Now, as luck would have it, the day was cold: we were the first boat to
come through the locks for some hours, and apparently the river
sentries had had no breakfast. So they dove into the fo'castle, where
Mons. le Conducteur produced bread and cognac. I at once ordered
Mons. le Conducteur to get a second round of liquid refreshment for
our military guests. Conversation flowed. The soldiers drummed on
the table to keep their hands warm and in a moment of inspiration I
showed them how the darkies in our country warm their feet.

"Clog dance," I explained.

"Encore," shouted the piano salesman. "That is splendid."

"Pleaz again! Oh, pleaz!" echoed Mile. Blanche. "See, every one, ze
grand American foot game."

The fat-faced conducteur, with whom I had suddenly grown in favor,
repeated the cognac treatment on the sentries. Before I knew it, they
had me alongside the table, one hand steadied against a thwart of
the swaying cabin, my head in the smoke of the oil lamp, my feet
pounding and kicking, as it seemed, at the very door of Antwerp. The
piano salesman shouted rag-time, Mile. Blanche drummed time on
the bench, and the river sentries pounded time with their rifle butts.

"Encore!" they shouted when I sat down with aching legs.

All at once the launch alongside gave an angry toot, for the officer
wanted his men back: there were other boats to be examined. The
sentries glanced quickly at our papers, not reading, I am sure, a word
of mine, speedily cast off ropes, and disappeared guiltily and
somewhat unsteadily over the larboard rail.

An hour later the Telegraaf III took the river's turn, swinging past Fort
St. Philippe, until we could see the gray-blue spire of the Cathedral of
Notre Dame with its intricate network of stone silhouetted against the
autumn sunset. Mr. Diederick was not at the pier to meet me, nor was
there a military passport from General de Guise.

"Stay by me," said Alderman Albrecht. As each of the pier sentries
saluted him he said a whispered word, and apparently his word was
good, for the American "foot game" artist was allowed to pass.
Perhaps Alderman Albrecht had decided that German spies don't
clog-dance.

Though not officially admitted to the besieged city, I went at once to
my old stand, the Hotel St. Antoine, now converted into British Staff
Headquarters. At sundown a mist crept up from the river, and through
it we heard a roar of welcome and the rumble of heavy artil