ut him
out of sorts; it was his occupation. "A lonely black charcoal-burner,"
reflected he. "It is a miserable life. How respectable are the
glassmakers, the watchmakers, and even the musicians of a Sunday
evening! And when Peter Munk, cleanly-washed and brushed, appears
dressed in his father's best jacket with silver buttons and with
bran-new red stockings, and when one walks behind me and thinks, Who is
that stylish-looking fellow? and inwardly praises my stockings and my
stately walk--when he passes by me and turns around to look, he is sure
to say to himself: 'Oh, it's only Charcoal Pete!'"

The raftsmen on the other side of the forest also aroused his envy.
When these giants came over among the glass-makers, dressed in their
elegant clothes, wearing at least fifty pounds of silver in buttons,
buckles, and chains, when they looked on at a dance, with legs spread
wide apart, swore in Dutch, and smoked pipes from Cologne three feet
long in the stem, just like any distinguished Mynheer--then was Peter
convinced that such a raftsman was the very picture of a lucky man. And
when these fortunate beings put their hands into their pockets and
drew out whole handfuls of thalers and shook for half a-dozen at a
throw--five guldens here, ten there--then he would nearly lose his
senses, and would steal home to his hut in a very melancholy mood. On
many holiday nights he had seen one or another of these timber
merchants lose more at play than his poor father had ever been able to
earn in a year.

Distinguished above all others were three of these men and Peter was
uncertain which one of them was most wonderful. One was a large heavy
man, with a red face, who passed for the richest man of them all. He
was called Stout Ezekiel. He went down to Amsterdam twice a year with
timber, and always had the good fortune to sell it at so much higher a
price than others could sell theirs, that he could afford to ride back
home in good style, while the others had to return on foot. The second
man of the trio was the lankest and leanest person in the whole forest,
and was called Slim Schlurker. Peter envied him for his audacity; he
contradicted the most respectable people, occupied more room when the
inn was crowded than four of the stoutest, either by spreading his
elbows out on the table, or by stretching his legs out on the bench,
and yet no one dared to interfere with him, for he had an enormous
amount of money. But the third was a handsom