Chapter 8 THE SURPRISES OF THE MAAS.

"Well, well!" ejaculated O'Neill irritably. "What an inveterate old gossip Enderby is, to be sure!

"Of course I got Terence back quite soon from Bonn, where he had nothing to do; and I gave him a splendid time sight-seeing in Haarlem and Amsterdam. I'll tell you about that, another time.

But first about my run to Rotterdam, where I went one day for a little change I needed.

The landlady was a bit peevish and hysterical, and, of course, very bothersome. She never quite took to the Berlitz method, as I had improved it; and she became grandmotherly to me from the moment I made that slip about the zee-held.

The whole thing was getting on her nerves, so I gave her a rest. Took a day off, in fact; and went for a tour round the Rotterdam havens.

FAIRYLAND.

I had some idea of recapitulating the old ground-the first thousand words, you know-whilst I should be steaming around the harbour. But as soon as we pushed off from the wharf and went skimming over the sun-lit Maas, the brilliant and animated scene wiped the new vocabulary clean out of my mind for the time-being; and I didn't feel at all inclined to dig it out of my notes.

The marvellous colouring of everything held me spell-bound. It was like fairyland. Our boat was crowded, and a man on board pointed out the sights. That was the only Dutch study I got that day; for some one began to speak to me in English-an Amsterdammer, as it appeared, who told me that the grachten in Amsterdam surpassed every other spectacle the world had to show; and made me promise to go and see them as soon as I could.

I asked him what he thought of the harbour we were in; but he wasn't so enthusiastic.

Meantime it had grown darker, and a steady, cold, sea-fog drifted round us. It got dismally wet, as well as gloomy; and the deck dripped with clammy moisture. We were hardly moving, presently; and our captain kept the steam whistle hard at work. The sight-seers were grievously disappointed; and one fellow-victim informed me it would be a good thing if we got near land anywhere, in time to catch the last train.

IK KRIJSCH, IK FLUIT EN IK GIL.

Horns kept booming around us, every few seconds; perky little tugs and immense black hulls swept by us at arm's length, piping or bellowing, according to their temperament and ability.

The Amsterdammer and I had gone to the prow, to try and peer a little further into the dense curling vapour, when a siren-I think that's what you call the thing-gave such a sudden blood-curdling yell at our very elbow, it seemed as if we had trodden on the tail of the true and original Sea-serpent, and that the reptile was shrieking in agony.

From that time on, we had sea-serpents every other minute-whole swarms of them-infuriated, inquisitive or resigned-soprano, alto, tenor;-all whining, hooting and snorting; every one trying to howl all the others down.

Excuse my referring to it, but it was the best illustration I had yet got of Boyton's verbs.

"Ik graauw, ik kef en ik kweel!" said one set of voices. "Ik krijsch, ik fluit en ik gil!" answered their rivals.

POLYPHEMUS AND THE SEA-SERPENT.

But the deep boom of new-comers swept the earlier songsters out of the field: "Ik rammel, ik ratel en ik scheur". It was a regular chorus.

"Ik gier en ik piep", squeaked the little tugs, "ik fop en ik jok".

But the first musicians-the sentimental ones-wouldn't be outdone. They were evidently turning over their grammars very rapidly, to get a really melancholy selection, for in another moment their lugubrious snuffle pierced the fog like a knife: "Ik wee-ee-een; ik krijt; en ik hui-ui-ui-l-l!"

There was one long-drawn-out sob, that rose and fell and rose again with such appalling and expressive anguish that I could have imagined half the Netherlands had turned into a gigantic sea-serpent, and had bitten off its own tongue. So human, too, was its tortured wail, that I instinctively thought of Polyphemus having his eye gouged out by Ulysses. The hero, you remember, did it with a burning pine. One has a horrible sympathy for Polyphemus, even though he is a monster and mythical.

Happily our Polyphemus only gave two or three of his prize yells. Then he seemed to settle into sleep, away down the river somewhere.

CLOTHO.

The Amsterdam-man explained to me that in his city the fog-horns were much more musical.

This thesis was warmly contested by a Rotterdammer who had overheard it, and who spoke of the Capital with a distinct want of reverence.

The argument soon deviated into Dutch, and I lost hold of it; but through a cloud of statistics and history I observed that local patriotism on both sides stood at fever heat.

By and by, the fog thinned a little; and we crept along to a landing-stage, where the Amsterdammer and I climbed on shore with alacrity. We lost our way at first, and wandered about within earshot of the siren-brood, whooping and calling and taunting one another on the river; but my new-made friend stumbled at last on some spot he was acquainted with; and hastily giving me some directions, went off to his train.

After the long Polyphemus-concert on the murky river I wasn't in much humour for Dutch, but I had to speak it at every corner to ask my way.

In an open thoroughfare-there were some people about, but not many-near an archway, I came upon Clotho.

GLOOM AND MYSTERY.

Perhaps the Greek Mythology was running in my head: but there she sat. Old beyond words, but hale; wrapped up marvellously with head and jaws swathed in dim flannel, she gazed, without moving, on a table in front of her, spread with dried eels and other occult delicacies. As I approached, to enquire for the 'kortste weg naar de electrische tram', she didn't move a muscle. Something about her made me pause upon my step, and refrain from speech.

No movement.

But wait! One thickly muffled hand went out to some obscure eatable, slowly grasped it, dipped it in a sort of cup, then, still more slowly, brought it to her lips.

Yes. She was alive; for she munched, calmly and dispassionately.

The sight impressed me. It was like Fate; or an ancient priestess performing mysterious rites. Clotho would look like this, if Clotho would munch instead of spin.

Meantime the inevitable butcher's boy had joined me. Two of them, indeed, stood at my side, curious to know what interested the vreemdeling.

The old lady never winced under the scrutiny, but put forth her hand again for another shell.

WHAT IS TREK?

There was a book-stall near, but nobody at it, as far as I could see. The whole street sounded hollow; and everything dripped. It made me shiver to look at the stone-pillars, oozy and moist, with condensed sea-fog trickling down. The glaring street-lamps hardly lit up the scene; but they showed the damp. Polyphemus gave a distant whoop, as if it were his last: and the Spectre munched. She hadn't once looked up.

It all felt like a dream-except for the butchers' boys.

"Wat doet ze-die oude mejuffrouw?" I enquired.

"Ze zit te eten," was the prompt reply.

"Waarom zit ze te eten daar?" I asked.

"Om dat ze trek heeft!"

A snigger went round the company. Evidently that reply was of the nature of wit; and they expected something sparkling from me in return.

But I couldn't sparkle.

THE SOCRATIC DIALOGUE.

"Trek" was unknown to me. Strange, how you can be bowled over by a simple word, if you've never heard it. Trekken-trok-getrokken, was familiar. That meant 'to pull,' 'draw,' or 'wander'. "Trekschuit"-"trekpot"-"trekvogel"; I had them all labelled on my desk in the Hague. But "trek" itself, what was that exactly? Provided of course, the youth were grammatical,-which I very much doubted.

"Zij heeft getrokken," however, when I tried it, only raised new difficulties. What then did she pull, and why?

'Trekvogel' was an alluring idea to follow up, in a town where Jan Olieslagers' fame was universal: but common sense forbade my pursuing that line far.

The defects of my home-made Berlitz became painfully evident. It's humiliating, when you have your 2000 new nouns at your fingers' ends, and hundreds of old ones; and yet can't understand the first thing a knecht says.

But the bystanders were growing impatient; so-to withdraw gracefully-I enquired, "wat is trek?"

It was probably the best retort I could have made. "Ja, wat is het?" he soliloquised, evidently puzzled, "Ik weet het niet. Maar ik heb altijd trek."

"Ik ook", said a smaller boy; "in een boterham."

Tongues were loosened on all sides. "Nee; in een lekker stuk worst," I heard one say.

"Nee; niet waar"; interrupted a brawny fellow with a brick-red face; "Zuurkool en spek."

A COSY TALK.

I nipped the unprofitable discussion in the bud by demanding, as I moved away: "Maar wat is trek?"

"Dat weet je wel," said the first fellow, the wit. "Als je te veel eet."

"Nee, heelemaal niet," jeered a late-comer. "Kan je begrijpen! Maar als je niets eet, dan heb je trek!"

The crowd cheered at this. He had evidently the majority with him. High words followed; and the controversy became general, as the protagonists in this psychological debate found backers, and swarmed away towards the centre of town.

I was left alone, and Clotho looked up.

She dipped a periwinkle in one of the weird cups, and held it towards me.

"Heeft Mijnheer trek?" Would I join in the repast!

"Ik? Duizendmaal verschooning!" I said, as I quickened my pace in rapid retreat.

My confusion increased as I reflected that I had probably been urging my late interlocutors to "define appetite"-a thing even Aristotle could hardly do. Naturally the populace broke into parties-Aristotelians and Platonists (let us say), or into Hoekschen en Kabeljauwschen.

THE CHAT.

In any case my confidence was shaken in my improved, home-made Berlitz. It might be splendid for travelling; but in ordinary life it didn't seem to cover the ground.

On arriving at my lodgings I was met at the door by the landlady's son. He was beaming. Lately he had been working up his English, and truly had made giant strides.

"Koot eeffening, Sir," he said; "Koot eeffening! Ai hef an little chat." "I wish to have a chat", he seemed to mean.

It was an odd request for a trifling practice in English; but I like to encourage merit, so I assured him of my willingness to have a friendly talk.

"Oh, yes. All right," I said. "But won't you come up stairs? We have a few minutes before supper."

"But-Ai hef here an naiz little chat!"

"Ah, just so. Did you perhaps have a talk with some one in English when I was away?"

"No, sir; but ai hef een chat."

This was bewildering; and as he seemed puzzled, too, and always stuck to the same noun I investigated more fully.

"You talk of a chat!-dat is een praatje, weet je wel?"

EVIDENCES OF HUNGER.

"Nee, mijnheer, heus: het is waar. Geen praatje."

We were half-way up the stairs now. "Come on", I said.

"Vayt", he replied, diving into some recess. "Ai vil let see you."

In an instant he was back with something under his coat. This he produced with the delighted exclamation: "ze little chat!"

It was a bedraggled kitten that he had discovered wandering about in the fog and mewing piteously. "Vil you hef him? Anders, zegt moe, hij kan niet blijven."

"I'll talk to your mother about the kitten," I answered. "Kitten,-that's what we call it-not chat. Maar hoor eens, jongen, heeft het poesje trek?"

"O mijnheer, verbazend!" was the ecstatic reply; and in another three minutes he had a saucer of milk under the foundling's nose, and was watching kitty's lapping operations with a joy as keen as that of kitty herself.

I had got what I wanted without any philosophic argument. There was the proof.

Trek is appetite.

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