Gijs went on tiptoe to his door, and, speeding as though death were at his heels, out of No. 72 and into No. 71.
“Look here, boy!” said Gerrit, when his son was safely inside, “here we sit, and I’m so hungry that I can’t see straight.”
“So am I,” asseverated Gijs.
“Then you ought to call,” said his father, “and we might order something.”
Gijs muttered something about “so strange,” and “if father were to do it himself,”—but, like a dutiful son, he went to the stairs, and shouted—very much as he was accustomed at home to call the calves to their food—“Huup! huup! huup!”
No one came. At last a door opened, and an old gentleman in hat and greatcoat came out, and passed Gijs.
“Oh!” said Gijs, his shyness giving way before his own hunger and his father’s orders, “would you be so kind as to order something to eat for us!”
“Pull the bell, you young donkey!” was the polite reply. The donkey departed without a word, and, after some searching, Father Meeuwsen found a rope hanging in No. 71, at which he pulled,—and lo! they heard a bell ring. A minute later Karel was again standing before them.
“You must bring us something to eat,” said the farmer, who now began to understand that the young man was a waiter.
“Déjeuner à la fourchette?” asked Karel.