"She says she hasn't lost anything, so we won't say that again," echoed
old Mr. King. "Now, Phronsie, child, tell me what it is you mean; what
hook you want."
"The hook," said Phronsie; "here, Grandpapa," and she looked all around
in a troubled way, "they said it was here; I don't see it, Grandpapa."
"She means the Hook of Holland," burst out Polly, "don't you, Phronsie
pet?" And she threw her arms around her while Mr. Henderson exclaimed,
"Of course, why didn't we think of it, to be sure?"
"Yes, Polly." Phronsie gave a glad little cry, and wriggled in great
satisfaction in her arms. "Grandpapa, where is it,--the Hook of
Holland?"
"Oh, bless me, child!" exclaimed Mr. King, "that is the name of the
place; at least, to be accurate, it is Hoek van Holland. Now, just as
soon as we get fairly started on our way to Rotterdam, I'll tell you
all about it, or Polly shall, since she was clever enough to find out
what you meant."
"Oh, no, Grandpapa," cried Polly, "I'd so much rather you told her
--please do, dear Grandfather?"
"And so I will," he promised, very much pleased, for Mr. King dearly
loved to be the one to relate the history and anecdotes about the
places along which they travelled. And so, when they were steaming off
toward Rotterdam, as he sat in the centre of the compartment he had
reserved for their use, Phronsie next to him, and Polly and Jasper
opposite, he told the whole story.
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