Amersfoort is a beautiful old town, and I at once set out to find the Coppleport mentioned in my guide-book. I suppose I looked a lost soul. A youth of eighteen jumped off his cycle and lifted his cap. Then he pointed to a badge he wore in his coat. "Boy scout!" he said. "Excellent!" I cried, "you speak English?" He held out his hand. "Good bye!" he said; "pleased you to meet!" "How do you do?" I said. He grinned. "God damn!" he said sweetly. After that conversation seemed to die down. I managed to convey to him that I was looking for the Coppleport, and he led me to it. Gradually his English improved, and he told me of his brother in England. A nice lad. I told him that I had once had a long conversation with the great B.P., but he looked blank. "Baden Powell, your chief," I explained. He shook his head; he had never heard of B.P. I think now that what was wrong was that he did not understand the name as I pronounced it; possibly he knows B.P. under the sound of Bahah Povell or something similar. On the following morning I went to the reformatory. It was a beautiful building fitted with every appliance necessary . . . and one not necessary--a solitary confinement room. A young teacher, Mr. Conijn, a very decent chap, who could speak excellent English, showed me round. Every door we came to had to be opened with a key and locked behind us. Here there was more of military discipline than in the Observatiehuis, but none of the boys looked sulky or unhappy. The relations of the boys and the teachers were 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.