ltured Hun. You have to be
smuggled out. Try your blandishments on old Katje."

"Old who?" asked the Flight-Sub.

"Katje, the old vrouw who calls for the washing. She comes every
Tuesday and Friday with a cart drawn by dogs, and a basket big enough
to stow the pair of you. You'll want plenty of palm oil. There are
the sentries to be squared, and the fellow who provides you with a suit
of 'mufti'. Wilson, our Lieutenant-Commander, got clear about a month
ago. He made his way to Ymuiden."

"Wasn't there a row about it?" asked Ross.

"Naturally," replied the wounded officer. "We had a pretty strenuous
time after it--certain privileges withdrawn and all that sort of thing.
However, when we heard that Wilson had succeeded in making his way to
England we didn't mind that, and things have now recovered their normal
appearance."

On the following Tuesday, Ross and his companion anxiously awaited the
arrival of Vrouw Katje. At length the old lady--she was nearly
eighty--drove up in style, shouting shrilly to her dogs from her perch
on top of an enormous wicker hamper.

"More washing for you, Katje," announced one of the crippled officers.
"Two more of my countrymen. They will be very pleased to see you."

Without further ado, Katje ascended the stairs and hammered violently
upon the door of the sitting-room.

Her knowledge of English was good, for earlier in life she was the wife
of the skipper of a bolter that made regular voyages to Hole Haven at
the mouth of the Thames, where a large eel trade was in the hands of
the Dutch fishermen.

"Very well; but I must ask permission of the Commandant," replied
Katje, in perfect good faith, when the Flight-Sub had broached the
subject of being conveyed from the internment camp.

"No, no," protested the young officer in alarm; "that won't do."

"Why not?" persisted the washerwoman. "Mynheer the Commandant is very
kind."

"Undoubtedly," replied the Flight-Sub. "But we would much rather that
you wait until we are away from the place before you ask him. See,
here are five English sovereigns. They are yours once you get us
clear."

The vrouw shook her head.

"I do not care to," she replied firmly; then without a pause she
continued: "My son-in-law, Jan van Beverwijk, will. I am sure he will.
Next Friday he will come instead of me. He is mate of a steamship that
takes the bulbs from Holland to England. He returns to-morrow, and
sails on Saturday from Ymuiden