“Raie dan?” was his brusque reply.
“Rijen, graag,” I agreed; “gaarne rijden; maar—ik ben niet in staat het paard terug te zenden. En ... en ik heb geen ruimte in mijn kamers voor een paard.”
“Wat dan?” said he rudely, with a kind of a dull glare in his black eyes.
I was getting into deep water—there was no use blinking the fact—and here was this dreadful man growing more enraged and suspicious every moment. Perhaps after all I could make something of those three doubtful dictionary words. “Kan u niet,” I asked with some asperity, “kan oe niet, mijnheer, mij laten jagen naar den Haag?”
THE IRATE INN-KEEPER.
“O, hé!” exclaimed my interlocutor with a sudden access of interest and a kind of wrinkle distantly resembling a smile. “Gaat mijnheer op de jacht?”
Dear me, this is too bad, I thought, for I saw people watching me with a curious air of disapproval, and a good many more approaching. Really I regretted I had not walked to the Hague.
But I was in for it now, and with all the sternness I could command I explained sententiously, “Ik wensch een paard!—Om mij te trekken—in een rijtuig—naar den Haag, Ferdinand Bolstraat 66a.”
My horsey friend took a step nearer, his face ominously darkening and the fierce eyes flashing fire. “Wat wou menheer eigenlijk? rijtuig huren? of pérd koope!—of raie naar de stad?—of op de jacht gaan?—of onzin praote?”
I was at my wit’s end and deemed it wise to retire as soon as possible from the conversation. This I tried to do by means of that agreeable little triplet that had hitherto proved so useful to me.