“Heelemaal neen,” I said.
I was vainly endeavouring to get him to take it back, when the shopman reappeared from his dark den as grave as a judge, and I turned to him.
There was one word left. It might be right, though I had doubted it from the first; but I would try. It was a long word, too, and from the root of the first part, it promised to have something to do with fowls. Thus I conjectured that its meaning might be ‘quill pen’; but my confidence in the dictionary was by this time much shaken.
“Wilt gij my toestaan”, I said, “U te vragen?” “Ja, mijnheer!” he replied expectantly.
Then I got a little confused, and no wonder. “Durf ik zoo beleefd te kunnen zijn!... om mij mede te deelen en ... mij te verwittigen?” I lost myself again. It’s easy to begin a Dutch conversation but hard to get out of it with honour. Like a drowning man clutching at a straw I grasped at something: “Verkoopt jullie hoenderhokken ... of hoenderhokkjes?”
THE UMBRELLA TO THE RESCUE.
He said nothing—did not even look at me—but moved his hands helplessly, as if subduing some strong emotion. I did not press this word on him, as I scarcely ever use quill pens; and it was as likely as not that the dictionary had failed me again.
I set him at his ease by a courteous phrase or two. “Het geeft niets—het hindert niet—het komt er niet op aan.” Then refraining from further speech, I pointed out some nibs with my umbrella, and, having secured a box of excellent J pens, made good my retreat under cover of a friendly phrase or two: “Mijnheer! het spijt mij zeer; maar ik moet afscheid nemen. Vaarwel.”
It had been rather a strain, and I was glad to get out again into the open air. On the way home I could think it all over calmly, and at leisure I deduced that most useful principle never to use more than one word out of the dictionary for one word of English.