Sven and his Friends. Hans K. Maeder
away again. That’s so natural around here; we don’t think anything of it."
The boys strained their eyes to try and see some of these strange people on the island, but they were too far away.
Another half hour and a larger island came in sight. They made straight for it and the fisherman brought them skillfully alongside the pier. All the boys jumped up and made for the gangway. They all poured across. Suederoog at last!
But it wasn’t! Through the wild babble of voices Sven at, last heard the counselor explaining that they had landed at Pellworm. The boat couldn’t moor at Suederoog. They were to go across on foot by a causeway.
So they all trooped off, knapsacks on their backs, behind the old fisherman who was in charge of this part of the journey. He led them to a little old house with a steep gabled roof and many-paned windows. Rather like a gingerbread house in a fairy story, thought Sven, with its brown wood-shingled walls.
This was where the island’s postman lived, and he would take them across to Suederoog. He came out of his house to meet them. Sven was so interested in looking at him that he hardly listened to what he was saying. He looked about sixty years old, but tremendously tough and strong. His blue dungarees were rolled up above his knees, and his legs were completely brown. So was his face. It was furrowed, too, with the strong sun and the salty winds. And the same strong light and air had bleached his fair hair almost white. Sven was to see many more people like him during his visit to the Frisian Islands.
"Too bad," said Börge. Sven woke up.
"What is it? What did he say?"
"We can’t get across tonight. It’ll be high tide in two hours and we’d be swamped. Got to spend the night here and start off early tomorrow,"
So all the fifty-odd boys trooped off again behind the postman. He led them to his stable where they were to spend the night.
"Gosh, fancy sleeping in a stable!” muttered Börge as he and Sven trailed along behind.
"Do you think there are horses in it?" whispered Sven. He rather hoped there were.
They came to a large old building thatched with straw. The dark red bricks of its walls were set between huge wooden beams, and the same sort of red bricks had been used to make the floor. All along one side ran a wooden manger filled with sweet-smelling hay. Deep gold shafts of evening sunshine streamed through the openings set high in the walls. The group leaders called to the boys to help and soon Sven and Börge were busy hauling the hay out of the manger. The postman brought more hay and straw and so everyone got a share for making a bed on the floor. There were lots of laughing discussions about the best way to make a comfortable hay-bed, and over in one corner a group of Swedish boys had discovered that you could have a very good pillow fight with hay - and what’s more you could push hay down your opponent’s neck as well!
"Come on fellows, what about supper?" shouted the leader. They had all got to know him now and call him by name, Herman. He was just the right kind of man to be their camp leader, Sven decided. Young and energetic but wise-looking, too, and with a merry twinkle in his dark eyes. He was half Danish and half German.
They sat on the grass outside to eat their sandwiches, leaning against the sun warmed brick wall of the stable. The postman’s wife brought them a large white pail of frothing milk from the dairy beside the house.
From where the boys sat the flat meadowland sloped gently down to the sea. There were no clouds in the sky - just a light mist lying above the horizon with the great red sun shining through it. A few more minutes and the sun was gone. The sea turned a cold grey, the green grass looked bluish and even the warm red brick of the stable walls seemed to grow softer and paler. A cool breeze started to blow in from the sea.
Herman jumped to his feet and brushed the crumbs from his khaki shorts. "Bed, boys!" he called, and into the stable they went.
As Sven burrowed down into his bundle of soft hay he looked across the stable at the boys all around him. In the soft grey light he could see the dark heads of the Italian boys all together in the far corner. Next to them were some French boys, some dark, some fair, many of them not looking a bit like Sven thought French boys would. Three tall boys with brown curly hair and tanned faces formed another small group. Börge said he thought they were Swiss. And so it was all round the stable. Each little national group had camped close together and from each came the sound of excited talk and laughter.
Above it all resonated Hermann’s friendly voice again: "Boys, I think you’d better go to sleep now. We shall have to make a very early start in the morning to catch the tide. We must be off before sunrise, and it’s a long walk to Suederoog. So now good night, go nat, gute nacht, bon soir, and sleep well!"
Everyone laughed at this effort, and one of the Italian boys raised himself on his elbow and called "Buona Notte".
"Here goes," thought Sven, and in a determined though rather shaky voice he replied "Buona Notte".
"Good for you," whispered Börge.
Sven, glad it was too dark for anyone to see his red face, closed his eyes and went to sleep.
CHAPTER II
"Let’s build the Kronborg castle” Börge proposed.
"Fine” answered Sven, "if you can remember how it looks."
It was the next day, and the boys were on the beach at Suederoog. After the long walk from Pellworm they rested for a few hours, eaten a huge meal, and then rushed down to the sea. Sven thought this was the loveliest beach he had ever seen. There was sand for miles - fine and pale silver grey. It was firm and hard down near the sea, but above the high-water mark it was soft and shifting, and coarse grasses had been planted in clumps to hold it together.
The sun was hot and sparkling that afternoon and all along the beach were little groups of boys in their bathing trunks, digging busily, for Herman and the other leader had announced that they would award prizes next day for the best three sandcastles.
Sven started to dig the moat, and Börge went down to the sea with his pail for water to keep the sand moist and firm.
"I say Sven” he called, as he came puffing up the beach, "Francois is making the Eiffel Tower."
Francois and two other French boys were now in the same group as Sven and Börge who were the only Danish boys left in it. The boys had all been divided into new groups that morning so that in each there would be boys from every country. There was now an English university student in charge of Sven’s group; who was called Jim Hutchinson.
Börge squatted down beside Sven and began modeling the sand with his hands and patting the walls smooth with his spade. He worked fast. Already Sven could recognize the great courtyard, and the tower at the corner.
"What are the Czech boys making, Börge?" asked Sven.
"Oh, you know that castle in Prague. I never can pronounce it."
"The Hradcin?" suggested Sven.
"That’s it, though I still can’t say it," laughed Börge. "And the English boys are at work on Westminster Abbey, I think. Pity we haven’t any Americans here. I’d love to see some sand skyscrapers!" Börge threw himself back on the sand and lay with his eyes closed enjoying the sun on his face. Suddenly he was up on his feet again.
"Come and have a swim Sven; I’m so hot."
Sven sat back on his heels. "You know Börge, I don’t think I will. I want to do some more building."
"All right. See you later." And Börge was off and into the sea.
Sven worked on. Presently two shadows fell across the castle and he looked up to see the English boys from his group. Sven smiled shyly, and said hello. This was the first time he had spoken to them.
"Hello" said the shorter boy. "I’m Fred Roberts. What’s your name?"
Sven told them, and after they had each practiced saying the foreign names Fred asked Sven what he was building.