Our little man lay on the heads and shoulders of his brothers. Like some aspirants to a throne, he threw himself upon the masses. But he was beginning to feel generally uncomfortable. He wanted to hold on fast to something, or somebody—to somebody’s ears, or nose. That, however, did not suit the masses. They didn’t mind being squeezed; but they didn’t like to be held on to.
Crash!
Don’t let the reader be alarmed. Walter had not burst under the strain; but the pressure of the crowd had broken in the double doors of a café! The irruption was terrible. The way the crowd streamed in might be compared to the flow of molten lava. Walter described a parabolic curve and landed on a table, without suffering any damage.
“Walter Pieterse!” cried the astonished party sitting around the table.
“Have you hurt yourself, Walter?”
No, he hadn’t hurt himself; but he was rigid with surprise. Firstly, over his ascent; secondly, over his aërial journey; then over his descent among all kinds of glassware; and, finally—and that was not the least surprising thing—he was surprised to find himself all at once in the bosom of the Holsma family.
It was Sietske who asked him if he was hurt.
All the glasses, both great and small, were broken; but Walter was still in one piece. Uncle Sybrand helped him to his feet. It wasn’t easy, for the press was great. However, Walter’s size facilitated matters.
The proprietor couldn’t reach the scene of action, but he was able to make his voice heard to the effect that everything broken must be paid for. From other tables came the noise of more breaking glass. The man was desperate. He cursed kings and masses indiscriminately.
“One bottle of wine, three lemonades, six glasses!” cried Holsma, assuming the responsibility for Walter’s unintentional work of destruction.