“Of ik!”
“Rookvleesch—en een ei?”
“Of ik!”
The seven lean years were past, now the time of plenty was come.
“Bitterkoekjes en leverworst?”—“Muisjes en karnemelk?”—“Appelbolletjes, wentelteefjes en molsla?”—I refused nothing.
“Of ik” was the “Open Sesame”—the key to unlock all cupboards and all hearts.
I took care to thank nobody for anything, for fear my plate would be removed. Happy laughter was heard on all sides. Smiles beamed on every face. In an instant I had become the most popular man on the island,—at all events with the people in that farm-house. Their hospitality and my hunger had met at last, and come to terms—to the unbounded enthusiasm of all.
Meantime Enderby had communicated to them the fact that I was an Irishman; and I overheard someone venture on the singular criticism: “De Ieren zijn zoo lief voor elkaar! Hij gebruikt niets als zijn vriend er niet bij is.”
“Hé, wat lief!” said Baas Willemse.
“Innig!” whispered the grandmother, smiling.