The Robber Hotzenplotz Read online

He was not in the least surprised when Kasperl and Seppel took to their heels.

  “Run, you two heroes, run!” he shouted after them. “As long as the crate doesn’t run away from me! Ha, ha, ha!”

  He roared with laughter, put the pistol back in his belt and settled down to take a closer look at the crate.

  “Hm—nailed down! Of course, it would be—after all, there’s gold inside. Shall I just open it and have a peep? Better not . . . I must get out of here. Kasperl and Seppel will have gone for the police. Not that I’m afraid of the police! I am the robber Hotzenplotz, I’m not afraid! Still, better safe than sorry.”

  Hotzenplotz wasted no time in hoisting the heavy crate up on his back. The handcart would be of no use on the path through the woods. He kicked it into the ditch. Puffing and blowing, he carried his booty home through the woods to his cave.

  He was in such a hurry to get home that he never noticed that the crate on his back was growing lighter and lighter as he went along. For at the very last moment Kasperl had remembered to take out the matchstick. All the time fine white sand was trickling through the hole at the bottom of the crate. The robber Hotzenplotz left a trail behind him.

  When he got home, Hotzenplotz put the crate down on the table. He bolted the door of his cave, took the hammer and pliers out of his tool box, and set to work opening the crate. He was an experienced robber who knew his job inside out, so it was not long before he had the lid open.

  He bent over the crate and looked inside. Then he froze.

  He couldn’t believe his eyes. There was nothing but a little heap of sand in the crate—perfectly ordinary white sand.

  “Ha!” cried the robber Hotzenplotz in a rage. “I’ve been cheated! I’ve been fooled!”

  He grabbed his curved sword in both hands, fell upon the poor potato crate and chopped it into little bits. He chopped the stout oak table into little bits too. Then he ran out of doors to get some fresh air.

  What did he see?

  There was a fine trail of sand on the ground . . . It led from the woods right up to his cave. Hotzenplotz didn’t have to think very hard to realize what that meant.

  He let fly a terrible oath.

  “Kasperl and Seppel meant to trick me, did they?” snarled the robber Hotzenplotz. “I’ll turn the tables on them now! Just let them wait, those lads. I’ll give them something to think about! Revenge, revenge!”

  Kasperl and Seppel had not run for the police, but only around the corner. There they slipped into the bushes and waited. They were delighted when they saw Hotzenplotz dragging the potato crate off.

  “Actually, I feel quite sorry for him, poor man,” said Seppel.

  “Whatever for?,” asked Kasperl.

  “He’s got to carry that heavy crate so far, all by himself. I hope he doesn’t get flat feet.”

  “Him?” muttered Kasperl. “He can carry it until he’s blue in the face, for all I care! Don’t forget he’s a robber. He stole Grandmother’s coffee mill!”

  They stayed hiding around the corner a little longer, just to make sure. Then they crept back to the place where Hotzenplotz had jumped out at them. The empty handcart was lying upside down in the ditch.

  “It’s all right,” said Kasperl. “We’ll leave it there till we come back.”

  And now for the trail of sand! They did not have to search for it long. There was the trail, leading into the woods.

  Kasperl wanted to hurry off at once, but Seppel held him back. “Wait a minute!” he said. “We must disguise ourselves first.”

  “Disguise ourselves?”

  “Yes, of course! We don’t want the robber Hotzenplotz to recognize us, do we?”

  “Mm—you’re right. But how can we get hold of disguises here?”

  “Easy! I’ll lend you my hat, and you can give me your pointed cap.”

  “And what am I supposed to do with your hat?” asked Kasperl.

  “What a silly question!” said Seppel. “Put it on! Does it fit?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” said Kasperl.

  Seppel’s hat was far too big for him. It made him look like a scarecrow out for the day. But Seppel thought it looked perfect.

  “Splendid!” he said. “No one would ever know you! How do I look in your cap?”

  “Very funny,” said Kasperl. “Grandmother would faint again if she could see you.”

  “Then that’s all right. The robber Hotzenplotz will never know us now. Come on, let’s go.”

  Kasperl and Seppel followed the fine trail of sand which Hotzenplotz had left behind. The trail was quite clear, but as they went on the woods became thicker and darker.

  “Ugh!” thought Seppel. “This really is a wood for robbers. What a good thing we’re heavily disguised!”

  They had been walking for about an hour when Kasperl, who was in front, suddenly stopped.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Seppel.

  The trail on the ground had divided. They could hardly believe their eyes. Instead of one trail, suddenly there were two. One trail led to the right, the other to the left.

  “Can you make it out, Seppel?” asked Kasperl.

  “Yes, Kasperl. One of them must be a false trail.”

  “I’m afraid that must be it. But which of them is the real trail?”

  “Hard to say. We must find out. We’d better go different ways.”

  “All right, Seppel. Will you go right or left?”

  “Let’s toss for it.”

  “All right.”

  Kasperl and Seppel tossed a coin. Seppel threw heads twice and tails once. That meant he was to go left.

  “Good luck—and be careful, Seppel.”

  “Yes, Kasperl,” said Seppel. “I’ll be very careful. Good luck to you too!”

  The robber Hotzenplotz grinned and stroked his bushy black beard. He was glad he had thought of using the sand that was left in the crate to make a second trail. He hoped Kasperl and Seppel would be silly enough to separate. At the end of the trail each of them was going to get the surprise of his life. Hotzenplotz had seen to that!

  The left-hand trail led to the robber’s cave. The catch was that the robber Hotzenplotz was waiting behind the trunk of a gnarled old oak tree not far from the cave door, with his pistol cocked. In fact there were no bullets in his pistol, but it was loaded with ground pepper. A pistol full of pepper was the way to deal with Kasperl and Seppel, thought the robber Hotzenplotz.

  “Are those lads going to keep me waiting much longer?” Hotzenplotz wondered. No—unless he was much mistaken, here came someone groping his way through the woods.

  Sure enough, someone came into sight through the trees! He was wearing a bright red pointed cap. So it was Kasperl!

  Hotzenplotz was not to know that Seppel had Kasperl’s cap. Callously he raised his pistol full of pepper and took aim.

  He aimed very carefully, crooking his finger slowly . . . Crash! There was a flash and a bang and a little cloud of pepper.

  Poor Seppel! The pepper struck him right in the face. He couldn’t see or hear; he was sneezing and coughing and choking without a moment’s relief. How it burned and prickled and stung his eyes! It was horrible!

  The robber Hotzenplotz made short work of him.

  Jeering, he bound Seppel’s hands and feet with a rope, flung him over his shoulder and carried him off to the cave. He threw him down in a corner.

  “There!” he cried. “Sneeze away then! Bless you!”

  He waited until Seppel had recovered a little. When he saw that the pepper was wearing off, he gave Seppel a kick.

  “How are you this fine day, Kasperl?” he jeered. “Welcome to my cave! Do you like it here? I’m so sorry you seem to have a cold. But that’s what comes of meddling in other people’s business.”

  Seppel couldn’t answer. Seppel sneezed.

  “Bless you, Kasperl!” said the robber Hotzenplotz again. Did he say Kasperl?

  “I’m not Kasperl!” said Seppel. He started sneezing again.

  “
Oh no!” Hotzenplotz grinned. “Of course, you’re not Kasperl at all, you’re the Emperor of Constantinople.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m Seppel.”

  “To be sure you are—and I’m Sergeant Dimplemoser, in case you didn’t know.”

  “But I really am Seppel!”

  “Hold your tongue!” growled the robber Hotzenplotz. “If you’re telling me stories I shall get cross and beat you with the poker. But—listen to that . . .”

  Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling.

  A little bell hanging on the door post of the cave was ringing.

  “Do you know what that means?” asked the robber Hotzenplotz. “No, you wouldn’t know. Let me tell you. That bell means that your friend Seppel has just tumbled down a hole—into a trap I set for him. That’s quite a surprise, isn’t it? Lost your tongue, have you? But never mind, better brains than yours have failed to get the best of Hotzenplotz!”

  The robber roared with laughter and slapped his thigh. Then he pulled some rope and a sack out from under the bed.

  “Now I’m going to fetch your friend Seppel to keep you company,” he said. “While I’m out, think it over and see if you aren’t Kasperl after all. Have a good time!”

  Meanwhile, what about Kasperl?

  After parting from Seppel, Kasperl followed “his” trail far into the woods. He grumbled to himself as he went along. He was cross with the robber Hotzenplotz, he was cross with the miserable path full of roots and brambles which led to the robber’s den, and last but not least he was cross with Seppel’s hat.

  Seppel’s hat kept falling down over his face. He kept pushing it back on his head, but before he had gone another step or so further it was sure to be sitting on his nose again.

  “It might be better the other way around,” thought Kasperl, putting the hat on back to front.

  But that didn’t help either.

  Time after time Kasperl had to push the stupid hat back on his head. Time after time Seppel’s green hat slipped down over his face again—until all of a sudden there was a loud cracking, crashing noise. Still wearing Seppel’s hat, Kasperl tumbled down a hole. There were traps hidden by branches all around the robber’s cave.

  So there was poor Kasperl, one floor lower. All of a sudden it was not what he had expected. He rubbed his bottom. He was lucky he hadn’t broken any bones! He might easily have broken something, falling so far and landing so hard.

  “How stupid!” thought Kasperl, looking at the pit. “Four smooth walls going straight up and that’s all. How am I ever going to get out?”

  But there was still Seppel. Seppel would be sure to find him and get him out. After all, Seppel was his best friend.

  Would he turn up before long? Kasperl pricked up his ears. He thought he heard someone coming. Unfortunately, someone was not his friend Seppel, but the robber Hotzenplotz. It was a nasty shock for Kasperl when the robber’s face with its bushy black beard peered over the edge of the pit.

  “Hello there, Seppel!” shouted Hotzenplotz. “You haven’t broken your neck, I hope? Aren’t you going to say hello to your kind uncle? Just think, Uncle Hotzenplotz has come to help you out! I suppose you do want to get out?”

  Kasperl nodded. Of course, he wanted to get out. Once he was out of the trap the rest could take care of itself. He might get a chance to run away.

  “Listen!” said Hotzenplotz. “Do exactly what I tell you. I’m going to let down a sack on this rope—like this, you see . . . Now, get in the sack, Seppel!”

  “In the sack?” asked Kasperl, hesitating.

  “That’s right, get in the sack,” said Hotzenplotz. “I’m going to haul you up in it. That’s the only way you’ll get out. Now get on with it, for heaven’s sake! And don’t leave your hat down there!”

  Oh yes—Seppel’s hat! Kasperl picked it up off the ground and put it on his head. Then he climbed into the sack, and the robber Hotzenplotz pulled him out of the hole. It was like going up in a lift. But once the robber had him safely out, he did exactly what Kasperl himself would have done in his place. He tied up the sack. Now Kasperl was well and truly caught.

  He struggled and shouted, but it was no good. Hotzenplotz flung the sack over his shoulder, and off they went to the robber’s cave.

  “Well, here we are!”

  Hotzenplotz dumped the sack on the floor beside Seppel.

  “Now we’ll see who’s Seppel and who’s Kasperl!” he said.

  He opened the sack a little, just enough for Kasperl to put his head out. It was wearing Seppel’s hat. The robber Hotzenplotz would not let him out any farther.

  “Now will you admit that you’re Kasperl?” he gnarled at Seppel.

  Seppel was just going to repeat “No, I’m not. I’m Seppel.” But Kasperl got in first. He winked at Seppel. It might be quite useful if the robber mixed them up. . .

  “Why don’t you answer me, fellow?”

  “What do you expect him to say?” said Kasperl, answering instead of Seppel. “You know best, Mr. Plotzenhotz!”

  “Plotzenhotz! My name is Hotzenplotz!”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Lotzenpotz.”

  “Stupid!”

  “Who—me?” said Kasperl.

  “My name is Hotzenplotz, damn it! Can’t you remember even the simplest name?”

  “Why, of course I can, Mr. Potzenlotz!”

  Hotzenplotz took a pinch of snuff.

  He saw that it was no use getting annoyed. Obviously this Seppel really was as stupid as his green hat made him look.

  The robber carefully unfolded a big checked handkerchief.

  He sneezed and blew his nose.

  When he had finished blowing his nose he put the handkerchief away, went over to Kasperl and Seppel, hooked his thumbs into his belt, and addressed them.

  “You were going to spy on me. Now you’re in my power,” said Hotzenplotz. “That’s how it is. You deserve no pity. I could make mincemeat of you if I wanted to. But it doesn’t happen to suit me. And why not?” He took another pinch of snuff and sneezed before going on.

  “Because I’ve thought of something better to do with you, that’s why. You, Kasperl—” he pointed to Seppel, “I’m going to chain you up. You will stay in the cave and work for me until you’re blue in the face. As for you, Seppel—” Hotzenplotz pointed to Kasperl, “I’m going to sell you!”

  “Oh goodness me!” groaned Kasperl. “Who to?”

  “Who to?” said Hotzenplotz. “To my old friend the wicked magician Petrosilius Zackleman!”

  The wicked magician Petrosilius Zackleman was sitting in the kitchen of his enchanted castle, peeling potatoes and feeling cross.

  Petrosilius Zackleman was a great magician. He could easily turn people into animals or birds. He could turn mud into gold. But hard as he had tried, he had never managed to cast a spell for peeling potatoes by magic. So unless he wanted to be stuck with nothing but noodles and rice, he was forced to put on an apron from time to time and get down to the dreary job of peeling potatoes himself.

  “All because I haven’t got a servant!” sighed the great magician Petrosilius Zackleman.

  And why hadn’t he got a servant?

  “Because I’ve never been able to find the right one,” he thought. “The right servant for me must be stupid, that’s the main thing. I couldn’t have a clever person in my enchanted castle, or he might find out my secrets. Magicians have to be so careful. I’d rather peel my own potatoes than make that kind of trouble for myself—though it is annoying.”

  Petrosilius Zackleman had stopped working while he thought about his troubles. He was just going to start peeling potatoes again when the doorbell rang.

  “Wait a moment!” cried the great magician Petrosilius Zackleman. “I’m coming.”

  He ran into the hall and took hold of the heavy bolt. He was about to open the great gate of the castle, but at the last moment he realized he was still wearing the apron.

  Good gracious!

  Petrosilius Zackleman in an apron! Suppose an
yone saw him in such an undignified costume!

  The doorbell rang again.

  “All right, I’m coming!” cried Zackleman.

  He tore off the apron—but where could he put it down?

  “Abracadabra!”

  The great magician Petrosilius Zackleman snapped his fingers. The apron flew back to the kitchen all by itself and hung itself up on its hook in the china cupboard.

  The bell rang for the third time.

  Petrosilius Zackleman pushed back the bolt and opened the gate. Outside stood the robber Hotzenplotz with a sack on his back.

  “Well, look who’s here!” cried the great magician with pleasure. “How are you, old friend? Welcome to my castle! Won’t you come in?”

  “Delighted,” said Hotzenplotz.

  Petrosilius Zackleman led him into the study. This was a great treat for Hotzenplotz. The great magician took only his best friends into the study. Ordinary visitors were received in the great hall of the castle—if they were received at all, that is.

  Zackleman’s study held an enormous bookcase full of thick leather-bound books. The desk, the window sill and the floor were covered with piles of more thick leather-bound books. Over the desk was a crocodile hanging from the ceiling (it was a stuffed crocodile). A skeleton stood in the corner holding a lighted candle in its bony right hand.

  Petrosilius Zackleman sat down in his chair behind the desk, and pointed to an armchair opposite.

  “Won’t you sit down, old fellow?”

  Hotzenplotz nodded and sat down.

  “A pinch of snuff?” asked the great magician.

  “Try me!”

  Zackleman snapped his fingers and put his hand out into empty air. A silver snuff box suddenly appeared by magic. He offered it to Hotzenplotz.

  “Help yourself!”

  Hotzenplotz took a huge pinch of snuff. He sneezed so hard that the crocodile almost fell down from the ceiling.

  “Thunder and lightning, I call that snuff, old friend!” he exclaimed. “It’s three times stronger than pepper! Where do you get it?”

  “My own make,” said the great magician. “My special blend. It’s called ‘Nosecomfort.’ Here, have another!”