"I can hear quite well that you are German, and if you were a Netherlander you would not venture on a bike at this moment. If you come here to seize my bikes, I'll deliver them, for I cannot do anything against that, but I refuse to sell them of my own free-will." The dear lady rapped it out in such a decided tone of voice that I desisted. I told my trouble to the proprietor of a café where I took a glass of beer; he, examining my papers, placed confidence in me, and got me a rickety thing, for which I paid twenty-two francs. After all, this was better than walking, so I decided to make a small detour, go once more to Liège, and see how the forts were. I lost my way in a maze of by-roads, and got at last back to the main road near Jupille, where I met a patrol of Uhlans, who came in my direction at a trot. Already from a distance with much fuss they signalled to me to stop, and of course I obeyed at once. Two men dismounted, came to me in a perfect rage, and, without asking who I was or what I was doing, cut my tyres to pieces in several places; they abused me with wild gesticulations and threats, jumped on their horses, and rode off. I dragged my wretched vehicle with its stabbed tyres a little distance, but then met a second patrol, who showed still greater indignation, and destroyed it altogether. For the rest of the journey I used my only remaining means of transport, my legs, and after a walk of some hours got to the frontier of The Netherlands near Oud-Vroenhoven. A Netherland custom-house officer asked for my papers, and I showed him my huge passport. The man looked at the sheet critically, and made out that I could not possibly be a Netherlander, as I was the holder of a "foreign" passport. My "foreign" passport was, of course, in French, of which language the man evidently knew not a word. Although I explained that this passport was the best one could get in The Netherlands, that I had paid six guilders and seventy-five cents for it, that I was a war-correspondent of _De Tijd_, it was all useless. I had to go with him to the guard-house, and the man kept the queer passport--the damning piece of evidence--firmly in his hand. All the inquisitive loafers, of which the frontier was full during those days, followed me, and so we went in procession to the guard-house, at some distance from the frontier. I heard all sorts of discussions behind me, and constantly caught words like: German, boche, deserter, franc-tireur, spy, and other complimentary niceties. As soon as I had entered the guard-house a soldier, rifle in hand, mounted guard. The custom-house officer handed my French passport to a lieutenant, who scrutinised it closely. Then followed the examination: "You are a journalist?" "Yes, sir." "On which paper?" "_De Tijd_, sir; here is my press-card." "Where is _De Tijd_ printed?" "In Amsterdam...." "In which street?" "Well ...! The Nieuwe Zijds Voorburgwal." "All right; you may go!"