Peter didn't. If he had he would have kept still and passed me fresh
water and rags and new tubes and whatever I wanted--and I wanted
something every minute--instead of disporting himself in an entirely
idiotic and disastrous way. Disastrous, because you might have seen
the sketch which I began reproduced in these pages had the
Lieutenant-Commander, R.T.N., only carried out the orders of the
Lord High Admiral commanding the fleet.
A sunbeam began it. It peeped over the edge of the side wall--the wall
really was but little higher than Peter's head when he stood
erect--and started in to creep down my half-finished sketch. Peter
rose in his wrath, reached for my white umbrella, and at once opened
it and screwed together the jointed handle. Then he began searching
for some convenient supporting hook on which to hang his shield of
defence. Next a brilliant, intellectual dynamite-bomb of a thought
split his cranium. He would hoist the umbrella _above_ the top of
the thin wall of the bath-house, resting one half upon its upper edge,
drive the iron spike into the plank under our feet, and secure the
handle by placing his back against it. No sunbeam should pass him!
The effect can be imagined on the High-Pan-Jam inside the
bath-house--an amphibious guardian, oblivious naturally to sun and
rain--when his eye fell upon this flag of defiance thrust up above his
ramparts. You can imagine, too, the consternation of the peaceful
inmates of the open pools, whose laughter had now and then risen above
the sough of the wind and splash of the water. Almost immediately I
heard the sound of hurrying footsteps from a point where no sound had
come before, and there followed the scraping of a pair of toes on the
planking behind me, as if some one was drawing himself up.
I looked around and up and saw eight fingers clutching the top of the
planking, and a moment later the round face of an astonished Dutchman.
I haven't the faintest idea what he said. I didn't know then and I
don't know now. I only remember that his dialect sounded like the
traditional crackling of thorns under a pot, including the
spluttering, and suggesting the equally heated temperature. When his
fingers gave out he would drop out of sight, only to rise again and
continue the attack.
Here Peter, I must say, did credit to his Dutch ancestors. He did not
temporize. He did not argue. He ignored diplomacy at the start, and
blazed out that we were out of everybody's way and on the lee side of
the structure; that there was no sign up on that side; that I was a
most distinguished personage of blameless life and character, and
that, rules or no rules, he was going to stay where he was and so was
I.
"You tam blowdy rock. It's s'welve o'clook now--no rule aft' s'welve
o'clook,--nopody ba'd now;"--This in Dutch, but it meant that, then
turning to me, "You stay--you no go--I brek tam head him."--
None of this interested me. I had heard Peter explode before. I was
trying to match the tone of an opalescent cloud inlaid with
mother-of-pearl, the shadow side all purplish gray. Its warm
high-lights came all right, but I was half out of my head trying to
get its shadow-tones true with Payne's gray and cobalt. The cloud
itself had already cast its moorings and was fast drifting over the
English Channel. It would be out of sight in five minutes.
"Peter--_Peter!_" I cried. "Don't talk so much. Here, give him half a
gulden and tell him to dry up. Hand me that sky brush--quick now!"
The High Pan-Jam dropped with a thud to his feet. His swinging
footsteps could be heard growing fainter, but no stiver of my silver
had lined his pocket.
I worked on. The tea-rose cloud had disappeared entirely; only its
poor counterfeit remained. The boats were nearly finished; another
wash over their sails would bring them all right. Then the tramp as of
armed men came from the in-shore side of the bath-house. Peter stood
up and craned his neck around the edge of the planking, and said in an
undertone:--
"Tam b'lice, he come now; nev' mind, you stay 'ere--no go. Tam blowdy
rock no mak' you go."
Behind me stood the High Pan-Jam who had scraped his toes on the
fence. With him was an officer of police!
Peter was now stamping his feet, swearing in Dutch, English, and
polyglot, and threatening to sponge the Dutch government from the face
of the universe.
My experience has told me that it is never safe to monkey with a
gendarme. He is generally a perfectly cool, self-poised,
unimpressionable individual, with no animosity whatever toward you or
anybody else, but who intends to be obeyed, not because it pleases
him, but because the power behind him compels it. I instantly rose
from my stool, touched my hat in respectful military salute, and
opened my cigarette-case. The gendarme selected a cigarette with
perfect coolness and good humor, and began politely to unfold to me
his duties in connection with the municipal laws of Dordrecht. The
manager of the bath, he said, had invoked his services. I might not be
aware that it was against the law to land on this side of the
bath-house, etc.
But the blood of the Jansens was up. Some old Koop or De Witt or Von
Somebody was stirring Peter.
"No ba'd aft' s'welve o'clook"--this to me, both fists in the air, one
perilously near the officer's face. The original invective was in his
native tongue, hurled at Pan-Jam and the officer alike.
"What difference does it make, your Excellency," I asked, "whether I
sit in my boat and paint or sit here where there is less motion?"
"None, honored sir," and he took a fresh cigarette (Peter was now
interpreting),--"except for the fact that you have taken up your
position on the _women's_ side of the bath-house. They bathe from
twelve o'clock till four. When the ladies saw the umbrella they were
greatly disturbed. They are now waiting for you to go away!"