Trannel laughed. “They’re holloing at your Baedeker, my dear boy. They never saw one before,” and Boyne was aware that he was holding his red-backed guide conspicuously in view on his lap. “They know you’re a foreigner by it.”
“Don’t you think we ought to turn down somewhere? I don’t see poppa anywhere.” He rose and looked anxiously back over the top of their carriage. The crowd, closing in behind it, hailed his troubled face with cries that were taken up by the throng on the sidewalks. Boyne turned about to find that the tram-car which they had been following had disappeared round a corner, but their driver was still keeping on. At a wilder burst of applause Trannel took off his hat and bowed to the crowd, right and left.
“Bow, bow!” he said to Boyne. “They’ll be calling for a speech the next thing. Bow, I tell you!”
“Tell him to turn round!” cried the boy.
“I can’t speak Dutch,” said Trannel, and Boyne leaned forward and poked the driver in the back.
“Go back!” he commanded.
The driver shook his head and pointed forward with his whip. “He’s all right,” said Trannel. “He can’t turn now. We’ve got to take the next corner.” The street in front was empty, and the people were crowding back on the sidewalks. Loud, vague noises made themselves heard round the corner to which the driver had pointed. “By Jove!” Trannel said, “I believe they’re coming round that way.”
“Who are coming?” Boyne palpitated.
“The queens.”
“The queens?” Boyne gasped; it seemed to him that he shrieked the words.