“Au revoir,� Fay said bitterly, as he dodged and twisted and turned in his path toward the quays. “Follow me now if you can, Mac!�
There was no sign behind of pursuit or a shadow. Fay took every precaution. He approached the quays and the canals by lowland paths as the sun dipped below the western sea-mist. He leaped a causeway, went over a thin plank, and drew this ashore after him. The way ahead was narrow. The way behind was closed to all save a good swimmer.
He came to a paved road beside which was a long row of tall poplars. A windmill with crossed arms, like two combs on a pepper box, reared toward the sea. Another showed beyond gray-stucco houses and lean barns. The flat-green of Holland merged into a pea-soup fog which was rising.
A rusty steamer of the smaller class lay at a quay. Drifting smoke poured from her one squat funnel. The gangplank was down. A stream of stolid Dutch was mounting this plank. They seemed, in the gloom, like cattle going to slaughter.
Fay found a boatman who was cleaning fish at the side of the canal. The cracksman drew his coat around his thin shoulders and pointed toward the steamer.
“I want to go on that,� he said.
The boatman laid down a fish-knife, tossed a fish
into the bottom of the boat, and rose with his scale-clustered hand to his cap.
“Ein thaler,� he said. “I go with you over there for ein thaler.�
Fay drew out four silver shillings and handed them down to the boatman. He sprang to a thwart of the boat and waited as the fisherman got out two clumsy oars, cast off the painter and shoved the boat from the edge of the canal.