n the waxed floor, with a plump, that shook the
pagoda to its centre, while I, who had during the narrative been working
double tides at the schiedam, was so interested at the catastrophe,
that I thought he was really in the Scheldt, in the situation he was
describing. The instincts of humanity were, I am proud to say, stronger
in me than those of reason. I kicked off my shoes, threw away my coat,
and plunged boldly after him. I remember well, catching him by the
throat, and I remember too, feeling, what a dreadful thing was the grip
of a drowning man; for both his hands were on my neck, and he squeezed
me fearfully. Of what happened after, the waiters, or the Humane Society
may know something: I only can tell, that I kept my bed, for four days,
and when I next descended to the _table d'hote_, I saw a large patch of
black sticking-plaster across the bridge of old Hoogendorp's nose--and I
never was a guest in "Lust und Rust" afterwards.

*****

*****

The loud clanking of the _table d'hote_ bell aroused me, as I lay
dreaming of Frank Holbein and the yellow doublet. I dressed hastily and
descended to the _saal_; everything was exactly as I left it ten years
before; even to the cherry-wood pipe-stick that projected from Mynheer's
breeches-pocket, nothing was changed. The clatter of post-horses, and
the heavy rattle of wheels drew me to the window, in time to see the
Alderman's carriage with four posters, roll past; a kiss of the hand
was thrown me from the rumble. It was the "Honourable Jack" himself,
who somehow, had won their favour, and was already installed, their
travelling companion.

"It is odd enough," thought I, as I arranged my napkin across my knee,
"what success lies in a well-curled whisker--particularly if the wearer
be a fool."

CHAPTER IV. MEMS. AND MORALIZINGS.

He who expects to find these "Loiterings" of mine of any service as a
"Guide Book" to the Continent, or a "Voyager's Manual," will be sorely
disappointed; as well might he endeavour to devise a suit of clothes
from the patches of cloth scattered about a tailor's shop, there might
be, indeed, wherewithal to repair an old garment, or make a pen-wiper,
but no more.

My fragments, too, of every shape and colour--sometimes showy and
flaunting, sometimes a piece of hodden-grey or linsey-wolsey--are all
I have to present to my friends; whatever they be in shade or texture,
whether fine or homespun, rich in Tyrian dye, or stained with russet