He raised his eyebrows and said: “Bedoelt mijnheer soms appelmoes?”
Apple squash? That seemed rather a good idea. It sounded like cider or apple-lemonade.
“Ja, best,” I said; “breng mij een glas appelmoes, maar niet te sterk.”
A MYSTERIOUS BEVERAGE.
When he was gone to draw some of this mysterious beverage, who should turn up but Enderby? He had been motoring; and was coming back from Amsterdam when some pinion had given way, and he had to stop at the Uitspanning for repairs. He came up to me and sat down saying: “Well, O’Neill, you’re a long way from home; how did you get here? What are you taking this hot weather?”
“Indeed,” said I, “I don’t exactly know. It’s apple-squash, or rather a sort of apple lemonade,—cider, I believe.”
“Ah,” said he with surprise, “you talked English, I suppose?”
“Not at all,—not a word. I never speak English now. It was all Dutch.”
“Then I tell you, you have made progress with the language! For here have I been in Holland for fifteen years, and I never even heard of apple lemonade yet. To tell you the truth, I should not know how to ask for it. My boy, I congratulate you on your linguistic enterprise!”