WOUJEME?
I guessed what he would do, and he did it. He stared at me for about half a minute and then said, “Wah blief!”
“Oh,” I responded, “duizendmaal vergiffenis, dat ik op....” And then I stopped just in time, for it was on my tongue to finish the polite sentence as I had repeated it so often from the conversation book—“dat ik op Uwen teen getrapt heb.”
It was well I didn’t, for it didn’t fit in at all accurately with the situation. So I said, “Kijk nou is!”
“Mag ik zoo vrij zijn, Klabak?” I murmured courteously, showing him my copy of the placard on the door, “Mijnheer Hiernaast—ziet u—waar woont hij?”
Well, he couldn’t have been more astonished if had reached him a lighted bombshell.
Instead of meeting me with that ready sympathy I had been reckoning upon, he was quite stiff. I however persisted courteously with my question, “Ja, Openbare! wat zegt U, Smeeris? Woont mijnheer Hiernaast in deze straat?”
Well, he wasn’t a bit polite; or if he was, he must have been singularly deficient in charm of manner, for he stared quite insolently at me and grumbled, “Woujeme voor de gek houe?”