“Call off your dog. I’m the American delegate of the Relief Committee.”
“What, mynheer?”
I aimed a kick at the dancing, barking bundle of fur and feet, lost my balance on the edge of the wharf, and came down on the sloping deck of the Cornelis de Vriendt on all fours. The dog went wild, and the frightened babies howled, but the skipper watched motionless as before. “What did you say, mynheer?” he asked imperturbably.
It seemed no time for the French or Flemish languages. In an emotional crisis, such as a deathbed repentance or losing one’s heart or one’s temper, the tongue turns to the speech of youth, and I fell to cursing in most excellent and idiomatic English. The shock-head stared. “For God’s sake, sir,” he exclaimed at last, in English like my own, “are you a British spy?”
“A spy, you idiot? I’m the American delegate of the Commission for Relief in Belgium. What do you mean by staring at me like that and letting your crazy dog bark his head off at me? I’m the consignee of this cargo, and I’ve come to inspect it.”
The bargeman leaped to the peak of the vessel and came forward, his bare toes clutching the ridge of the deck, smacked the nearest infant into silence, swore at the dog, and came down to me. He drew an old cap from his pocket and began to clean my clothes, using the cap as a dust cloth. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said meekly, “but you see, sir, I has to be careful, wot with the Germans and all.”
“With that accent I should think you would have to be careful,” I retorted grimly.
“Ow no, sir,” he returned, “I’m a Belgian all right-o, but I ’ave served my time in the British navy.”
“And now you’re skipper of a barge!”