Walter’s curiosity was at high tension. In order to hear better he was leaning over, supporting himself with the chair. The point of support was unsteady. The chair slipped and rattled across the floor, crashing into another piece of furniture.
“Heaven and earth! What are they up to now,” groaned the mother. “Laurens, is that you?”
Walter peeped in, “It was me.” The result was that he was soon in the midst of the interesting conversation that he had been trying to hear from above.
His entrance took place under unfavorable circumstances. He was blamed for not having been undressed.
“Do you always put on your nightcap before you undress?” cried the mother.
The boy had actually forgotten to take off his nightcap. He was so ashamed that he felt he would like to fall through the floor. He would rather have neglected anything else.
“And—what have you there?”
Alas, our hero looked more ridiculous than anyone could look by simply putting on a nightcap. He had armed himself with an old rusty knife that his father had used in prehistoric times for cutting leather!
During the whole of the Laps recital, which progressed so slowly, he had thought and hoped and intended—yes, he heard something that sounded like, “Where is Walter?” The speaker really did not say it—no, on the contrary, those were the very words she wished to avoid—still, he thought he heard her say them. On this Friday he had acted mean and cowardly; but he was still Walter.
Murderers? Thieves? A lady in danger? What other answer could there be but: “I am here, I, Walter!”