It was half-past eleven on the Thursday morning when Smith and his companion arrived at Delfzyl. Both were dead tired, for the tedious railway journey, especially between Zwolle and their destination, was the last straw.
The good folk of Delfzyl were evidently thought-readers, for directly the Englishmen left the station they were surrounded by a gesticulating mob, every man, woman, and child in the crowd pointing out the way to the quay where the Diomeda lay.
It was low tide, the Dollart and the estuary of the Ems River were one expanse of sand and mud. The yacht lay against a staging of massive piles. On the quay was a line of stolid Dutchmen, all peculiarly garbed in quaint cutaway coats, baggy trousers, klompen or wooden shoes, and dull-black high-crowned hats. There they stood, hands in pockets, long pipes in their mouths. Hardly a word was being spoken. They seemed perfectly content to stand on the quay-side and gaze meditatively at the mysterious craft that the steam-drifter Hoorn had brought in.
The arrival of the Englishmen with their attendant throng roused the lethargic Dutchmen. They too added their voices to those of their fellow townsfolk.
"Thank goodness the yacht seems all right," ejaculated Smith fervently. "Let's get on board. It's the only way to escape the babel."
The Diomeda looked exactly as if she had been lying on her own moorings in Lowestoft harbour. Her sails were neatly furled, her flemished ropes were exactly where they ought to be, her decks had been washed down, her brasswork glittered in the sunlight.
"How are we going to get on board?" asked Stirling, regarding the twelve-foot drop from the stage on to the deck with apprehension. "Besides, the cabin is locked, and you haven't the keys."
"I'll manage it," replied the owner confidently. "Stand by and throw me down the luggage when I reach the deck."
At this juncture a man interposed his bulky frame and held up his hands.
"Mynheer Englishman must see the harbourmaster," he announced.