“Mynheer is American?” he asked doubtfully, taking his pipe from his mouth and scratching his head as if to recall where or what America could be.
“Ja wel. Have you a cup of milk at your house?”
He turned and faced back down the road, still scratching his head.
“Als ’t U belieft, mynheer,” I added ceremoniously.
My superlative courtesy seemed to decide him, and he gave a gesture of assent. Side by side and in silence then we walked down the silver road to the first farmhouse. A black mass of protecting trees hung close over the chimney, and low thatch swept down like the back of some prehistoric monster, gray green in the clear moonlight. The walls were lath filled in with clay. Two little rectangular windows glowed dully, and the edges of the thick, ill-fitting door shone with faint light.
“You live here, mynheer?” I asked.
“Ja, mynheer.”
“You own it?”
“I rent it.”