"It's no use trying to break out," he continued. "German spies as thick as blackberries along the coast. The most benevolent-looking mynheer might, as likely as not, be a kultured Hun. You have to be smuggled out. Try your blandishments on old Katje."
"Old who?" asked the Flight-Sub.
"Katje, the old vrouw who calls for the washing. She comes every Tuesday and Friday with a cart drawn by dogs, and a basket big enough to stow the pair of you. You'll want plenty of palm oil. There are the sentries to be squared, and the fellow who provides you with a suit of 'mufti'. Wilson, our Lieutenant-Commander, got clear about a month ago. He made his way to Ymuiden."
"Wasn't there a row about it?" asked Ross.
"Naturally," replied the wounded officer. "We had a pretty strenuous time after it—certain privileges withdrawn and all that sort of thing. However, when we heard that Wilson had succeeded in making his way to England we didn't mind that, and things have now recovered their normal appearance."
On the following Tuesday, Ross and his companion anxiously awaited the arrival of Vrouw Katje. At length the old lady—she was nearly eighty—drove up in style, shouting shrilly to her dogs from her perch on top of an enormous wicker hamper.
"More washing for you, Katje," announced one of the crippled officers. "Two more of my countrymen. They will be very pleased to see you."
Without further ado, Katje ascended the stairs and hammered violently upon the door of the sitting-room.
Her knowledge of English was good, for earlier in life she was the wife of the skipper of a bolter that made regular voyages to Hole Haven at the mouth of the Thames, where a large eel trade was in the hands of the Dutch fishermen.
"Very well; but I must ask permission of the Commandant," replied Katje, in perfect good faith, when the Flight-Sub had broached the subject of being conveyed from the internment camp.