Next morning we were up at dawn to be in time for the first express. We cycled to the station; but a row of market-boats, that had reached the one and only canal-bridge on our route, kept us waiting till they filed past; and we missed our train.
“Choost kon!” exclaimed a porter cheerfully, as he took our cycles. “Day-train choost away—von—two—meenit—ako!”
“Never mind”, I rejoined. “There are plenty of day-trains left. It’s early yet.”
As he looked doubtful, I added in the vernacular: “Wij zijn in goeje tijd voor den bommel; nie-waar? Zes vier en veertig.”
“Net, mijnheer”, he replied, grinning appreciation of my Dutch, as he led the way to the loket.
AN UNWELCOME INTERRUPTION.
There were no difficulties there. You merely had to say. “Twee enkele reis, Arnhem. Tweede klasse. Gewone biljetten,” and there you were. And these ‘gewone biljetten’ made the forwarding of the cycles simplicity itself.
Duly provided with the forthcoming fiets-papiertjes we ensconced ourselves in a non-smoker, and—to while away the time—rehearsed our Traveller’s Dialogue. That is the system I had made out long since, but now partly forgotten. Terence had benefited by my tuition, and could now keep the ball rolling, with more or less relevant remarks, whilst I enumerated the parts of a train, and talked about tickets and towns.
So smoothly did our conversation run that we were tempted to repeat it with variations; and we were just in the middle of as fine an elocutionary practice as ever you heard, when there was a scramble on the platform; and in there bounded into our compartment—just as the train began to move off—three tourists, hot and breathless!
THE LINGUIST AND THE SATELLITE.