barkeeper, and collector of fares.

In the center of a dark cabin, littered with charts, pails, and Flemish
newspapers, was a kitchen table. Now and then a smoking oil lamp
flared up to throw a light on the faces of my fellow-passengers, five of
them in addition to the captain and Mons. le Conducteur. They were,
as I discovered later, Mons. A. Albrecht, a leading alderman of
Antwerp and a friend of Mons. Vos, the burgomaster; a light-haired
Belgian piano salesman who could speak five languages; Mile.
Blanche Ravinet, of looks beautiful and occupation unknown; and two
others. From the suddenness with which the conversation stopped, I
judged they had been discussing "ze American." They were welcome
to say what they liked barring the word "spion."

For hours we chugged steadily along, catching a fair tide on the
lower Meuse, and sliding past the neat little towns of Dordrecht,
Papendrecht, and Willemstad, through the Hollandische Diep and the
Krammer Volkerak. After that the Telegraaf III worried through the
canals and systems of locks which virtually cut the neck of Tholen
from the mainland, and, when the last of these had been
accomplished, splashed into the great basin of the East Scheldt. A
Dutch gunboat cut across our bows, signaling us to halt. An officer
boarded us to study the freight invoices.

Farther upstream a launch came alongside, making fast fore and aft,
while two Belgian river sentries, in long blue coats and faded drab
trousers, poked their bearded heads above the rail. This, then, was
what the captain meant by the border patrol.

Now, as luck would have it, the day was cold: we were the first boat to