“Mynheer Vanslyperken, you can’t come in.  Frau Vandersloosh is very ill in bed—­the doctor says it’s a bad case—­she cannot be seen.”

“Ill!” exclaimed Vanslyperken; “your dear, charming mistress ill!  Good heavens! what is the matter, my dear Babette?” replied Vanslyperken, with all the pretended interest of a devoted lover.

“All through you, Mr Vanslyperken,” replied Babette.

“Me!” exclaimed Vanslyperken.

“Well, all through your nasty cur, which is the same thing.”

“My dog!  I little thought that he was left here,” replied the lieutenant; “but, Babette, let me in, if you please, for the snow falls fast, and—­”

“And you must not come in, Mr Vanslyperken,” replied Babette, pushing him back.

“Good heavens! what is the matter?”

Babette then narrated what had passed, and as she was very prolix, Mr Vanslyperken was a mass of snow on the windward side of him before she had finished, which she did, by pulling down her worsted stockings, and showing the wounds which she had received as her portion in the last night’s affray.  Having thus given ocular evidence of the truth of what she had asserted, Babette then delivered the message of her mistress; to wit, “that until the dead body of Snarleyyow was laid at the porch where they now stood, he, Mr Vanslyperken, would never gain re-admission.”  So saying, and not feeling it very pleasant to continue a conversation in a snow-storm, Babette very unceremoniously slammed the door in Mr Vanslyperken’s face, and left him to digest the communication with what appetite he might.  Mr Vanslyperken, notwithstanding the cold weather, hastened from the door in a towering passion.  The perspiration actually ran down his face, and mingled with the melting snow.  “To be or not to be”—­give up the widow or give up his darling Snarleyyow—­a dog whom he loved the more, the more he was, through him, entangled in scrapes and vexations—­a dog whom every one hated, and therefore he loved—­a dog which had not a single recommendation, and therefore was highly prized—­a dog assailed by all, and especially by that scarecrow Smallbones, to whom his death would be a victory—­it was impossible.  But then the widow—­with such lots of guilders in the bank, and such a good income from the Lust Haus, he had long made up his mind to settle in possession.  It was the haven which, in the vista of his mind, he had been so long accustomed to dwell upon, and he could not give up the hope.

Yet one must be sacrificed.  No, he could part with neither.  “I have it,” thought he; “I will make the widow believe that I have sacrificed the dog, and then, when I am once in possession, the dog shall come back again, and let her say a word if she dares; I’ll tame her; and pay her off for old scores.”

Such was the determination of Mr Vanslyperken, as he walked back to the boat.  His reverie was, however, broken by his breaking his nose against a lamp-post, which did not contribute to his good-humour.  “Yes, yes, Frau Vandersloosh, we will see,” muttered Vanslyperken; “you would kill my dog, would you?  It’s a dog’s life I’ll lead you when I’m once secure of you, Madame Vandersloosh.  You cheated me out of my biscuit—­we shall see;” and Mr Vanslyperken stepped into his boat and pulled on board.