There I found hot coffee, and rolls and
butter. I ordered two coffees with milk, some bread, and some
butter. I ordered them in the best German I knew. As nobody
understood me, I went and got the things for myself. It saves a
deal of argument, that method. People seem to know what you mean in
a moment then.
B. suggested that while we were in Belgium, where everybody spoke
French, while very few indeed knew German, I should stand a better
chance of being understood if I talked less German and more French.
He said:
"It will be easier for you, and less of a strain upon the natives.
You stick to French," he continued, "as long as ever you can. You
will get along much better with French. You will come across people
now and then - smart, intelligent people - who will partially
understand your French, but no human being, except a thought-reader,
will ever obtain any glimmering of what you mean from your German."
"Oh, are we in Belgium," I replied sleepily; "I thought we were in
Germany. I didn't know." And then, in a burst of confidence, I
added, feeling that further deceit was useless, "I don't know where
I am, you know."
"No, I thought you didn't," he replied. "That is exactly the idea
you give anybody. I wish you'd wake up a bit."
We waited about an hour at Ostend, while our train was made up.
There was only one carriage labelled for Cologne, and four more
passengers wanted to go there than the compartment would hold.
