No one gave him a moment's thought; he'd have to go to bed without his dinner.
We continued eating, chatting merrily away, when suddenly we heard a piercing whistle.
We lay down our forks and stared at each other, the shock clearly visible on our pale faces.
Then we heard Peter's voice through the chimney: “I won't come down!”
Mr. van Daan leapt up, his napkin falling to the floor, and shouted, with the blood rushing to his face, “I've had enough!”
Father, afraid of what might happen, grabbed him by the arm and the two men went to the attic.
After much struggling and kicking, Peter wound up in his room with the door shut, and we went on eating.
Mrs. van Daan wanted to save a piece of bread for her darling son, but Mr. van D. was adamant.
“If he doesn't apologize this minute, he'll have to sleep in the loft.”
We protested that going without dinner was enough punishment. What if Peter were to catch cold?
We wouldn't be able to call a doctor. Peter didn't apologize, and returned to the loft.
Mr. van Daan decided to leave well enough alone, though he did note the next morning that Peter's bed had been slept in.
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