For hours we chugged steadily along, catching a fair tide on the lower Meuse, and sliding past the neat little towns of Dordrecht, Papendrecht, and Willemstad, through the Hollandische Diep and the Krammer Volkerak.  After that the Telegraaf III worried through the canals and systems of locks which virtually cut the neck of Tholen from the mainland, and, when the last of these had been accomplished, splashed into the great basin of the East Scheldt.  A Dutch gunboat cut across our bows, signaling us to halt.  An officer boarded us to study the freight invoices.

Farther upstream a launch came alongside, making fast fore and aft, while two Belgian river sentries, in long blue coats and faded drab trousers, poked their bearded heads above the rail.  This, then, was what the captain meant by the border patrol.

Now, as luck would have it, the day was cold:  we were the first boat to come through the locks for some hours, and apparently the river sentries had had no breakfast.  So they dove into the fo’castle, where Mons. le Conducteur produced bread and cognac.  I at once ordered Mons. le Conducteur to get a second round of liquid refreshment for our military guests.  Conversation flowed.  The soldiers drummed on the table to keep their hands warm and in a moment of inspiration I showed them how the darkies in our country warm their feet.

“Clog dance,” I explained.

“Encore,” shouted the piano salesman.  “That is splendid.”

“Pleaz again!  Oh, pleaz!” echoed Mile.  Blanche.  “See, every one, ze grand American foot game.”

The fat-faced conducteur, with whom I had suddenly grown in favor, repeated the cognac treatment on the sentries.  Before I knew it, they had me alongside the table, one hand steadied against a thwart of the swaying cabin, my head in the smoke of the oil lamp, my feet pounding and kicking, as it seemed, at the very door of Antwerp.  The piano salesman shouted rag-time, Mile.  Blanche drummed time on the bench, and the river sentries pounded time with their rifle butts.

“Encore!” they shouted when I sat down with aching legs.

All at once the launch alongside gave an angry toot, for the officer wanted his men back:  there were other boats to be examined.  The sentries glanced quickly at our papers, not reading, I am sure, a word of mine, speedily cast off ropes, and disappeared guiltily and somewhat unsteadily over the larboard rail.

An hour later the Telegraaf III took the river’s turn, swinging past Fort St. Philippe, until we could see the gray-blue spire of the Cathedral of Notre Dame with its intricate network of stone silhouetted against the autumn sunset.  Mr. Diederick was not at the pier to meet me, nor was there a military passport from General de Guise.

“Stay by me,” said Alderman Albrecht.  As each of the pier sentries saluted him he said a whispered word, and apparently his word was good, for the American “foot game” artist was allowed to pass.  Perhaps Alderman Albrecht had decided that German spies don’t clog-dance.