"Then you wish rather that I should starve?"
"I don't think that it would come to that. You are old enough to earn your living."
"Old enough! Do you really mean to say that a fellow sixteen years of age is old enough to earn his living?"
"Why not? I myself had to leave home when I was only a child of eleven, and have worked for my living ever since."
"Worked for your living!" my brother cried scornfully. "Wasting money and getting into debt to such an extent that no dog will take the trouble to look at us. Do you call that working for your living?"
The veins showed thickly on my father's forehead.
"You wretch!" he cried, and flew at my brother's throat, "is that what I get for having taken endless trouble to bring you up?"
It was evident that my brother had not expected so violent an outburst on the part of my habitually gentle father. He grew deadly pale and tried to free himself from my father's clutch.
After he had succeeded in doing so, he reached for his hat and turned to the door. But, before he closed it behind him, he said: "You will find me in the Kamp, if you should happen to look for me to-morrow."
What he called the Kamp was a river of considerable depth. After he had left, the room looked a picture of misery and grief. My mother was leaning against the wall weeping violently; my father was pacing the room, his face rigidly set and breathing rapidly; the smallest of the children, roused by the noise, had started to cry; and I trembled in every limb with excitement.