Nevertheless, I went to Rotterdam, crossed the river basin to the
island from which the Braakman boats ran, and there saw a director
of the company, who, fortunately, could speak both English and
Flemish. He took me to the captain of the river barge, a low craft that
looked a cross between a tugboat and a Hudson River scow. In less
than three minutes my case was disposed of. Verdict: "C'est
absolument defendu." It was time for a little "bluff." An hour later I
returned with a new proposition, having in the mean time telegraphed
Mr. Diederick either to meet me at the pier at Antwerp or to send a
military permit. Displaying a copy of this telegram I suggested that I
be allowed to board. If there was any one at Antwerp to meet and
vouch for me, well and good; if not, they were at liberty to ship me
back. That was my proposition.

"He may go as far as the border patrol, fifteen miles east of Antwerp,"
the captain said to my interpreter. "If the river sentries permit it he
may then go as far as the Antwerp pier, but he cannot land."

We cast off Sunday, October 4th, at 6 A.M. The little Telegraaf III
poked her nose through the blue-gray haze of a chilly October
morning while the muddy waters of the Meuse slapped coldly against
her bow. I stamped the deck a few times, wondering if there was an
English-speaking soul aboard, and leaned up against the engine
room until the odor of coffee and bacon lured me to the fo'castle
hatch. A purple-faced giant, with thick lips that met like the halves of
an English muffin blocked the companion-way.

"'Jour," growled the face as though it hated to say it, then pointed to
the food and cognac. This was Monsieur le Conducteur, ship's cook,