"Then self-government hadn't the ghost of a chance to succeed," I remarked.
We entered a class where an old man of about eighty was teaching a group.
"Why do these lads keep their eyes on the ground?" I asked. "Is their spirit crushed out of them?"
Conijn laughed.
"They are admiring your boots!" he cried.
I wore a pair of ski-ing boots on my trip, and all Holland stared open-mouthed at them. If I had been wanted for a murder I don't think anyone in Holland could have identified me, for their eyes never got above my boots.
One of the masters, Mr. van Something-or-other, very trustingly lent me his bike, and on the following day I cycled to Laren to see the Humanitarian School there. Nearly every road has a cycle path on one side and a riding path on the other, but in spite of the excellent roads I did not enjoy cycling in Holland; a free wheel was of little value on the flat surface. One delightful feature about cycling in Holland is that there are no mid-day closing times for pubs, but on the other hand you cannot raise much of a thirst in a flat country.
Well, I reached Laren after many narrow escapes, for I was continually forgetting that you keep to the right in Holland. A postman came along, and I jumped off.
"Humanitaire School?" I asked as I doffed my hat.
By his expression I judged that he did not know the institution under that name.