Small Souls Part 43

"I don't know," said Adolphine, sharply.

But the girls, both curious, continued to talk about the nickname and they sounded Karel and also Marianne and Marietje van Naghel.

No, none of them, either, knew what the name meant. But Karel was determined to find out and did find out:

"I know," he said to his little sister, Marie.

"I know," Marie whispered to the Van Saetzema girls.

But Marietje van Saetzema did not yet quite understand, but she would not let this appear, because Caroline would have thought her such a baby. If Auntie had never married an Italian, how could she have a son who was an Italian?

The nickname came to the ears of Herman Ruyvenaer, the youngest son of Uncle and Aunt, a lean little brown _sinjo_ of fifteen, who mentioned the nickname at home to his sisters Toetie, Dot and Pop.

"_Allah_, it's too bad!" said the girls. "It's a shame of those boys, Mamma; just listen...."

"Oh, no, I don't believe it," said Aunt Ruyvenaer, when she heard.

"Gossip, I say; _ka.s.sian_, Constance!"

But Uncle Ruyvenaer told her that it was so.

"But how do you know?"

"Adolphine told me herself."

"Oh, nonsense, she wasn't there!... _Ka.s.sian_, that boy and his mother!"

And Aunt Lot and the girls refused to believe, were indignant; and Auntie called her husband an old gossip. But the nickname was often on the lips of the young boy- and girl-cousins and of their friends at home and at school. Once, Addie thought he heard a boy shout to him, by way of an abusive epithet:

"Italian!"

He did not understand, did not even apply the word to himself and walked on.

Another time, however, bicycling with the Van Saetzema boys, along the Wa.s.senaar Road, he grew angry because Jaap was trying his hardest to run over a cat:

"Leave the animal alone," cried Addie, furiously, "or I'll punch your head!"

"Oh?" roared Jaap. "You would, would you, Italian?"

Addie did not yet understand. But he had a vague recollection of hearing the name before. He did not at once recall the incident of that other boy:

"Why do you call me an Italian?" he asked.

The others were frightened, pulled Jaap's sleeve.

"That's nothing to do with it," growled Jaap, taken aback. "You say you're going to punch my head."

But Addie, in a flash, remembered the boy and that shout in the street near the school:

"Out with it!" he cried. "Why do you call me an Italian?"

Chris and Piet tried to smooth things over:

"Come, don't bother; he's talking rot."

"But why an Italian?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing!"

"Yes, there's something. I mean to know!"

"Keep your hair on; it's nothing."

"Out with it!" cried Addie, scarlet with rage. And he flew at Jaap's throat.

"Oh, hang it! Shut up!" shouted the two others.

But Jaap and Addie were struggling. Their boyish hatred suddenly burst forth:

"Out with it! Why do you call me an Italian?"

Addie was very strong, stronger than Jaap, who was a year and a half older than he and taller. He got him down: his small, hard knuckles were at Jaap's throat; and he was nearly strangling him. The others pulled him off:

"That'll do, I say! Shut up!"

They pulled Addie away from Jaap; and now Jaap, furious because he had been beaten, purple in the face, half choking, unable to control his hate, cried out:

"Because you're not the son of your father!"

"Hold your jaw!" shouted Piet and Chris to Jaap.

But the word was spoken and Addie was like a madman:

"You hound! You hound!" he yelled.

And he tried to fling himself on Jaap again.

The two other boys held him back. And a sudden reasonableness came to soothe Addie's pa.s.sion: he must not let himself go like that, against that cur of a Jaap. When that young bounder lost his temper, he didn't know what he shouted and raved, "Italian!" and "Not the son of your father!" Addie shrugged his shoulders:

"I've had enough of cycling with you chaps. I can spend my Sundays better than in tormenting cats and quarrelling and fighting."

And he sprang on his bicycle and rode away.

"Italian!" Jaap screamed after him once more, forgetting everything, except his hatred.

Addie looked round; and he saw that Chris and Piet, both furious, were thrashing the very life out of Jaap.

He rode away, mastering his nerves. No, he could never again, to please Mamma, spoil his Sunday holiday with those cads of boys. This was the last time, for good and all! Besides, he felt that they liked him as little as he them. And then, suddenly, his thoughts went back to the strange word, the word of abuse, and to the boy who, once before, had shouted it after him in the street. That time, he had not imagined that it was he whom the boy meant.

Try as he would to keep calm, he was too much excited to go straight home and perhaps meet Papa and Mamma. He therefore rode to the Bezuidenhout, hoping to find Frans van Naghel in: Henri was not at the Hague, was working hard at Leiden.