” When he looked at her, he recognised her as Trin Jans. “Thank you, old lady,” he said; “but I don’t drink that.” He put his hand into his pocket and pressed a newly minted mark piece into her hand: “Take that and empty your glass yourself, Trin; and so we are friends!”

“You’re right, Hauke!” replied the old woman, while she obeyed his instructions; “you’re right; that’s better for an old woman like me!”

“How are your ducks getting on” he called after her, when she had already started on her way with her basket; but she only shook her head, without turning round, and struck the air with her old hands. “Nothing, nothing, Hauke; there are too many rats in your ditches; God help me, but I’ve got to support myself some other way!” And so she pushed her way into the crowd and again offered her brandy and honey cake.

The sun had at last gone down behind the dike; in his stead rose a red violet glimmer; now and then black crows flew by and for moments looked gilded: evening had come. But on the fens the dark mass of people were moving still farther away from the already distant houses toward the barrel; an especially good throw would have to reach it now. The people of the marshes were having their turn: Hauke was to throw.

The chalky barrel showed white against the broad evening shadow that now fell from the dike across the plain.

“I guess you’ll leave it to us this time,” called one of the people of the upper land, for it was very close; they had the advantage of at least ten feet.

Hauke’s lean figure was just stepping out of the crowd; the grey eyes in his long Frisian face were looking ahead at the barrel; in his hand which hung down he held the ball.

“I suppose the bird is too big for you,” he heard Ole Peters’s grating voice in this instant behind his ears; “shall we exchange it for a grey pot?”

Hauke turned round and looked at him with steady eyes: “I’m throwing for the marshes,” he said. “Where do you belong?”

“I think, I belong there too; I suppose you’re throwing for Elke Volkerts!”

“Go!” shouted Hauke and stood in position again. But Ole pushed his head still nearer to him. Then suddenly, before Hauke could do anything against it himself, a hand clutched the intruder and pulled him back, so that the fellow reeled against his comrades. It was not a large hand that had done it; for when Hauke turned his head round for a moment he saw Elke Volkerts putting her sleeve to rights, and her dark brows looked angry in her heated face.

Now something like steely strength shot into Hauke’s arm; he bent forward a little, rocked the ball a few times in his hand; then he made the throw, and there was dead silence on both sides. All eyes followed the flying ball, one could hear it whizz as it cut the air; suddenly, already far from the starting point, it was covered by the wings of a silver gull that came flying from the dike with a scream. At the same time, however, one could hear something bang from a distance against the barrel.

“Hurrah for Hauke!” called the people from the marshes, and cries went through the crowd: “Hauke! Hauke Haien has won the game!”

He, however, when all were crowding round him, had thrust his hand to one side to seize another; and even when they called again: “Why are you still standing there, Hauke? The ball is in the barrel!”—he only nodded and did not budge from his place. Only when he felt that the little hand lay fast in his, he said: “You may be right; I think myself I have won.”

Then the whole company streamed back and Elke and Hauke were separated and pushed on by the crowd along the road to the inn which ascended from the hill of the dikemaster to the upper land. At this point both escaped the crowd, and while Elke went up to her room, Hauke stood in front of the stable door on the hill and saw how the dark mass of people was gradually wandering up to the parish tavern where a hall was ready for the dancers. Darkness was slowly spreading over the wide land; it was growing calmer and calmer round about, only in the stable behind him the cattle were stirring; from up on the high land he believed that he could already hear the piping of the clarinets in the tavern. Then round the corner of the house he heard the rustling of a dress, and with small steady steps someone was walking along the path that led through the fens up to the high land. Now he discerned the figure walking along in the twilight, and saw that it was Elke; she, too, was going to the dance at the inn. The blood shot up to his neck; shouldn’t he run after her and go with her? But Hauke was no hero with women; pondering over this problem, he remained standing still until she had vanished from his sight in the dark.

Then, when the danger of catching up with her was over, he walked along the same way until he had reached the inn by the church, where the chattering and shouting of the crowds in front of the house and in the hall and the shrill sounds of the violins and clarinets surged round him and bewildered his senses.