"A rotten country!" I growled, and went away.
In the street I ran into a group of boys led by a master who was smoking a fat cigar.
"Speak English?" I asked, lifting my hat gracefully.
"Nichtenrichtilbricht," he said; at least that's how it sounded.
"Thank you," I said, lifted my hat again, and fell in behind the boys.
I was determined to see this thing through.
I tackled him again when we reached the playground.
"I the head would see," I began, "the ober-johnny, the chef."
"Ja!" he exclaimed with an enlightened grin, and nodded. In ten seconds the chief stood before me. He could speak a broken English, and said he would be glad to show me round. It was a third class school, and I gathered that in Holland there are three grades of State school; the first class is attended by the rich, the second by the middle class, and the third by the poor.
The school was very like a Board School in England. The children sat in the familiar desks and were spoon-fed by the familiar teacher. There was nothing new about it. I noticed that hand writing seemed to be the most important thing, and each class teacher proudly showed me exercise books filled with beautiful copper-plate writing. Most obliging class teachers they were. Would I like to hear some singing? It was wonderful singing in three parts; what surprised me was that the boys seemed to be just as keen on singing as the girls. I have always found it otherwise in Scotland and England.
In this school I got the gratifying news that corporal punishment is not allowed in Dutch schools, and later I learned that this applies to all reformatories also.