Thus summoned, the Count, getting out of the bunk, accompanied the Baron on deck. Then taking out his note-book he wrote: “Green fields, green trees, windmills pretty numerous, cows white and black still more so, sky and sea as usual, with here and there a vessel or other craft on the calm surface of the latter.”

“I see nothing more to describe,” he said, as he closed the book and returned it to his pocket.

Still the galiot glided on.

“It strikes me that there is some monotony in this kind of scenery,” observed the Count to the Baron; “but it’s pleasing, charming, and soothing to one’s troubled soul.”

At last the wind dropped, and the galiot lay becalmed.

“What are we going to do now?” asked the Count, finding that the vessel no longer moved through the water.

“Drop our anchor and wait till the ebb makes again, unless we wish to be driven up by the flood all the way we have come,” observed the skipper.

“What, and run the risk of meeting Johanna Klack!” exclaimed the Count, in a voice of alarm. “By all means do come to an anchor, my dear Captain.”

“That’s what I intend to do,” he answered; and he ordered the anchor to be let go.

Other vessels were in the same condition as themselves, so they had no reason to complain. The scenery was not particularly enlivening, though there were a few trees on the shore; but they were generally stunted in their growth, and bent by the winds. Here and there a small boat appeared, the occupants being engaged either in fishing, or in rowing across the river. One or two people were enjoying the luxury of bathing, and a man came down to fill a jar with salt water, probably to bathe the limbs of one of his children.

“How long are we likely to remain here, Captain Jan Dunck?” inquired the Count.

“As I said before, and say it again, till the tide turns or the breeze springs up,” answered the skipper. “What a hurry you appear to be in. The mariners in these seas have to learn patience—a valuable quality under all circumstances. If we grumbled every time we had a calm, or a foul wind, or stuck on a mud-bank, we should never cease grumbling.”

“Suppose, Captain, as we have nothing else to do, you or one of your crew would be good enough to spin us a yarn,” said the Count.

“One-eyed Pieter will spin you a yarn which will last into the middle of next week,” said the skipper.

“Then I think that he had better not begin,” observed the Count; “for I hope before that time we shall be indulging in fresh milk and eggs on shore.”

“You do, do you, noble sir?” said the one-eyed mariner, winking at the mate, or rather intending to do so, for he winked in an opposite direction, as was his custom, though he was unconscious of it. “We’re not out of the Scheldt yet, and if we don’t get a fair wind, it will be a pretty long time before we reach the Texel and get into the Zuyder Zee.”

“Ja, ja; one-eyed Pieter speaks but the truth. You must be prepared, when navigating the changeful ocean, to meet with foul winds as well as fair ones,” said the Captain. “Remember that I undertook only to convey you to your destination wind and weather permitting. No skipper ever takes passengers on any other terms.”

“I am prepared for whatever Fate wills,” said the Count, folding his hands.

“And so am I,” said the Baron. “And now I propose, as it is getting late, and I feel sleepiness stealing over my eyelids, that we turn into our bunks and resign ourselves to the keeping of the drowsy god.”

“I don’t know what you mean by talking of the drowsy god,” said the skipper. “As far as I can make out, you intend to take a snooze; that’s the best thing you can do.”

The Count and the Baron accordingly turned into their berths (not knocking their heads more than half-a-dozen times as they did so), and were very soon snoring away in concert. So ended the first day of their voyages and travels.