We had a delightful spin along the Velperweg.

Dismounting three or four times to admire choice ‘bits’ of scenery, we were enticed on and on, and followed a side way that rose over a gentle slope. From the ridge of this acclivity we could watch the cloud shadows, violet and purple, sweeping over wide moors, and by their subtle contrasts bringing out the soft shimmering of the distant sunlight. On the horizon we made out the river and some hill-tops marked on our maps. Terence was confident he saw Nijmegen; but pushing on to get a still finer view, we came to grief in crossing a heather “brae”. At least I did. The front wheel was wrenched to one side; and we had to foot it all the way to Velp. There having left both machines at a cycle-mender’s, we started for a long tramp.

That was a grand mistake, for we went too far. There were other ranges of wooded hills to be climbed, and the air was exhilarating. The time passed quickly, so it was late in the afternoon before we knew. Feeling more or less famished, we ventured on a short cut through the “Onzalige Bosch”; but soon were hopelessly lost. It was a task to get on the main road.

Indeed we took several wrong turnings apparently, for they seemed—it was hard to get our proper orientation—to bring us back to the same neighbourhood always. But at last we came to a line of wooded hills, and discovered a cart track that led us to a real high-way. This high-way was a magnificent affair with high over-arching trees; and on it, to our great relief, there were tram-rails!

Help was near at hand. We put our best foot foremost, so to speak, and hurried forward looking in the dusk for a halte. Perhaps we may have passed some halten, but we didn’t notice any; and as we were fagged out, I was glad to come upon a group of workmen who, I imagined, could tell me about the tram. The question I wanted to get solved was simple. Did the tram stop merely at the official halten, or would the driver pull up anywhere he got a passenger? If the bye-laws of this particular tramway allowed the tram to stop and pick up pedestrians anywhere all along the line, we were quite safe; we should just sit down on the roadside and rest. We shouldn’t walk another step.

The men were shovelling away at fallen leaves, so I accosted them in my friendliest Dutch and said: “Stop de tram overal?” As this was greeted with the customary “blief?” I tried to be more explicit. “Stop de tram op een wenk of een uitroepteeken? Of stopt hij alleen op de halten?”

This puzzled them all exceedingly; and one elderly man mopped his brow with his handkerchief and said, “Ik mot es eve prakiseere.”

With that he stabbed his spade into the sod at his foot and leaned on the top of it with both arms, his eye fixed the while on me. I didn’t care for the performance, as his stare was discomfitingly steady; but I allowed him for a while to prakiseere undisturbed.

Indeed I couldn’t even guess what he was trying to do. It looked like an exercise in philosophic meditation or an attempt to hypnotise me on the spot, and as he seemed in no hurry to give me the information I desired, there was nothing for it but ask one of the other road menders.

Selecting the most intelligent looking of them. I said “Kijk es, baas; houdt de tram op, op een wuiving van een zakdoek? Of als men teekent met een paraplu?”

This second functionary shook his head sadly, and leaned on his spade in turn, gazing at me as if I had horns. There was a third man—close at hand—quite a young fellow, halfway across the road where he was standing as if petrified by my previous conversation. However he wasn’t “prakiseering,” so I stepped across to him with the slowly enunciated query: “Vertel me nou es: wat voor signaal moet ik maken, als ik wensch op genomen te worden?”

He was the promptest of the group, for he replied glibly: “Ik weet het niet. Je mot eve by de Politie gaan vragen.” But not a word about the tram.

I gave it up. No information could possibly be extracted from these roadmen. My Dutch had quite broken down, and in disgust, I surrendered the leading of the expedition wholly to Terence.

Terence has a theory that he can make his meaning clear by means of careful and scientific gesticulation. Now he took his innings, while I watched the proceedings from a comfortable seat by the roadside.

“They’re quite clever at it,” he shouted to me. “The tram will be here in two somethings—I believe two hours—so we may as well move on: it’ll be no use to us, to wait.”

“All right,” I said; “your way of it!” And off we started, tired as we were. We weren’t ten minutes on the road till the tram was heard puffing behind us; and catching sight of a kind of double line in front of us we bounded towards this spot in hopes there might be a halte there. There was: and the tram waited half an hour at it, and then went back again the way it had come. We had to walk. Well, at all events we reached Velp at dark. My cycle was nicely mended, so after getting some refreshments in an excellent logement and taking a prolonged and well earned rest, we mounted our bikes and rode straight to Arnhem.

So disgusted was I with my ill-success in Dutch that I tackled the porters in English. An obliging wit-jas asked me if I would have the day-train. “Rather not,” I told him. “There will surely be another train to-night. It’s only nine.”

The first was a bommel, he said, and would do for the fietsen; but he recommended us to wait for the day-train.

“What! And stay here all night?” I asked.

“No,” he explained. “Day-trein will be here soon.”

“How is that?” said I. “How in the wide world can a Day-train go at night? or is it because it started from Germany by day-light? You surely don’t reckon here by Amerikaansche tijd for the sake of the tourists?”

“You not understand,” he explained. “We call it day-trein becos’ you pay more—.”

“Well!” I interrupted; “that would be a Pay-train, then! Not Day.”

“No, no,” he said excitedly. “Zis trein go kwik!—not stop—anywheres!”

“But if it doesn’t stop, how can we get in?” I asked. “Of moet ik belet vragen voor deze Dag-trein? Geeft de trein belet? You’ll need a special kind of ticket, too—perhaps an aanslagsbiljet?”

“No, no; only little bewijsje—kwik trein—bring Restoration—becos’—.”

“What? The Restoration! It turns day into night, and brings back CharlesII! Go on, please, I can believe anything now!”

“Hallo! is this where you are?” sounded gratefully on our ears. It was van Leeuwen, who had been expecting us all day, after he had heard about our call, from the indignant butler. He had given up all hope of seeing us, but we passed him by in the dark, talking and laughing. He had followed hot-speed to the station—in time to explain the mysteries of the D-trein. My spirits rose. The world was still ruled by reason. Of course we went back with our rescuer. That was the original plan, and I had a grammar to send with him to the Hague.

As he waited, talking to Terence, I recalled the cycles. The wit-jas demurred: “De fietsen zijn al weg.”

“Neen, niet waar,” I told him. “Onmogelijk, hoor! Geen trein is weg. Daar zijn de papiertjes ervan. Pak ze: breng de fietsen mee. Ik weiger je verontschuldigingen. Doe wat ik zeg, ik bid U. En niet terug komen met hangende pootjes!”