“This is your room,” said Karel, pointing to No. 72, as he saw that Gijs was about to follow his father into No. 71.
“I?” ejaculated Gijs.
“S’il vous plaît” said the waiter, and flinging the carpet-bag into No. 71, he left the rooms, stood still in the passage between the two apartments, and looking at father and son by turns, went on, “Any more orders? Will the gentlemen dine at the table d’hôte, at half-past four?”
Gijs understood not a single word of this; and Gerrit, who likewise did not grasp the subtleties of the situation, answered shortly, “No,” being mortally afraid of having to do any more climbing.
Karel having had enough of this exalted society, uttered no further questions or remarks, slammed both doors, reached the ground floor by sliding down the banisters, and left the father and son, each in his own room, to their respective meditations.
The well-furnished rooms were only divided from one another by a thin wooden partition, and their windows afforded a delightful view, to wit, a red-tiled roof, from which arose a tall black chimney.
Gijs looked round, like a cat in a strange warehouse, and did not think Amsterdam so very beautiful after all.
“Boy! where are you?” shouted Gerrit. “What are we to do now? Just come here!”
“Can I do that, father?” roared Gijs, in a voice that could easily have been heard in the street.
“Of course!” cried Gerrit.