ther 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.

Uncle Sybrand was holding up the money to pay for everything.

"Oh, M'neer, I'm afraid to go home after this," cried Walter. "How
can I pay for that? And my mother----"

In the noise and jumble Holsma did not understand; but Sietske
understood.

"Sh!" she whispered. "Papa will pay for it all. Besides, I have money;
and William, too; and Hermann. Just be quiet."

Walter still did not understand. When, under the protection of the
Holsmas, he was safe on the outside again, and the entire party had
escaped the mob by taking a side street, he reiterated that he did
dare show his face to his mother and Stoffel.

"It doesn't make any difference about the money," said Holsma. "I
will attend to that. Why, boy, you're scared half to death. You're
shaking. Come along home with us where you can rest a bit and quiet
yourself."

The distance, however, proved too short to have the desired quieting
effect on Walter.

"My mother will be angry when I come home late."

Holsma told him that a messenger should be sent to his mother at once,
so that she would know where he was.

The doctor gave him a sedative and led him into a room adjoining that
in which the Holsma family were sitting. Walter was to walk up and
down the room till he felt better; but he soon got tired of this and
did the very thing that he was not to do; he sat down on a sofa and
fell asleep.

Whether, in general, it is a good thing to keep in motion after a
fright--that I do not know. Walter, on the contrary, always felt the
need of sleep under such circumstances; and this remedy, with which
nature provided him, usually restored his mental equilibrium. Perhaps,
after all, it wasn't real sleep: he merely dreamed.

Again he was lifted up, higher and higher, borne by strong hands. A
man bit him in the hand. The fact was he had scratched his hand on
a refractory horsehair, which had become tired of acting as stuffing
for a sofa-pillow.

An angry woman assailed him with abuse. Stupid? Not stupid? We, the
masses? She let him fall. But he fell in Sietske's lap; and there
wasn't a single sliver of glassware.

He was happy--but the horsehair scratched him again. Then he heard
a voice. Was he still dream