“Dunder and blixen, vot Dutch Indians!” he exclaimed, impatiently.  Repeating its name, he again demanded “vot dat was.”  This time they answered readily, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure.

“Shmart boys,” said he, approvingly.  “You learns well, now.  One dese days—­”

Hans Vanderbum’s words were cut short by the sudden sharp explosion of his pipe, the bowl being shattered in a hundred pieces, while nothing but the stem remained in his mouth.

“Where’s mine pipe?” he asked, looking around in the vain hope of descrying it somewhere upon the ground.  Quanonshet and Madokawandock indulged in one short scream of laughter, then instantly straightened their faces and looked as meek and innocent as lambs.  Gradually the truth began to work its way into the head of Hans.  Looking sternly at the two, he asked, in a threatening voice: 

“Which of you put dat powder in mine meerschaum, eh? which of you done dat, eh?”

Neither answered, except by hanging their heads and looking at their bare feet.

“I axes you once more, and dis is de last time.”

Each now protested that it was not himself but the other, so that if there really were but one culprit, Hans had no means of determining.  Under the circumstances, he concluded the safest plan was to believe both guilty.  Accordingly he made a sudden dash and commenced whacking them soundly with the stick he held in his hand.  They yelled, kicked, and screamed; and squirming themselves loose, scampered quickly away from their irate instructor.

“Dat meerschaum can’t be fixed,” he soliloquized, taking the bare stem out of his mouth and looking sorrowfully at it. “’Cause dere ishn’t anything to fix it mit.  It ish wonderful what mischief gets into dem boys; dere ain’t no time when dey ain’t doin’ notting what dey hadn’t not ought to—­all de times just de same way, while I toils myself to death to educate dem and bring ’em up in de way apout which dey ought to go.”

Keewaygooshturkumkankangewock being in the habit of frequently indulging in the use of tobacco, her husband was not deprived entirely of his solace.  Going into the wigwam, he unbosomed his griefs to her, and she kindly loaned him her own pipe.

“I hopes dere ain’t no powder in dat,” he remarked, glancing uneasily into the bowl.

“Nothing but tobac,” replied his spouse, in her native tongue, “unless you’ve put the powder in yourself.”

“Dunderation, I don’t does dat, and blow mine eyes out my head.  Dem little Dutchmen is up to all kinds of such tricks, and some dese days dey will blow deir poor fader’s brains out of his head, and den what will become of dem?” feelingly inquired Hans Vanderbum.

“What will become of them?” repeated Keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, her voice rising higher and higher at each word.  “Who is it that supports them now and takes care of them?  Who is it that does that?  Who is it—­”