THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

The Ajax was to remain two days or so longer in Antwerp, and the boys readily obtained permission from the captain to make all the use they could of their passes. They had already exhausted what they wished to see of Antwerp, including the famous fort on the TÊte de Flandre on the opposite bank of the river, the great cathedral, the home of Rubens’ parents, and the magnificent picture gallery.

Now they could enlarge their opportunities, and they decided to take a trip to Brussels and from there to the field of Waterloo. Accordingly, they started in high spirits on their tour as soon as they could get a train. Their passes were marked “first-class,” so they soon ensconced themselves in a leather-lined compartment, while their less fortunate fellow passengers had to be content with “second” and “third.”

“I wonder how this arrangement would go in America?” asked Jack as they sank back in the soft-padded cushions.

“I guess everybody would go first-class,” laughed Raynor. “We haven’t anyone at home willing to brand himself ‘second’ or ‘third’ in the race.”

“Now who on earth is this?” wondered Jack presently, as a brightly uniformed official entered the compartment which they had to themselves.

“Conductor, I guess,” hazarded Raynor.

The official removed his cap and bowed low.

“Bonjours, messieurs,” said he; “les billets, si vous plait.”

“I guess he wants our tickets,” said Jack, fishing for his. This surmise proved to be correct.

The politeness of the official was more marked, if it could be possible, when he saw, from the signature on the passes, that the boys were traveling under “royal auspices.” He raised his cap and bowed again. Not to be outdone, the boys bowed back with equal suavity.

“Merci bien,” he said.

“Merci bien,” responded Jack, who had acquired some French at high school.

“Mercy beans, too,” sputtered young Raynor, thinking that Jack was giving an order for a Boston lunch. The conductor bowed again and vanished, a bell rang and they were off. The ride lay through a farming region and the road was cool, clean and smooth.

On their arrival in Brussels, they found accommodation at a hotel overlooking the public square. The windows, although the maÎtre de hotel had assured them that it was one of the best rooms in the house, were only four feet high.

“Gee, we have to lie down to look out!” exclaimed Raynor.

“On the square?” asked Jack with a grin.

“No; on the level; that’s the way I lie,” chuckled Raynor. Both lads were in high spirits. Their unexpected stroke of luck had surely proved a windfall.

In the center of the Place Royale, the first place the boys explored, stands an equestrian figure of Godfrey of Bouillon.

“It was on that spot that he first assembled his crusaders who won back Jerusalem to the Christians,” said Jack, wise with guide-book knowledge.

“And to think that up to now I always thought Bouillon was a soup,” remarked Raynor dryly.

Before the train left for Waterloo, they had time to visit the Royal Museum, walking down the Rue de La RÉgence. The Royal Museum was filled with fine pictures and statuary, but, to tell the truth, the boys had become a little bit cloyed with art at Antwerp. It takes some experience and training to be interested in, and gauge properly, such things, although both felt that what they had seen had done them permanent good.

Several times during their walk to the railroad station where they were to take a train for Waterloo, the boys were much amused and interested by the working dogs hitched to small carts. Sometimes the working dogs got into a fight with the leisure-class canines, and then there was a fine racket among the owners and the dogs, till things were straightened out and humans and canines, both growling, went on their way.

“Almost all the shops say they cater to the King or the Court of Flanders,” commented Raynor as they strolled along.

“I guess they get most of their real money from Americans, at that,” was Jack’s comment.

The Gare du Midi, or Central Station, they found surrounded by a crowd of shouting, noisy, officious guides, and also several individuals who looked none too honest. They buttonholed every arrival, volunteering all sorts of information in bad English. This, despite the fact that there were plenty of signs in plain view.

It was half an hour’s ride to Braine-l’Alleud, for the most famous battle of modern history was fought several miles from the village whose name it bears. This is because Wellington sent his victorious despatches from Waterloo, which has ever since claimed the honor of naming the place of Napoleon’s downfall.

They took a small, rickety carriage at the station, and before long Raynor was pointing to a mound with an ugly, clumsy-looking lion on it.

“Zat is zee Lion of Belgium,” volunteered the driver. “Eet ees model from French cannon and mark zee spot where zee Prance of Orange was wounded.”

“Is that so?” muttered Raynor. “Well, it looks more like a Newfoundland dog than a lion to me.”

“Eet weigh twenty-eight ton,” volunteered the driver again, pointing with his whip to the lion, close access to which was gained by a steep flight of steps. There are two hundred and twenty-six of these steps, and the boys, on climbing them, were considerably out of breath when they reached the summit and saw the historic plain spread out under their feet.

“I’m disappointed,” confessed Jack frankly. “I thought it was much larger. Why, it doesn’t look like much more than a parade ground!”

“Well, it wasn’t much of a ‘parade’ at the time of the battle, with three hundred thousand men tearing at each other’s throats for five or six hours and leaving fifty thousand dead and wounded on the field,” commented Raynor, who was well up in history.

Then they drove over the road built by Napoleon fifteen years before the battle.

“Might have been a good cavalry road, but it sure is a bone-shaker in this rig,” remarked Jack, and his companion agreed with him. They were much interested in the farm house of Hougomont, or rather its shell-battered ruins. This was the hottest point of the battle. The French assaulted it for hours, but did not succeed in taking it.

The family, who own the house, make a good living selling souvenirs to visitors.

“I’ve been told,” said Jack, with a smile, “that every fall they plant little bullets and souvenirs. The winter snow and spring rains make the crop ready to be plowed up.”

“Profitable farming,” laughed Raynor. However, the boys bought a grape shot and what purported to be an insignia from an artilleryman’s cap.

“It must have been a great battle,” said Raynor as they paid off their hack bill, the size of which made them raise their eyebrows.

“Yes, and the Belgians are still able to charge,” remarked Jack dryly.

In the railroad carriage on the way back a self-assertive Englishman was holding forth on what a great victory Wellington had achieved. “Which,” he added, turning to the boys, “was all the more creditable because he fought with raw recruits. Most of our seasoned soldiers were in your country at the time.”

“And most of them are planted there yet,” remarked Raynor.

The Englishman glared at him; but Jack smoothed things over and everything was amiable till Raynor again disrupted international peace.

“Deuced funny clothes those beggars wear,” remarked the son of Britain, gazing out at a wooden-shoed, baggy-breeched peasant.

“Oh, I don’t know. Not so much funnier than an Englishman’s,” said the American lad; after which there ensued a silence lasting till the train rolled into Brussels.