At the canal we washed, shaved, cleaned our teeth, combed our hair, and went as far as we could in getting ready to see people.  Ted had his Canadian soldier’s tunic, with the regular prisoner’s dark-blue trousers such as the British Red Cross supplies.  His tunic was torn in several places and his hair was unkempt and in need of cutting.  He had cut the heels out of his boots, several days before, because they hurt him.  I had the regular prisoner’s suit, dark-blue cloth, and had cut off the yellow stripe which had been sewed down the legs of the trousers; I had also cut off my prison number.  My boots had held well, and there was not even a hole in my socks.  My hair was getting shaggy, and I suppose we were both looking fairly tough.  Our clothes were wrinkled and crushed and dirty.

* * *

There was one older man who watched us, with many exclamations of friendliness, who, when we had concluded our efforts, made us understand that he wanted us to come with him to have something to eat.  He could speak no English, but he made us understand.  We went back to the deserted house, gathered up our things, and went with him.  Two young fellows came along, too, and we were taken to a canal-boat near by.

The woman who waited on the breakfast table in the canal-boat, and served us with rye-bread, margarine, and coffee, gave us hard looks, which made us think her heart was still in the fatherland.  Conversation was naturally difficult, because no one of them could speak English, but we began to ask about Rotterdam, for we knew that that would be the port from which we should sail, and we were anxious to know how to get there.  One of the young men, a fine-looking fellow with a frank, pleasing countenance, said something and made gestures, which made us think he would take us there in his boat.

We started out with him and his companion, not sorry to leave the sour-faced lady who glared at us, and walked along the road beside the canal.  We were on the outskirts of Odoorn, a town whose chief industry is the shipping of peat.  It being Sunday, nobody was working, and the people, especially the children, came out to see us.  The young man took us to one of the houses and introduced us to his father and mother, who welcomed us kindly and wanted us to have something to eat.  But we declined.

We were then taken by him along the road, and the crowd of children that followed us seemed to be growing bigger every minute.  Our friend, anxious apparently to do the proper thing, took out his mouth-organ and played “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary”—­and it certainly hit the spot with us.

He conducted us to the home of the gendarme—­and for a minute our old fear of being interned came back to us!  The gendarme was plainly bored—­he had been having a Sunday-afternoon sleep, and had not finished it.  He yawned as he spoke.

The young man talked to him very earnestly, and at last he invited us in.  Up to this time we had not heard a word of English.  The gendarme’s wife, a nice-looking, well-dressed woman, brought in a tray and gave us tea, and little cakes with seeds on them, and soon a young man who could speak English came in to act as interpreter.