nd the traveller went out on the platform. It was
a cold rainy November night. He went to the waiting room, but there
was no fire there.

"Anyway," he said, "I'll have a smoke," and he filled his pipe. Then
he found that he had but one match left. He struck it, and it went
out. He went out to the platform and found an old porter screwing down
the lamps. The porter knelt down to tie his lace and the traveller
approached him.

"Could you oblige me with a match?"

The old porter eyed him dispassionately.

"I dinna smoke. I dinna believe in smokin'. I dinna hae a match."

The traveller walked wearily forward to an automatic machine and
inserted his last penny . . . and drew out a bar of butterscotch. He
tossed it over the line, and then he threw his pipe after it. He
walked along the platform, and then he came back. The old porter was
again tying his lace. The traveller suddenly rushed at him and kicked
him as hard as he could.

"What did ye do that for?" demanded the poor old man when he picked
himself up.

The traveller turned away in disgust.

"Och, to hell wi' you; ye're ay tying your lace!" he said.

Lots of people cannot see the joke in this yarn, and I challenge anyone
to explain the point.

* * * * *

Good fortune came to rescue me from sorrowing over my lost school. It
sent me to Holland thuswise: about five hundred Famine Area children
were coming from Vienna to England, and I was invited to become one of
the escort. Then it struck me that I might go over earlier and have a
look at the Dutch schools. I hastened to get a few passport
photographs; I looked at them . . . and then I thought I shouldn't risk
going. However, on second thoughts, I decided to risk it, and went to
the passport office. There a gentleman with a big cigar looked at the
photograph; then he looked at me.

"The face of a criminal," his eyes seemed to say as he studied the
photo.

"Isn't it like me?" I asked in alarm.

"Quite a good likeness," he said brusquely, and passed me on to the
next pigeon-hole.

At last I landed in Flushing, and a kind guard found me a carriage.
There I began to learn the Dutch language. "Niet rooken." Scots
_reek_ means _smoke_: hurrah! "do not smoke!"

"Verbodden te spuwen." "It is forbidden to----" no, that wouldn't be
nice! Got it! "Do not spit!"

At this juncture a pretty Scheveningen lassie entered and greeted me.
Alas! I knew but five words o