The Chauffeur and the Chaperon | Page 6

close to the eyes.
We were in the River Maas, which opened its laughing mouth wide to
let in our boat. But soon it was so busy with its daily toil that it forgot
to smile and look its best for strangers. We saw it in its brown
working-dress, giving water to ugly manufactories, and floating an
army of big ships, black lighters, and broadly built craft, which
coughed spasmodically as they forged sturdily and swiftly through the
waters. Their breath was like the whiff that comes from an automobile,
and I knew that they must be motor-barges. My heart warmed to them.
They seemed to have been sent out on purpose to say, "Your fun is
going to begin."
At last we were in Rotterdam, steaming slowly between two lines of
dignified quays, ornamented with rows of trees and backed by quaintly
built, many-colored brick houses--blue and green and pink, some
nodding forward, some leaning back. The front walls were carried up to
conceal the roofs; many of the façades tapered into triangles; others had
double curves like a swan's neck; some were cut into steps--so that
there was great variety, and an effect almost Chinese about the
architecture of the queer houses with the cranes projecting over their
topmost windows. There was nothing to be called beautiful, but it was
all impressive and interesting, because so different from that part of the
world which we know.
A gigantic railway bridge of latticed iron flung itself across the skyline;

one huge white building, like a New York sky-scraper, towered head
and shoulders above the close-leaning roofs of the city; and all among
the houses were brown sails and masts of ships; water-streets and
land-streets tangled inseparably together.
The hum of life--strange, foreign life!--filled the air; an indescribable,
exciting sound, made up of the wind whistling among cordage of
sea-going ships, the shouts of men at work, the river slapping against
piles and the iron sides of vessels, the whirr and clank of steam-cranes.
Wreaths of brown smoke blew gustily in the sunlight; a train boomed
across the latticed bridge; and the hoot of a siren tore all other sounds
in shreds. Creakily our ship was warped in by straining cables, and I
said to myself, "The overture's finished. The play is going to begin."
Phil and I streamed off the boat with the other passengers, who had the
air of knowing exactly why they'd come, where they were going, and
what was the proper thing to do next. But as soon as we were landed on
the most extraordinary place, which looked as if trees and houses had
sprouted on a dyke, all consecutive ideas were ground out of our heads
in the mill of confusing sights and sounds. Friends were meeting each
other, and jabbering something which sounded at a distance like
Glasgow-English, and like no known language when you were close
enough to catch the words. Porters surged round us, urging the claims
of rival hotels; men in indigo cotton blouses pleaded for our luggage;
and altogether we were overwhelmed by a tidal wave of Dutchness.
How order finally came out of chaos I hardly know; but when I got my
breath it occurred to me that we might temporarily abandon our big
luggage and steer through the crowd, with dressing-bags in our hands,
to hail an elderly cab whose driver had early selected us as prey.
Before getting into the vehicle I paused, and tried to concentrate my
mind on plans; though the quaint picture of the Boompjes, and the
thought that we, Phyllis Rivers and Nell Van Buren, should be on the
Boompjes was distracting. I did manage, however, to find our boat's
address and the name of the caretaker, both of which I had on a piece of
paper with loose "i's" and "j's" scattered thickly through every word.
All we had to do, therefore, was to tell our moth-eaten cabman to drive

to the place, show the letters from the solicitor (and perhaps a copy of
Captain Noble's will), claim our property from the hands of Jan Paasma,
and then, if we liked, take up our quarters on our own boat until we
could engage some one to "work it" for our tour. Luckily, we'd had
coffee and rolls on board the "Batavier"; so we needn't bother about
breakfast, as I said joyously to Phil.
But Phil, it seemed, did not regard breakfast as a bother. She thought it
would be fatal to throw ourselves into a formidable undertaking unless
we first had tea and an egg, and somebody to advise us.
"We must go to an hotel before we see the boat," said she, firmly.
"But who's to give us advice at a hotel?" I asked with scorn.
"Oh, I don't know. The manager."