He fought his way through the crowd like a mad-man, soon reaching the point where he had seen Femke. She, however, had disappeared. A man with flashy cap and sailor’s jacket, who from above had looked like her escort, was still contending with the crowd. It seemed as if the two had come arm in arm through Amstel Street.
“Is there a girl here with a North Holland cap on?”
The man was too busy fighting and wrestling for standing-room to make answer. Meanwhile, Walter noticed that the fellow was struggling toward the “Herberge,” and concluded that his lady must have taken refuge there.
Walter paid no more attention to the punches and blows he received. He was only concerned to give as many blows as were necessary to hasten his arrival at the restaurant. The place was about as badly crowded as the street, but there was no fighting going on.
Yes, Walter had made a good beginning: yesterday in the “Polish Coffeehouse,” to-day in the “Juniper Berry”—thrown in there, fighting his way in here.
He was in the restaurant at last, looking for Femke. Now he thought that he had discovered her, standing on a step, or something of the kind. With lips tightly closed, her arms crossed, the girl was looking quietly down on the multitude as if in silent contempt. The rim was torn from her cap and was hanging down. Walter thought that he even saw blood on her face—Femke’s dear face!
He was exhausted and could not reach her. He looked at her. She did not see him.
She stood there proud and haughty. He called to her. She did not hear.
“O God! she despises me. I deserve it for my cowardice at Holsma’s.”
“Boy,” said the woman behind the bar, “we don’t have any bellowing here. If you want to bellow go to your mother.”