"Trommel," called Felbeck to a clerk who had kept on writing, "where does Vis hang out at present?" "Markus Vis?" said partner Trommel. "Well, for the nonce, at the office of an iron foundry. He has a job there." "That's a neat berth for him," remarked one of the smokers. "You'll see what a boot-licker he'll be after he puts on a collar." "What foundry is that?" asked Van Lieverlee. "In the 'de Ruiter,' of your uncle Mijnheer van Trigt," replied partner Trommel. "How long has he been there?" asked Van Lieverlee. "For two or three weeks past." "Is he a tall dark fellow with a beard, and curling hair, and a jumper?" "That is it--exactly!" said various voices. Van Lieverlee swung round, strode up to the window, threw back his head, pulled out his handkerchief, and snorted into it. The bystanders could hardly tell whether he was sneezing, or laughing, or indisposed. "Excuse me!" he cried out. "Something comical occurred to me." Then he snorted again, and one could plainly see that he was laughing. "A Mahatma!" they heard him murmur, in the middle of his laughing. "Oh! Oh! but that is good! A Mahatma!" Those present looked rather perplexed at this outburst, as if waiting for further explanation. "If I only had had that description earlier, Johannes," said Van Lieverlee, recovering from his fit of laughter, "we need not have annoyed these gentlemen. Your friend is in my uncle's office. I have seen him several times." "Then will you go there with me?" asked Johannes. His voice was still firm, but I assure you his eyes were full of tears. However, he controlled himself in the presence of those men and partners. "Of course, of course! Sometime!" said Van Lieverlee, in high glee; and he actually began laughing again. He made a pretense of trying to control this outburst, but such was his manner that Johannes would have liked to strike him straight in the face. He did not do it, however, but went down the steps with Van Lieverlee without having enrolled in the proletarian class. "Well, good-by!" said Van Lieverlee, when they were in the street, giving Johannes' hand an immoderate shake. "I must go to the Soos.[1] Sometime we will go to the foundry. I'll make some inquiries, first. We'll go sometime--of course--of course!" With his mouth still twisted in irony, and humming a song, he passed on, in affected indifference. That evening--alone--Johannes hunted for the foundry. But the office was closed and dark, and there was no one about to give him information. He found in his own little room a small bit of cheer--a vase of forget-me-nots, from Marjon. [1] Soos = Abbreviation of _Societeit_, or Club. XI "Wistik, dear," said Johannes, "let me hold your hand. You are such a good and true friend. I am not sorry any more that I slipped from under Windekind's mantle to listen to you."