“He is only a new chum—as soon as he has got to know the fellow—”
“Why, then he will do just exactly as the Resident does; he will follow his lead, you will see.”
“Well, well,” remarked another, “such fellows have their value.”
“Come gentlemen, do keep quiet; let us listen; they are just striking up Le lever du soleil.”
“The lever of what did you say? That’s a good joke—the sun is just setting.”
“Do be quiet, I want to hear the music.”
It was the last piece on the programme, and at the moment when a brilliant fugue seemed to celebrate the rising of the orb of day—the actual sun was disappearing behind the hills to the west of Santjoemeh.
“Just twelve hours out!” cried one, “either the sun or the bandmaster must have been having a drop too much!”
A very few minutes afterwards the green was deserted.
However, the frequenters of the Sunday afternoon concert, had been quite right in their surmise. Van Nerekool, van Beneden and van Rheijn—the three “vans,” as the wits of Santjoemeh loved to call them, had indeed gone to the prison to pass the afternoon and evening, with their friend Grenits. He, poor fellow, had been condemned to ten days’ imprisonment and he had already been in durance vile for some time.