fine; as Conijn passed a lad he would pull
his hair or pass a funny remark, and the boy would grin and reply.

"Any self-government?" I asked.

"We tried it but it was no good. It may work with English boys but not
with Dutch," said Mr. Conijn.

"Did you have locked doors?" I asked.

"Oh, yes."

"Then self-government hadn't the ghost of a chance to succeed," I
remarked.

We entered a class where an old man of about eighty was teaching a
group.

"Why do these lads keep their eyes on the ground?" I asked. "Is their
spirit crushed out of them?"

Conijn laughed.

"They are admiring your boots!" he cried.

I wore a pair of ski-ing boots on my trip, and all Holland stared
open-mouthed at them. If I had been wanted for a murder I don't think
anyone in Holland could have identified me, for their eyes never got
above my boots.

One of the masters, Mr. van Something-or-other, very trustingly lent me
his bike, and on the following day I cycled to Laren to see the
Humanitarian School there. Nearly every road has a cycle path on one
side and a riding path on the other, but in spite of the excellent
roads I did not enjoy cycling in Holland; a free wheel was of little
value on the flat surface. One delightful feature about cycling in
Holland is that there are no mid-day closing times for pubs, but on the
other hand you cannot raise much of a thirst in a flat country.

Well, I reached Laren after many narrow escapes, for I was continually
forgetting that you keep to the right in Holland. A postman came
along, and I jumped off.

"Humanitaire School?" I asked as I doffed my hat.

By his expression I judged that he did not know the institution under
that name.

"School," I said, and he nodded and pointed to the village State school.

"Nay! School Humanitaire!" I persisted.

At this juncture another man came forward, and the two of them jawed
away gutturally for some time. I began to grow weary.

"Hell!" I murmured to myself half aloud.

The postman brightened, and enlightenment came to him.

"Engelissman!" he exclaimed.

"Liar!" I cried, "I'm a Scot," and I left the two of them discussing
Engelissmen.

After much trouble and many bitter words I found the school. A
gentleman who looked extremely like Bernard Shaw before Shaw's hair
turned grey, was digging in a garden with a lot of boys and girls. He
was Mr. Elbrink, the head-master. He could speak English and he showed
me round.

The school is r