"Where is the harbourmaster?" asked Smith.
A score of voices joined in giving him directions. Forty hands or more pointed in the direction of the red-tiled house, with green doors and window frames, where dwelt Cornelius van Wyk, the guardian of the maritime interests of Delfzyl.
"You do the tongue-wagging, old chap," said Smith to his companion as they were ushered into a spotlessly clean parlour. The mob of curious townsfolk, debarred from entering by the sturdy demonstrations of the harbourmaster's hus-vrow, lapsed into comparative silence. Pipes were filled, precious matches handed round, and the expectant throng waited for the Englishmen's reappearance.
The two travellers had to wait nearly an hour for the official's appearance. Van Wyk had gone down the estuary on duty. Meanwhile his wife brought refreshments, for which both men were truly thankful, as they had eaten nothing since leaving The Hook.
"You, Mynheer, are the owner of this yacht?" asked the harbourmaster on his return. He spoke excellent English, with an East Anglian accent, acquired by reason of his frequent intercourse with vessels hailing from the ports of Norfolk and Suffolk. "You, of course, have the papers?"
"No," replied Smith. "They are on board."
"I think not, Mynheer. I had to make examination, and there are no papers."
"They were in a cupboard on the port side of the for'ard bulkhead," asserted the owner.
Van Wyk shook his head.
"I remember that cupboard. It is empty."