The Road Leads On

CHAPTER ONE

The third generation now guides the destiny of Jensen’s great store in Segelfoss. Originally founded by one Per Jensen, dubbed Per paa Bua, it continued under the direction of his son Theodore, also “paa Bua,” who traded far and wide, stood forth as a true son of progress and was rain or blue sky to all who crossed his path. Nor was that so very long ago, either; people in town do not have to strain their minds to remember him, for he was contemporary with the old Lieutenant’s son, Willatz, who simply went bothering his head about music and came to nought in this world.

Theodore, on the contrary, came to a very great deal. His achievements could be listed at length: village burgomaster, heavy tax-payer, a merchant trading in a grand manner hitherto unknown, once even with a commercial traveler to take in the towns of northern Norway, three men in the store itself, and an office manager to keep his books for him. An active fellow, that Theodore paa Bua, aspiring, waxing ever more prosperous, owner of a fish-sloop and two herring-seines, each with its boat and full equipment, growing more and more kindly with the years, taking a paternal interest in those who were feeling life’s pinch, and in time becoming well-liked. In bad years for both sea and soil, many a one was compelled to go to Theodore paa Bua for the bread to keep him alive, and this could not be denied. But, as a matter of course, they would first have to pay him extravagant homage, or, at least, to wag their heads, overwhelmed by all his power and wealth. “A single sack of flour?” he might ask. “How long do you think that will last that family of yours?” Then, hearing the poor wretch reply that he dared not think of going into him for more, Theodore might turn to one of his clerks and say: “Let him have two sacks!” And, after issuing such an order, it was only right and proper that he should inwardly swell to the bursting point.

He had cast eyes in the direction of Frøken Holmengraa, the mill-owner’s daughter, but nothing ever came of that. No, in that particular Theodore paa Bua’s vanity had overshot its mark and, since his office manager had been merely a bauble to flash in the fair one’s eyes, his first move was to let the poor chap go. There was more to it than that, however: though he continued to maintain his balance and promptly saw the error of his ways, he shortly took advantage of the situation and, one fine day, married the sexton’s juvenile daughter who had by no means spurned his courtship. Thus, in spite of his folly in certain directions, Theodore proved that he had a remarkably level head on his shoulders, for he gained a delightful wife, ardent and handsome as a young filly, and if it happened that she was no more than seventeen, she was really sufficiently developed for all that.

How silly the mill-owner’s daughter had been! Her father’s affairs had been running steadily downhill of late and there she might have struck a bargain, accepted Theodore paa Bua and stepped into a new life of splendour and security. Snobbishness and a devil-may-care pride alone had caused her to stand thus in her own light, and little enough did she gain for that pride of hers, for in the end she found her level as an ordinary housekeeper in Tromsø.

Thus badly had things gone for the once mighty mill-folk, Herr Holmengraa and his daughter Mariane.

But what then of Segelfoss Manor and all its vast estate? The old Lieutenant had been a true nobleman; in his day he had put up a church for the people of Segelfoss, had donated portraits of the Apostles for the altar and a basin of sterling silver for the baptismal fount and everything else he could think of. He had had no less than seven-and-twenty house servants and his enormous lands under cultivation had extended to the very boundary of the neighbouring parish—a glorious and a princely domain. His wife had been a titled lady from Hanover, Germany and together they had lived in the great white house with its tall pillars, a palace which could be seen from steamers out at sea. Proud and upright he had been, a man of truth and courage. To indicate the worth of a signature, it had been said: “As good as that Willatz Holmsen’s!” His word had held like an oath, the nod of his head had been like a benediction upon his people about him.

But to what avail had all that been? The time came when that sort of thing didn’t go any longer. The Holmsens of Segelfoss were doomed. The fate of the third generation. They persisted in living along like grand folk with not a single penny coming in. And it took no end of money to pay off that house full of servants and to scatter charity throughout the parish, for travel and for the grand receptions such as were held when Carl XV came touring the north or when the prefect and his council stopped with them over the Sessions. And, added to all that, were finally the funds despatched to their son, living the life of a gentleman as a student of music in costly schools abroad. Things were bound to come to a bad end with them. As for the old Lieutenant and his lady, they both died and got out of the way in time, but their son, young Willatz Holmsen—why, he had nothing left to do but to sell out.... That had been before Segelfoss had grown into a regular town, before land and houses had been worth an established price, the very development which had given Theodore paa Bua his chance. For no sooner had young Willatz turned everything movable into cash than Theodore began casting his eyes in the direction of the house with its tall white pillars, that palace, that country seat of kings, and in this his vanity was hugely triumphant. He became sole owner of the glories of Segelfoss Manor.

Yes, those had been hard times, wretchedly hard times up in Nordland. Cheap fish, deep sleep and depression—not a farthing over sixty skilling a barrel for prime round-fish. But, for one who had means left over from a former day, it was no trick at all to acquire a palace and land for city lots all up and down the sea. Of course it must not be assumed that Theodore paa Bua was so bloated with wealth that his purchase left no hole in his pocket—as a matter of fact, he found himself sweating no end to meet his payments—but an extension of time was his for less than the asking, so far into the depths had this Holmsen descended. A pity it was how much young Willatz owed both at home and abroad! Yes, and he was obliged to charter a steamer to transport all the handsome furnishings and costly works of art of all kinds from the halls of Segelfoss Manor south to a possible market. A tragic evidence indeed of the power of life and of fate.

And what then were Theodore paa Bua and his wife to do with that palace of theirs? They had a table and chairs for one of the parlours and beds for a bedroom or two. But in this palace there were two grand reception halls downstairs to say nothing of twenty or more guest rooms upstairs, and the plush carpets in some of these rooms were red, and those in others were blue; and the walls of one of the grand salons downstairs were done with a golden floral design, and the walls of the other were hung with pure silk. But nowhere was there to be found a solitary chair to sit upon. After he had become burgomaster, Theodore put one of these salons to good use as a council chamber and went far to impress his fellow townsmen with this meeting-place straight out of wonderland....

A daughter was born to them and the mother was overjoyed. The father had taken the trouble to order some fireworks from Trondhjem but declined to set them off. The following year they had another daughter, a blessed new creation which again brought joy to the mother, though the father, viewing the situation with a practical eye, failed to share her elation. Again no fireworks were set off. But at length, when the father was over forty and the mother was barely half his age, they had a son who pleased them both, a ten-pound baby with much hair on his head and real strength in his grip, a robust little chap. That evening the father got out a certain sky-rocket he had hidden away and tried to touch it off. Nothing happened, however. He struggled with live coals and direct flame, but the thing refused to go off. Oh well, all that meant was that the powder had gone mouldy with the years.

The boy was christened Gordon Tidemand, a name which the mother with all her book-learning—she was the sexton’s daughter, bear in mind—had run across some place or other. As a name that was quite all right, there was nothing worth arguing about there, and the lad did not die; on the contrary, he throve, ate and drank like any healthy child, but in time he developed brown eyes. No one was able to understand it—brown eyes! And that was quite all right, too; his blue-eyed parents regarded the situation as an interesting freak of nature and mentioned it quite openly to others: “Will you simply look at what brown eyes he has!” they said. They did nothing to conceal the fact of those sparkling brown little eyes.

But then one day the father was assailed by frightful misgivings.

Had it been back in the days of his hot-blooded youth, Theodore paa Bua would surely have held his wife responsible for those brown eyes. But as things now were with him, taken up every minute of his day with that enormous business of his and all his other affairs, to say nothing of his repeated exasperation over being the father of all those little girls—an endless procession of girls—he again made the best of the situation and used sound common sense. On one or two occasions he had thumped the table at his wife, and he had gone so far as to squint searchingly into her face each time she called for help from the warehouse to slaughter a calf or smoke some salmon, but further than that he had never gone. Nor had he even for a moment considered dismissing that handsome devil of a Gypsy lad who worked for him down at the warehouse and who was such an able hand with the salmon net.

A practical, superior sort of chap, that Theodore paa Bua, even though he was hardly the man for such an attitude, hardly one of those whose tombstone’s are forever cluttered up with fulsome inscriptions. No, he was simply an honest fellow with a slightly twisted sense of ethics. His fireworks had failed to go off; not a single rocket had he been able to despatch with a blazing thrust at the stars. But what of it? In truth, the stars are well beyond the reach of mortal man! And was it, after all, worth while to get rid of the Gypsy and thus only lose a good servant? Who could trap the salmon as cleverly as he? Who would bring in an unexpectedly large profit in fish at the expense of getting his hands all covered with blisters from handling jellyfish, as he? Who would turn out at all hours of the day or night to meet the steamers and ferry ashore all those piles of freight for the store, as he? Furthermore, didn’t that Gypsy lad, Otto, come of good people in their own way, too? He belonged to the great family of Alexanders who were from Hungary and who were known all through Nordland, wherever they went with that houseboat of theirs.

Moreover, how could Theodore tell? What proof did he have? None save a pair of shining brown eyes and a certain suspicious way his wife had had about her ever since that Gypsy had come to Segelfoss. It was something, was it not, that a new light had kindled in her eyes, that she tiptoed up and downstairs, that she had taken to singing rather frequently of late, and that she was wearing a little gold medallion on a black velvet ribbon about her neck, that little child of nature! Further, if the truth be told, there had once been a desperate embrace involving a kiss and a fumbling of hands one evening out in the smokehouse with Theodore spying on the pair. And last of all, there had been a repetition of the affair one moonlight night right there on the wharf in front of the warehouse door. But these were all, so really what proof did he have! Father Theodore reasoned it out somewhat as follows: In any event, it wasn’t a girl this time and even if everything had not been exactly right and proper, the sin was not on his soul.

Time passed and a governess was brought in for the children, a lady—again if the truth be told—with whom Theodore might sport about a bit and to whom he might pay some open attention in order to prove that he, too, was a man of parts and to indicate to his wife that he could play the same game. Of course he could—just see there! He escorted the lady to church without his wife and, when Christmas came, he presented the lady with a sterling silver napkin-ring. Please, now let his wife chew on that a while! He was simply indifferent to what the world might say of his actions; it had not been he, had it, who had brought a brown-eyed child into the world! Well then, folk would certainly be on his side! And quite apart from all that, the masters of Segelfoss Manor had a way of doing about as they liked!

But his young wife followed his example and thereafter it was the Gypsy Otto who took her to church. There they both sat in the traditional manorial pew to defy all public opinion, even though Otto Alexander was only a Gypsy and a common warehouse hand. Hm, Theodore paa Bua must have thought to himself at that—the situation is growing intolerable! And the Gypsy was through then and there.

Ay, for autumn was at hand and the salmon fishing was over for that year.

But Theodore was not a bad sort; he was willing to balance accounts. He had a plain talk with his wife and mentioned a new arrangement. The children were growing up rapidly and the little girls, in particular, were old enough now to have a regular tutor, a really learned man. Oh that rascal, Theodore paa Bua! That cunning scamp! He was no Cupid’s votary; he was really bored to death with trying to feign an affair with the governess and he was unable to go on simulating a deeply wounded vanity— enough of that sort of thing! No, he was really not so bad.

And it was a splendid solution to the family problem when the governess went her way and a male tutor arrived in the house. Now the children could get some real knowledge into those heads of theirs. Gordon Tidemand, particularly, was in need of manly instruction, brilliant and precocious as he had already proven himself to be, his mind a searching flame. And in time he went to Trondhjem, first to a school where he took first honours, later serving his business apprenticeship as a clerk behind a counter. After that, he spent two years in Germany where he studied “all that pertained to the profession,” such as mercantile trading, accountancy, banking and foreign exchange—pompous and superfluous stuff for a mere coastal trader from Segelfoss, but liberalizing and essential for a cultured man of affairs. Theodore paa Bua was doing his level best to ape the ways of the old Lieutenant by giving his son a complete and refined education abroad, and, since he had made no end of money of late on a couple of herring coups, he could well afford this unusual expense. And not only that: he even assigned his son, that mere youth, the task of buying up some fine old furniture for the halls and parlours of Segelfoss Manor like that which had stood there before—gold-framed mirrors which reached from floor to ceiling, chairs and sofas designed with gilded sphinxes and lion’s paws, paintings and vases, tables and inlaid cabinets; and many an odd piece did Gordon Tidemand pick up and send home in enormous packing cases. It was indeed a spectacle to see how the interior of the palace was beginning to blossom again in all its former splendour. A hodge-podge of ornamental pieces, some imitation, some genuine, clocks which naturally did not run, chandeliers with countless broken prisms, bronzes smeared over with cheap patina, certain pieces of authentic furniture in fine old woods, to say nothing of the many beds ornate with angels and whatnot in the guest rooms. The grandeur of the new furnishings went so far beyond all the old stuff young Willatz had carted away that Theodore and his wife hardly knew what to do with it. No, they decided, they would have to leave things standing where they were until their son returned home.

* * * * *

In London Gordon Tidemand met a young compatriot of his, one Romeo Knoff, likewise abroad to acquire a maze of theory. The latter was from a big trading station in Helgeland, the centre of a populous district, a regular port of call for the coasting steamers and stylishly equipped with dovecots, peacock alleys, a tower on the main building, a warehouse and a ship quay of solid concrete. Not always, however, had the elder Knoff been as solid as his ship quay; not until there had been a couple of remunerative bankruptcies had he emerged to carry on his extensive trading in Lofoten fish, his cooperage and boat-building enterprises, along with divers other activities. A man of energy, a mighty magnate there on his native heath. And the father of two children, a son Romeo and a daughter Juliet—Romeo and Juliet!

After their meeting in London, Romeo Knoff and Gordon Tidemand spent much time in each other’s company; they were of an age and they became close friends, studied the same subjects and were thus both products of the same quality-type of culture. They returned home to Norway together and agreed to exchange visits in due time.

Theodore paa Bua was surely no man to oppose the visit of so polished a gentleman as young Knoff; on the contrary, he felt himself distinctly honoured and was much concerned over the coming event. The Knoffs had originally hailed from abroad, but for several generations now had been traders there in Nordland. Theodore, on the other hand, was Norwegian through and through, had descended from Per paa Bua, and was thus, as it were, no more than a last season’s product, lacking all glamour save that which was part of the Manor itself as the mark of its former owners—the renowned family of Holmsens. But it was a happy stroke of fortune, at least, which had elevated so local a phenomenon as Theodore paa Bua to his present manorial status.

Romeo arrived with his sister Juliet and, even from the steamer, they gained an immediate impression of grandeur—the Manor, bulky behind its pillared front, the long avenue of arching birches, the belfry astride the storehouse roof. Later, when they arrived on the place itself, and stepped inside that magnificent mansion, the two young Knoffs simply threw up their hands and Frøken Juliet said: “Great Heavens, we live in no such style!” Any wonder then, that Theodore paa Bua swelled with pride!

Upon leaving for home, Romeo and Juliet took both Gordon Tidemand and his two sisters along with them, and again did father Theodore have occasion to plume himself.

For several years the young people were constantly exchanging visits and their relationship became familiar indeed. The end of it was a double wedding: Romeo made off with Theodore’s daughter Lillian and Juliet Knoff came to Segelfoss to live. An even exchange is no robbery. It was only Marna, Theodore’s younger daughter, who was left out of it and who remained unmarried for a time.

* * * * *

The town had been quite small to begin with. Segelfoss Manor had been the nucleus, but this lay isolated a fair distance back from the sea. Down by the waterfront stood Theodore’s mighty store and about it the rest of the town. One by one, a number of craftsmen had arrived from the south and settled down: a tailor, a photographer, a blacksmith, a baker and a butcher. Several small tradesmen had also settled there, but the latter were finding it difficult to earn a livelihood. The original butcher had been compelled to give up, but another had come to take his place. A watchmaker had turned up in town one day and had found a good bit of work getting all the old clocks up at the Manor to run, but upon completion of that task he had been forced to depart. He had no other choice....

But Tobias Holmengraa, the man who had come from Mexico to establish his great mill by the river, he had been responsible for no end of activity and local expansion. During his regime, many outsiders had come to settle in town and the place had grown by leaps and bounds. But Holmengraa’s hour of triumph had been, after all, short-lived; Segelfoss and its immediate environs were too small and too impoverished and the distance to cities and towns needing flour too great. Further than that, a flood of hard times engulfed him, he and his workers had a falling-out and all activity perished.

But for all that, the town still advanced step by step; a couple of new buildings last year, a building or two this year, the district doctor chose this as his headquarters, and that meant a drugstore, too. After a span of years have elapsed, just see what we have here now: a post-office, a telegraph station, a Grand Hotel, a circuit courthouse, a bank and a cinema. Left over from a bygone day, a church and parsonage, but as the perfect fruit of today, a schoolhouse and a home for the schoolmaster, a lawyer and a sheriff, each with his separate establishment, a police department and a police station, a little printshop and the offices of the Segelfoss News. Aside from these, there was little that one could expect. Spreading out through the parish lay hosts of small farms and cottages, and the people lived on the yield from soil and sea.

Little remained of the original village and its people. A few whose history dated back to the regime of the old Lieutenant or the era of the mill still survived, but these were few in number and played no part in the present life of the town. They had hidden themselves away and were living secluded lives; like the ghosts of a vanished age, they were for the most part abroad only after dark, existed as the children of night and were glad to remain unseen. They no longer had sons and daughters over whom to watch and worry, for these had grown up and gone out into the world. Just man and wife remained now, alone, forgotten. Some of the men still went in for a bit of home fishing, others found occupation in cleaning up the town at night, two of the real old men were grave-diggers attached to the cemetery.

But once there was a time when these were human beings just like the others who live here, and not so very long ago, either. Theodore paa Bua was alive in those days, but now he is alive no more. One by one they die off and only the real old ones remain.... And at the hour of twilight of an evening, the old women come together about the pump to exchange their mighty memories: the mill was running then with work and good pay for their men, there were clothes to wear and a fire in the stove, coffee steaming in the pot and treacle to pour on their porridge. Now and then God was kind to them and there was a run of herring in the fjord or a good year for cod at Lofoten. And now and then there was a birth or a wedding or a funeral in their neighbourhood and all was so good, so blissful. And now there is that Lassen; he used to be from here and now at last he’s got to be bishop and councillor to the King, just like Joseph at the court of Pharaoh in the land of Egypt.

No Grand Hotel, no cinema, no bank here then. Ah yes, but those were the days!

CHAPTER TWO

Life at Segelfoss was altered considerably under the new regime. The daily routine was on a somewhat grander scale with far less contact with the village folk. Gordon Tidemand chose to drive back and forth between the store and the Manor in a light phaeton, though the distance was anything but great, and he had put on other grand airs, as well. For instance, what business had he to wear those yellow gloves for so short a drive on a summer day? And he had invested in a smart little motor-boat without having a sign of practical use for it, simply for the purpose of racing out to meet incoming mail steamers; after circling about and calling out a couple of words to the captain, he would head straight in for shore. His point in this was possibly merely to show off for the benefit of the passengers lining the rails. Indeed he was a handsome fellow; there was something of the look of a foreigner about him, with his swarthy skin and dark hair, his aquiline nose, his sparkling brown eyes and his firm narrow mouth. He was always smartly attired, his shoes highly polished. No, here was no Per paa Bua, nor a true son of Theodore, either.

During his father’s lifetime the seine-boats had fared forth regularly every year, each exploring its own corner of the sea, ofttimes twice a year, in the fall before the Lofoten fishing, and in the spring after the codfishing was over. The buying and selling of fish, Lofoten cod or herring trapped by his seiners, the salting down, the packing, the shipping—these were the interests upon which Theodore’s mind had fed and from which he had derived his fortune. But these were not the undertakings of which Gordon Tidemand had learned in school or off on his travels abroad; his fund of knowledge consisted of accountancy, foreign commerce and international monetary exchange, subjects which were quite irrelevant to the running of his type of business. What good did it do him to set up a refined and complicated system of accounting for his store which could never under any set of circumstances yield him the profits attendant upon a single lucky stroke of his seiners? He insisted upon maintaining a commercial traveler to carry his line through Nordland, though little business seemed to follow in the fellow’s wake. One day he summoned this salesman to his private office and pointed to a chair. Big business executive that he was, he was polite but terse in his remarks.

“You haven’t been doing much business,” he began.

“No, that’s the way it looks.”

“That last line of ours ought to be going better. Silk nightgowns.”

“Yes,” said the man, “but folks simply shake their heads when I show them.”

“It’s a line from one of the finest houses.”

“Folks up here still seem to prefer to sleep in flannel. They’re old-fashioned, I guess.”

“Well, how about those flannel skirts? The latest mode, you know.”

“Yes,” answered the man with a shake of the head. “But up here, the women would rather have silk.”

“Hm.”

“Wool underneath and silk outside,” said the man with a laugh.

The big business executive frowned at this sign of amusement. “At any rate, you aren’t doing enough business. Something must be the matter. Are you drawing enough for traveling expenses?”

“Yes, I have the same as the rest of us out on the road.”

“But,” his chief said suddenly, “you yourself might possibly equip yourself a little better. Do you call on your trade in clothes like these you are wearing?”

“They are practically brand-new. My last suit possibly got to looking a bit shabby, but this one—”

“Where did you buy it?”

“In Tromsø. At the finest clothing store in Tromsø.”

“Perhaps you ought to have polished brass corners on your sample cases,” said the chief.

The man stared. “You don’t mean it?” he said, aghast.

“I don’t know, it was just a thought. But it isn’t simply a question of sample cases and clothes, it’s a question of general get-up. I’m not sure you grasp my point. Have you ever given a thought to the matter of style and manner? You are the representative of a big house and you should act and appear accordingly. That shirt and that necktie—pardon me for mentioning them!” The chief nodded to indicate that his reference had been sufficient.

But possibly there was some serious flaw in the man’s sense of fashion and progress, possibly he was short on the power discrimination. For instance, he did not even realize that at this point the interview had been concluded. He said: “You see, when we’re on the road, we often have to carry our bags ourselves. Sometimes we miss ship connections and have to travel by motorboat. We can’t always appear spic and span, sometimes we look pretty mussy.”

The chief remained silent.

“And sometimes we aren’t even as clean as we might be when we arrive in certain places.”

The chief remarked in definite conclusion: “All right, but just think over my words. We will really have to inject a little—”

Nevertheless, Gordon Tidemand was not all show and vanity; he had learned, of course, that clothes and a neat appearance are matters of keen significance, but he did not wander off and get lost in the maze of this doctrine. For instance, he was quick to heed his mother’s advice and immediately got busy laying plans to send out a seining expedition.

This mother of his was in many ways worth her weight in gold. She might easily have passed for his sister, so young and good-looking she still was, so joyous, so warmblooded, so clever. She was said to have taken the bit in her teeth during the early years of her marriage, for she had soon lost all interest in her husband, but that had been a good while ago and was already quite forgotten. She was known as Gammelmoderen,¹ but that was a stupid nickname, for it had simply been her husband, that Theodore paa Bua, who had grown old before his time and who had allowed life and marriage to use him up. She, herself, was as good as ever today.

¹ An affectionate term applied to any older woman who is sweet and helpful by nature. Though literally it means “old mother,” the adjective “gammel” has the same affectionate connotation as “old” in “old son,” “old man,” etc.— Translator.

“When will you send out the seines, and who have you got to boss the crews?” she asked.

Gordon Tidemand was so clever with writing materials; he had prepared a list of all his father’s old seiners and began reading it off aloud.

“You’ve written it down to the last comma, haven’t you?” laughed his mother. “But your father used to carry all that around in his head. And what’s that, have you included Nikolai in your list? But he’s been dead for some time now, hasn’t he?”

“Oh well, we’ll simply strike out his name and stick in Altmulig there in his place.”

“But Altmulig is too old. No, you must have a young crew out with the seines.”

“He’s old enough, but he’s tough and wiry. I’d trust that fellow with anything.”

“But we can’t get along without him here on the place.”

“We’ll manage somehow,” concluded her son.

Gammelmoderen was well acquainted with Altmulig and she knew what a quick head he had on his shoulders. Many was the time she had talked with him and listened to his colourful tales. He was an old sailor, a vagabond, who had turned up one day and asked for work. He was thin and surprisingly nimble; he had wandered about the world no end and could certainly tell tall tales. When asked his port of hail, he had claimed the entire world. But where had he come from last? From Latvia.

The chief, Gordon Tidemand, had grown to like the man in the course of their very first interview there in his office. The stranger had promptly dropped his hat to the floor upon entering the room and had stood there with body erect. Ah, discipline!—to which Gordon Tidemand stood in no way opposed. No, he was not the kind upon whom courtesy is likely to be wasted. More than that, he was helpful by nature and had once found a place in his stockroom for a youth from Finmark for the single reason that the lad could play the fiddle. Yes, but here stood a man with skill of a different order. His name? He had mentioned it, otherwise stating that he had been called “alt mulig” (everything possible) from Captain to murderer during his lifetime, so his real name meant nothing, he said. But what was his line of work? Oh, probably it would be best to set him down simply as an alt-muligmand, as a general handy man, as thus he could do anything he might be put to, perhaps even a little bit more.

“All right, then, you may stay!” the chief had said with a smile.

Nor had he ever found cause to regret having taken this man into his service. The old fellow had soon proven his worth in many quarters, had, for instance, extinguished a serious chimney fire there on the place with no more than a bucket of common kitchen salt—the devil and all if that hadn’t conquered the flames! He had tinkered about with the meat-grinder, the wash-wringer and the laundry mangle which were out of repair and had made them as good as new. Without being told, he had scraped and oiled the boats and what tools he could lay his hands on. Then he had reconstructed that filthy old tumbledown pigsty and, with sand and cement, had made it over into a neat, attractive shelter. “Altmulig, come give us a hand!” folk would call out to him whenever a window might happen to stick.

Moreover, he must certainly have been a most deeply religious man, for he would cross himself frequently and the life he lived was one of quiet meditation. No one had ever heard him singing or shouting outlandishly about town, or firing off that revolver of his.

* * * * *

Children were born to the people up at the Manor—two children in three years, and later there were more. Vigour and diligence no end up above, the young mistress tall and slender as a serpent. Then suddenly her figure would begin bulging like that of a leech; ay, how suddenly the change would take place! Mad with youth they were, this couple; they could hardly budge without love, so what could the end of it be but children? Gammelmoderen now had grandchildren to swing on her arm and it began to look as though she would never again be able to call her time her own.

And children were born in the cottages and on the small farms round about; folk married early in life, and in no time were poor, which was exactly what could be expected.

For example, there was Jørn Mathildesen, named thus after his mother, Mathilde, for the reason that he had had no father—well, he married the girl Valborg from Øira. They owned not the tiniest plot of ground and they hadn’t a King’s copper to live on. For clothes all they had were a few old rags they had picked up here and there. But, even so, they got married and settled down in a rickety shack.—“For why did you do it and go throwing yourself away?” folk inquired of Valborg.—“Was I to go on waiting for another forever?” she asked in return.—“And you so pretty and all,” folk said. “If you’re twenty you’re never a day.”—“No,” Valborg answered, “but they began with me the year I was confirmed.”

They begged a bit, did Jørn and Valborg, and they must have done a bit of stealing on the side, too, for a sharp eye was kept on them whenever they entered the shops in town.—“Well, what will you have today?” the shopkeepers would ask, jocosely.—“Have I no leave to come in?” Jørn would answer straight back. Whenever they would leave him in peace, it might be that Jørn would inquire the price of a bit of red and green dress material which had happened to catch his fancy, or to ask the cost of a pound of American bacon. But what good did it do to tell him what things were worth? the dealers might grumble. The fact was, he never bought anything, did he? “Have I no leave to ask?” Jørn would answer.

A wretched existence for Jørn and Valborg, but at least they had no children—no, unfortunately, they didn’t have even a child to their name.

But children there were on the farms throughout the countryside, of these alone there were plenty, and they were no mean blessing. Without children there would be no laughter heard one year to the next, and without children no tiny groping hands and no droll questions to answer. Otherwise, poverty and desolation reigned over each rural home. When autumn came, folk might, of course, slaughter a bit of a sheep and, God be praised, there were still potatoes in the house and milk to be had from the byre, so it really wasn’t so bad to be a farmer in a small way, with three or four kine and a horse in the barn and a few smaller creatures besides. But did they own these things? They were in debt for more than these and their entire farms were worth; they were deep in the books of the merchants in town, they were far behind in their taxes, they were living in tumble-down homes. And it would help little were they to offer a cow or a pair of sheep as a payment against those enormous debts of theirs, and whenever the fishing was lean at Lofoten, they only got in deeper. No, they had little enough to offer Jørn and Valborg when these beggars were making their rounds. And another result was, one poor soul would help out another with a half-sack of potatoes or a pail of milk. And thus folk took full pity one upon another and showed such a splendid spirit of mutual helpfulness as must have delighted the angels.

Honest, everyday people, these, content to be what they were. They lived according to the keen good sense of their forefathers, though they lived so close by the town with all its people of rank and quality and the new imported customs. No thank you, the people of the countryside still lived as they had once learned to live and slow they were to adopt such fancy new articles as white collars for the neck of a man and cut tobacco for an honest man’s pipe.

Ay, the old ways, those are the best! Look there at those boat-sheds of theirs, those little sheds on stilts! Surely they differ in no particular from those which stood here eight centuries ago when Sverre ruled the land, though they still answer every practical purpose. The walls are open strips of birch and aspen, the roofs are of turf and birchbark. And if someone there is who imagines that these boathouse walls ought to be fitted tight against the weather, the reply is obvious that much would be lost thereby, since it is wind blowing in through the cracks which airs out the sails and the fishing gear left hanging there to dry. And observe those massive wooden locks on the doors of the sheds with their prehistoric wooden keys! No iron there, not a single thing which will rust. And when, at last, lock and key have become rotten, what a simple matter it will be to fit new ones at not a single penny’s cost, with the expenditure of only a little time and some deftness of hand—an interesting evening’s work for any ordinary man....

These people were industrious in their own way, too, though they were guided by no mad urge. They busied themselves with cutting the winter’s fuel supply or with a bit of the usual home fishing, each at its proper season of the year. The children tended the flocks and performed whatever other simple tasks might arise; during the berry season, they would go out into the fields, often in foul weather when the autumn’s cold bit deep, often absent the whole day without food. Cranberries and cloudberries, these they would sell in town and bring the money home. Early in life they had learned to amuse themselves with small matters and had suffered no harm in that. Their mothers and sisters looked after house and byre, they spun the wool from the sheep, prepared the loom and wove a glorious thick material for underwear and outer garments, dyed certain balls of yarn and added bright borders and colourful designs to the dresses intended as Sunday best for their little girls and themselves. No living soul was there whom they envied; they could make themselves fine for church— indeed! For there were their Sunday clothes!

Contented farm-folk; poor but contented, they were. For they were accustomed to this way of living and to no other. And there was frequent occasion for merriment in the homes, too. The children, it took so little to make them laugh and squeal, and, often as not, the grown-ups would share in their fun. Evening was the time for games and stories and splendid it was, too, if only to have Karel i Roten drop in, he who was such a master at singing and yodeling, or even old Mons-Karina who chewed tobacco but who steadfastly refused to admit that she did. But it was entertainment flavoured somewhat with eeriness whenever Aase the Lapp would stop by. Ay, though she always arrived with a greeting of “Peace!” and departed with “Peace be with you!” she was none the less regarded as a fearsome person.

Folk were so wedded to their superstitious beliefs in trollfolk and goblins and creatures of the underworld. There might be a man who had dreamed something, another who had been given a sign—so many ominous and unfathomable things as there might be in the world!... There was, for example, that man named Solmund. One evening he was carting home wood and, according to his story, it was frightfully dark in the forest. As he was making his last trip and was homeward bound, he was walking along behind the load. Suddenly he spied the form of a woman seated atop the load of wood in the cart. He was at a loss to understand how in the world she had got there, but it certainly did not seem right to him and he began straightway praying to God to protect both himself and his horse. Coming within sight of home, the horse suddenly lurched forward into a gallop, and ran away. That female creature up there must have prodded it with something, she herself hopping to the ground and standing there to face him.—“Is that you, Aase?” he asked.

“Ay,” she replied.—“Well, what do you want with me?” asked Solmund.—“I want that you shall have me,” answered Aase.—“I’ll have you out of my way!” he said. “Fee-faw-fum! Clear out, do you hear!”—“You’ll have your pay for this!” said Aase. And from that day on the man’s horse was shy. Solmund, poor soul, he had stumbled into the grip of fate....

Aase was tall and dark. Her father, it was said, was a Gypsy, her mother a Lapp. She would always appear in Lappish garb—furs sewed together into a kind of smock—and stride straight into the room like a very queen, proud of her comely person, serious and deliberate of speech. She was an unusually handsome woman, but, like all Lapps, extremely filthy. Some years ago she had probably been a beauty indeed, both in face and in figure. Her face was that of a Lapp and she dressed in Lappish garb, though her outer garment was not embellished with the screamingly bright embroidery and decorative flourishes common to her race—hers was a simple brown smock. From the left side of her belt, from the left side only, there hung a jingling cluster of ceremonial articles: a knife, scissors, sewing implements consisting of a bone needle and a bundle of sinews for thread, a pipe and tobacco, fire-steel and punk, silver gew-gaws and a number of mysterious articles shaped from bone. Aase was forever wandering. God knew when she ever slept! She would simply put in a sudden appearance. She might be in South Parish and in North Parish, both in the same day, though she traveled only afoot....

Here now she suddenly turns up in a cottage....

With the arrival of Aase, the children immediately subside and sneak off into the corners. She has come on no special errand and it is seldom that she asks for anything. Nevertheless the mother of the house makes haste to offer her a few beans of coffee and a bit of tobacco simply as a token of friendly esteem, and it is no less than ordinary politeness which leads the father of the house to inquire whence she has come and whither she is bound. Receiving the appropriate replies, he goes further and asks: “Have you heard as how that Solmund and that horse of his were both drowned in the falls just yesterday as it was?”—“Ay,” Aase answers, but it appears as though the matter is not of the slightest concern to her.—“But a danger it was to be driving that horse so near the falls. Didn’t that Solmund know as much?”—“You ask me and I ask you!” Aase answers.—“And then as to that poor Tobias as was burned from house and home this very week as it was? Have you heard anything more about the fire, you who go about meeting so many folk?”—“No,” Aase answers.... With dreamy eyes she sits there thinking thoughts of her own; now and then she glances up and her brown eyes are eery and fathomless. What is on her mind? Nothing at all, perhaps. Or perhaps it is only that her heart is heavy, perhaps she is suffering for love. She is unmarried and lives in a hut together with an old, old Lapp, so old that it is impossible that he should be her lover. Well, but it must be, then, that Aase is a girl who is doomed to be barren—barren at something past thirty, though still a handsome creature. There is something so strange about Aase; though in a drawling way all her own, she speaks good peasant Norwegian, and true it is that she knows more than other Lapps; she is not without her gifts. She reads but little and she writes not at all. Happening in at some dance and being offered something to drink, she always calls for whiskey and seems able to stand no end of it....

At length she rises to her feet. “Well, so now I’m on my way again,” she says.

“Ho, what’s your need for hurry? You’ve time and plenty,” the father of the house says to be polite.

“I’m on my way to North Parish. There’s a child badly scalded I’m to see.”

At which Mother uncomfortably exclaims: “Oh, then hurry you must! Ay, hurry you must!”

“I arrive at my hour exactly!” says Aase, nodding. “Peace be with you!”

Mother follows her outside with something hidden beneath her apron to give her. When she returns, Father eyes her apprehensively and asks: “Did she spit?”

“No.”

The whole house heaves a sigh of relief, the children emerge from their corners and promptly begin teasing each other and giving imitations.—“My, but your face was white!” says Big Brother to that tiny wee sister of his.—“It was?” she squeals. “Why, I could have walked right up and touched her!”

But oh no! Aase had appeared as slightly more awesome than that! Baby Sister had had no more the courage to go up and touch her than, for instance, her parents had had....

Whether deserving of it or not, Aase enjoyed the reputation of being able to rid folk of their ailments; she was said to have effected a number of remarkable cures in the case of both people and animals and it was believed that she could bring misfortune upon a household by merely spitting on the doorstep. And she gave herself magic airs. “I arrive at my hour exactly!” she had said. She was sent for by folk who had faith in her powers, and no one there was who dared utter a word against her, as that would be the surest way of inviting her revenge.

“Sh! Still now!” says Mother. “Quiet your mouths about that Aase! Outside she can stand and hear right through the wall!”

“I say only that Baby Sister was afraid,” the lad mumbles.

The other children enter the argument at this point, promptly taking sides with the youngest. “It was Big Brother himself who really was afraid!”

Then they all laugh mischievously and Big Brother is made to feel small.... They cuddled up together, became enemies, then friends again....

What a blessing it was to have children! What would a home be without children? A hollow tree-trunk, no more. Afford to have them? Somehow they’d manage to afford them, the parents would decide. And if it were a question of their growing so fast that it would be impossible to keep them in clothes, well—they would be cold in winter anyway, so what if they were likewise a bit chilly in summer? And if the house itself lacked certain comforts, the main point was these children had never been spoiled. During the rains of spring and autumn every turf roof leaked a bit and it would be necessary to set pots to catch the drops. And it was always worst up in the loft where the children slept—there they would lie with cups and pans on all sides of them on the bed. But were they disheartened or petulant when they happened to upset one of these pans and soaked the bed with rain water? No, they would set up a momentary commotion, with laughter or howls of anger which soon subsided. They accepted things as they were, promptly went back to sleep, and in the morning had forgotten that anything at all had occurred. They were accustomed to turf roofs which leaked; they were accustomed to no other kind.

Every Saturday the floors would be scoured till they shone. And then of a sudden it would appear to Mother and Father that the floors were strewn with twigs of juniper, as was the custom in the north, though neither of them had placed them there. They would hardly be able to believe their own eyes. Well? Oh, it had been those thoughtful little girls, God bless their tiny hands! Now it was out why they had sneaked off into the forest in spite of the difficult going. Of course, for they had gone to fetch fresh juniper to strew on the floors for the Sabbath. How clean and pure was the fragrance of juniper there in the warmth of the house! And on each berry there was the mark of a tiny cross. Now what could have been on God’s mind when He gave this symbol to the juniper? There was something quite rare about juniper, it was something more than a mere strew for the floor; if it were desired to sweeten up the house, one would light a twig of juniper and swing the smoke through the air. And when Mother was at the milk pans she would boil a sprig of juniper in each, to make them sweet and clean.

CHAPTER THREE

When the seiners returned empty-handed, the chief’s only words were: “Better luck next time!” He was not one to hang his head, he could take things like a man.

They settled accounts in his private office, one crew at a time, each headed by its own boss. In the days of Theodore paa Bua, it had been the custom for the seine-boss to render a colourful report of his expedition. Theodore would sit there on his high swivel-stool, completely absorbed, nodding or shaking his head from time to time, and firing back many a question.

Not so now.

“No, we didn’t make out so well this time,” says the seine-boss.

The chief offers nothing in reply, merely continues his calculations.

“But I don’t see as how we could do more than what we did.”

The chief continues to figure.

The seine-boss essays further conversation: “Or what do you think yourself?”

The chief lays aside his pen and replies: “What do I think myself? We were unlucky. That’s all there is to be said about it. Better luck next time!”

And thus it went with the second seine-boss and his crew—not a superfluous word from the chief. No, he was quite unlike his father who had sat there before him and chatted away with his seiners. Grand to the point of appearing somewhat ludicrous Theodore paa Bua had been, but a thorough man of the people, and downright kind and helpful when flattered into it. Here today sits his son on the same swivel-stool and is no more than civil and matter-of-fact, his an air which holds him aloof from his people.

Well, after all, what was there to be said about those luckless expeditions? What was there about them to warrant an elaborate verbal exchange? He had laid out provisions and a few weeks’ pay for two crews, but that was nothing to upset him. On the contrary, folk might well say of him: “See, there is a man who is able to stand the loss!” Besides, how could he expect good fortune from the very start? No seine in existence is a pot of gold each year. And what difference did it make if the Segelfoss News did publish a notice calling attention to the fact that both crews had returned home empty-handed?...

Gordon spoke to his mother. “What do you say to a little party?” he asked.

“What kind?”

“A few people in town, a bit of wine and something to eat?”

“I think you’re mad!” laughed his mother. “You’ve made no fortune in herring, have you?”

“That’s just the point,” her son replied.

Oh that Gordon! His style of thought seemed so alien to his mother, so incomprehensible to the widow of Theodore paa Bua, so utterly outlandish! She herself would have done everything in her power to compensate her loss, would have scrimped and saved every penny she could in order to come out even in the end. But to such old-fashioned ideas her son simply shook his head.

“Come, let’s go have a talk with Juliet about it!” he said.

* * * * *

The dinner party proved something of a fizzle.

Gordon Tidemand and his wife had held no grand receptions in their home in the past. After christenings, they had merely entertained the godparents and the pastor and his wife at dinner. This time, however, invitations had been scattered far and wide and many were the guests who arrived at the house. But of good cheer there was a conspicuous lack. What could the matter be? Though the gentlemen were not in evening dress, the ladies had attired themselves in their choicest finery. Moreover, the beautiful Fru Lund was there. She, the doctor’s wife, was in the habit of never going anywhere but on this occasion she had made an exception. And there was enough to eat and the bottles were full of good wine and the maids wore starched white aprons as they went about serving the guests, but these seemed not enough. Dinner was served in the room of golden flowers, champagne appeared on the table, the host made a speech, the district judge made a speech, but there seemed no joy or gusto in anything. Oddly enough, Gordon Tidemand was himself in no way stiff or formal; he played his part admirably and his wife, Juliet, was the perfect hostess. Nor did the pastor put a damper on the spirits of the party; to the contrary, he was the most jovial person present. Was it Herr Holm, the druggist, then, who charmingly or otherwise, was forever cutting up and again was quite himself?

He had been in high spirits upon arriving at the party. Not only had he found something tasty in his own cellar before starting out, he had also stopped in at the hotel on his way. Holm was a bachelor, as was his fellow-Bergenser, the hotel proprietor, and the pair were seen often together.

But what difference should it have made so far as the present dinner party was concerned if Druggist Holm had been in high feather when he arrived? He was no bourgeois. He had been placed next to Gammelmoderen at table and that possibly had been a mistake, for they appeared to be waxing more and more confidential as the dinner progressed.

The pastor made no great shakes about his reverence; he was human just like the rest and frightfully poor in the bargain; his shoes were in wretched condition, his clothes all frayed and mended, but his cheeks were plump and he had a charming head of grey hair. He knew how to take a joke and was the recipient of more than one sly dig. His jovial round face would break into a thousand wrinkles when he laughed and this had inspired Lawyer Pettersen to utter the one bon mot of his life when he called the pastor “Lohengrin.”

“Pettersen clever?” asked the druggist when he heard of the attempted pun. “In the first place it isn’t clever, but if it is, then he must have read it some place!”

Lawyer Pettersen’s head was too small for his gangling body and when the pastor heard his own new nick-name he merely remarked: “Why—that buttonhead!” Nor was this attempted repartee exactly a flash of scintillant wit, but as an appellation it was apt and it stuck to its man.

To be sure, Pastor Ole Landsen was anything but an inspiring preacher and his sermons were ill-attended more often than not. People seemed to prefer the prayer-meetings held in the cottages round about by various itinerant evangelists, but this fact never once aroused the local pastor to ire. “People are rather silly, I believe,” was all he ever said. “It’s cosier to sit right in church now that we’ve got us a stove.”

His wife was a charming little woman, still pretty, still girlish, ready to blush on the slightest provocation. Her face and her personality were strongly dove-like. She was quiet and retiring in manner, but she had a pair of bright little eyes which never missed a thing.

“Sit still, Druggist!” says Gammelmoderen to her dinner partner.

“All right, then still it shall be!”

“Haha, for otherwise I shall have to change my place.”

“If you do, I shall change mine, too!”

The pastor’s wife blushes.

The district judge tells of the inquiry he has held in regard to Tobias’ fire. “It was like pulling teeth to get anything definite out of them,” he says. “They simply sat there scared out of their wits lest they say too much. What they did say was so much foolishness. Here is an example of my questions and the answers I received—it is the daughter I am now examining in an effort to determine the condition in which she found her father when she discovered the fire.

“I am as friendly as can be when I put the following question: ‘How did you find your father when you came to tell him of the fire?’

“‘He was asleep,’ she replies.

“‘In the bedroom?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Was he undressed? Hadn’t he just been out for a walk?’

“‘No.’

“‘How did you know your father was asleep?’

“‘He was gasping.’

“‘By that do you mean he was snoring?’

“At this she grows red and is certain I am trying to trip her up. Therefore she holds fast to her statement that her father was gasping—and furthermore that he was asleep. I was obliged to drop it right there. The fact is, they had agreed upon what they were to say, but when it came time for them to utter their explanations they got all tangled up. Now the father must have been lying there awake as he had just come in from a walk, but that is not the same thing as to say that he had himself set fire to the house. She was a pretty little girl, too; she had such a pleading way about her. I confess, I felt sorry for her.”

“Her sister is in service with me,” says the druggist. “And what a regular little steam engine she is! She has us all right by the ears.”

General laughter. “Where did you get hold of her?” some one asks.

“Hm?—oh, she was working over at the hotel and had learned a bit of cooking there. I got her from the proprietor. She’s a wonder, though, the witch!”

Gammelmoderen: “Poor Druggist. Did he have his ears pulled all out of shape!”

“That’s right. And she’s a free-thinker, too!”

“Free-thinker?”

“She laughs at people who go to prayer-meetings. She refuses to have anything at all to do with them.”

“My, what you must go through!” smiles Gammelmoderen, her cheeks sweetly flushed with the wine she has drunk.

And at this point the druggist must have inadvertently come in some sort of contact with her under the table, for she suddenly starts up, then settles back in her chair with a sigh of: “Ah!”

The judge continues: “Many times it is a sad duty to be obliged to examine poor people. It is cowardly, I know, but as a rule I allow my clerk to do it. He can conduct an investigation with less trouble to his finer nature —he is from Trondhjem.”

Lawyer Pettersen adjusts his spectacles and smilingly assures the party that during his term as magistrate’s clerk he, too, had many times found it difficult to do his duty when this consisted of taking over the duties of the magistrate, even though he himself was also from Trondhjem.

“Poor fellow!” exclaimed the druggist without a sign of self-restraint.

All at the table smiled, and even the lawyer himself smiled good-naturedly.

“I suspect it is more or less embarrassing for all of us to go snooping into other people’s affairs,” says the pastor, “but that is no reason why we should turn aside from our duty.”

The lawyer: “Yes, there really is something to be said about you clergymen. When I think of the harangues you are in the habit of delivering over a grave—why wouldn’t it be in better taste simply to come out with a bit of straightforward talk?”

The pastor: “Addressed to the dead?”

“I mean instead of singing the praises of the dead, of literally bragging about the dead.”

“Hm-hm,” says the pastor. “Yes, of course it is possible that we do tend to make too much of it. But, don’t you see, since the dead can no longer hear us, it is our task to console as best we may those left behind. What sense would there be in calling a corpse to time? Let the dead man answer for himself in the place where he has gone! To attempt to reckon accounts with him on earth would be an insult to Almighty God.”

The lawyer: “Console those left behind? Even when they are inwardly rejoicing over this very death? I am referring in particular to the disgusting tommyrot shouted over the coffins of dead officials. That’s one thing you clergymen ought to cut out.”

The pastor, in a quiet voice: “There is certainly something in what you say. But with a little experience in such matters, I doubt you would find them so obscure. A man and wife may have lived together like cat and dog, but the moment one of them dies, the other immediately comes to me with a bosom filled with praise and blessings for the departed and begs me to say something fine.”

“Ugh, are we really like that!” exclaims the magistrate’s wife. “I mean, we human beings. I mean, are we as loathsome as that?”

The pastor: “There is really nothing loathsome about that, my good lady. It is of some significance to the children, in any event, that nice things are said at the graves of their parents. Put yourself in the place of the children, if the very opposite were to take place.”

“I would sign a release for all that!” put in the magistrate.

“But you have no children, have you?” the druggist shot back.

“No! No!” exclaimed several of the ladies in unison. “The pastor is right!”

Fru Juliet, with a wry smile: “Just think, Gordon, that’s the way it will be with us: a splendid eulogy simply for the sake of our children, regardless of whether or not we deserve the kind things that are said of us!”

“Right, Juliet! Skoal!”

The doctor’s wife addresses her husband across the table: “Where do you suppose those boys of ours are now?”

The doctor: “Oh you and those boys of ours!”

“Yes, I am a bit uneasy,” she smiles helplessly. And her face is so pretty and her teeth so white.

“They are probably down at the sloop again climbing about in the rigging,” he teases.

“Boys usually know pretty well how to look out for themselves,” says the magistrate.

The doctor agrees at once: “Yes, isn’t it true? But my wife is unable to let them out of her sight.”

Gammelmoderen is seen to leave the table, her hand fumbling a bit with the arm of her chair. No one seems to notice her, but the pastor’s wife blushes red as fire.

Fru Juliet turns to the doctor’s wife and attempts to reassure her: “All you have to do is telephone home and inquire about the boys.”

Coffee and liqueurs were served in the large reception hall, but the affair seemed no more festive than it had before. Gordon Tidemand was disappointed: the devil with trying to provide elaborate dinner-parties for unappreciative people! There each one sat, uttered his few miserable words and then fell silent. No one seemed impressed. He would never invite them again.

With the arrival of the whiskey there were slight signs of life; conversation was resumed, the men rose partially to the occasion, but not a word was uttered concerning the most important of details: this feast at the old palace, this reception in the grand manner, the antique silver, the entertainment itself. Even the doctor who himself had come of a grand home and ought therefore to have understood a thing or two, even he behaved as though the affair were not much of anything.

What did not occur to Gordon Tidemand was that his party was in truth little else, neither one thing nor another, simply a hodge-podge of this and that, from the excellent food and the large variety of wine to the pompous but tasteless interior furnishings. The present occupants of the Manor were simply squatters, the golden flowers on the wall had danced for a finer breed. Gordon Tidemand did not swagger like a peasant, he made no obnoxious parade, but all that he knew he had acquired from his betters, including his modesty. Fru Juliet had been born something more of an aristocrat and whatever she might have lacked in this regard was immediately compensated by her own great natural charm. Now what about Doctor Lund? He was the district doctor, a government official, thus, and not one of your aggressive little medicos setting up practice in a city and doing his best to ruin business for his older colleagues. If it were true that he had originally come of an important family, all that was but a vague memory in his mind by now, and the steady grind of making sick calls had proven anything but a refining influence. He had acquired his wife in a little place up north called Polden. She was of the common people and her name was Esther. She knew nothing of the finer things of life but she was well-equipped with the primitive wisdom of her class, was furthermore a thing of beauty from top to toe, exquisite to look at, though she was already the mother of two husky youngsters. When she rose to leave for the telephone, there was no one in the room whose eyes had failed to follow her.

The postmaster’s wife, Fru Hagen began to play upon the quaint little clavicord which Gordon had picked up abroad and shipped home along with his odd assortment of other antiques. It was his custom to apologize for this instrument, though he had always been careful to add: “But Mozart knew nothing better.” The postmaster’s lady was a small light-haired creature, thin, somewhat pug-nosed, probably in her late twenties. She was nearsighted and she would throw back her head and cross her eyes whenever she attempted to look someone in the face. She played a few lovely things and, when asked, added an encore or two, concluding with a dainty minuet.

Gordon Tidemand: “You seem to be able to get more music out of that contraption than was ever put into it.”

“This contraption is good enough for me,” she replied as she rose. “And see how lovely it is! Just look at the harp, see the beautiful inlay work!”

“Did I hear that you have studied in Berlin?”

“Yes, for a short time.”

“For a long time,” corrects her husband, the postmaster.

“But I really accomplished very little.”

“Oh yes, you did!” affirmed the druggist from where he was sitting.

“Fru Hagen has pupils here. She gives lessons,” explains Fru Juliet.

“Just a few pupils,” admits Fru Hagen, forever putting herself down.

The postmaster declares: “She took singing at first, but then she lost her voice.”

“Oh! And did she never get it back?”

“No. It was during a fire. She was rescued through a window and caught cold.”

“Possibly I never had much voice to lose,” she says with a smile. With that she turns to the druggist and asks: “Haven’t you your guitar with you?”

“Don’t you dare try and bring me out when you’re around!” he replies.

“But I’ve heard you before.”

“Yes. Under excusable circumstances.”

“Hm!” the lawyer puts in tartly.

“Keep still, Lawyer!”

“Hahaha! I’ve never been refused a word in a case before!”

“No—really?”

“Well, I believe I won the case to which you are referring, didn’t I?”

Holm: “Winning cases! So the laws of Norway permit even lawyers to earn their bread!”

The magistrate sits chuckling good-naturedly at this duel of words between two opponents forever on each other’s necks. Then, as the doctor’s wife has just returned to the room, he turns to her and asks: “Well, Fru Lund, and were the boys aloft on the sloop?”

“They are out fishing.”

“Yes, those boys never fail to find some new means of risking their lives!” the doctor remarks to tease his wife.

“We are in mortal danger wherever we are,” cites the lawyer’s wife who is religious.

“Yes, but my husband never seems to think anything is dangerous where my boys are concerned,” remarks Fru Lund.

The doctor wags his head: “There, you see? I never count for anything any more—it’s only her boys these days!”

“Hahaha!”

“Moreover,” says the doctor, “cold feet with her are at once synonymous with fever and headache. In any event death seems imminent.”

“Ugh!” someone groans. “Death!”

“Yes, that’s one thing not one of us can escape,” remarks Lawyer Pettersen with the air of a sage. “And it’s so natural, too.”

The doctor: “So natural, did you say? I know an old man of ninety who is about to die. But that’s the one thing he’s dead set against doing. His appearance is truly frightful, but he simply will not give up. Medicine, fomentations, food! He is so hideous, so emaciated and so downright filthy that one dreads so much as to touch him, but there he lies, for all eyes to gaze upon. An animal creeps off by itself to die.”

The pastor: “Yes, but a human being, Doctor!”

“Well, what is there delicate or refined about a human being, now that you seek the comparison? We have reason enough ourselves to hide. In appearance the human being is enough to make one groan—longish, fattish, unaesthetic bodies, patches of hair here and there, protruding knuckles and flabby flesh, a basketful of odd materials thrown carelessly together to form the most grotesque figure on the face of the globe. Anything beautiful about that, seen objectively?”

“Yes, Fru Lund is beautiful!” Druggist Holm blurts out in a high-pitched voice.

A moment’s stillness, then laughter from all corners of the room. Oh that druggist, that druggist! But Fru Lund was at a loss and the pastor’s wife sat there blushing.

The doctor continues his discourse: “Now turn and look at a bird, take just a common everyday wood-grouse. What a lovely creature she is, what graceful lines and curves, the colour of every known metal in her feathers. Or look upon any flower you choose. A miracle from root to blossom. But a human being?”

“This is only one of those things you have gone speculating about in order to cultivate a knowing attitude,” the pastor gaily remarks.

The lawyer ventures a further learned comment: “But it is man who has been created in God’s image!”

The doctor, somewhat more meekly: “It may be that I was a bit too harsh in my judgment. But I have gained an impression or two from having visited the sick and sat by many a death-bed, impressions which might cause you to hold your nose. Would you like to hear an example?—Once I was called upon to shave a certain corpse. It was a friend of mine who had died, so I decided against calling in outside help. He had been in life a person of so-called refinement. In any event, there was nothing grand about him as he lay there stretched out in death. Well, I lathered his face and started in. He had worn his face cleanshaven, so I had quite some work ahead of me. It went fine while I was shaving his cheeks, but when I came to his upper lip, it seemed that my razor must have pulled, for he groaned. I do not exaggerate—the razor pulled a bit and he groaned. The sound probably came from the skin stretched taut beneath the razor slipping back into place. Well, I got past the upper lip at length, but the worst part still lay before me, the throat, the Adam’s apple. This involved an awkward unnatural position for one who was not used to shaving another—it was necessary for me to bend far forward with the upper part of my body, whilst manipulating the razor. Well, I must have inadvertently placed my left hand upon the chest of the corpse and leaned my weight upon it for an instant. But that was enough. The chest sank beneath my weight and the corpse exhaled a long breath—Good Lord in Heaven, I received that sudden puff of rank air full in the face! It was not my habit to faint, but, believe me, I immediately sank down into a chair behind me. The air from those dead lungs had been killing, an unearthly stink impossible for anyone to imagine!”

The gentlemen were outwardly calm, but they were finding it difficult to restrain their laughter. “So you weren’t able to finish shaving the corpse?” one of them asked.

“Oh yes, I came to, a little later in the afternoon.”

The pastor: “But what were you trying to—? I don’t believe I quite understand—”

“That was your human being!” said the doctor.

The pastor thought this over. “No, it was not,” he said at length. “That was the remains of a human being, the cadaver.”

The chief telegraphist was obliged to go on duty and departed. He had done nothing to shine at the party, had merely sat comfortably smoking. He was a bibliophile and as there was not a single book to be seen in the room, he had had nothing to talk about. His wife remained at the party.

The glasses were changed and tokay was then served. Tokay! Could not even this raise the party from the level of the commonplace? It was, to be sure, a rare old wine from abroad, but no one seemed to take any particular notice of it.

“Skoal, Fru Hagen!” toasted Gordon Tidemand. “I believe you will recognize this wine?”

“I once tasted it in Vienna,” replied the postmaster’s wife.

“Of course. In Austria and Hungary it is tokay one drinks after dinner—in England it is port.”

“Well, in Norway it is whisky and soda,” observed the druggist, swallowing his wine in one gulp.

Laughter—“Yes, in Norway one drinks whiskeys and soda! Many of them.”

“But in France—what would it be in France?”

“Champagne. One continues with champagne.”

“I’ve never tasted this particular wine before,” says the pastor and spells through what is written on the label: “‘Tokay-Zsdaly.’ Splendid, isn’t it?” he adds and smacks his lips.

But as the tokay remained practically untouched in the glasses, Fru Juliet rang for champagne and assorted fruits: apples, grapes and figs! Why, heavens and earth! everyone must certainly have thought to themselves, and the host was able at last to recognize a faint glimmer of the emotion he had striven to arouse in his guests. But the sensation soon passed over, and the party settled back into its deadly mood. What a boring affair! thought Gordon Tidemand bitterly. I’ll never invite them again! Never!

The magistrate glanced at the clock as a suggestion that it might possibly be time to break up, but he immediately decided he could equal his host and hostess in powers of endurance and remained seated where he was. Fru Juliet had the children brought in and showed them off to the group—by way of interlude, that too. Exclamations and the usual amazement, honeyed words, cootchy-cootchy—but there was so much cigar smoke there in the room, the little ones soon began to cough. It was Gammelmoderen who had brought in the children and it was she who led them away. She seemed as good as ever, all fresh and smiling.

“It’s a pity you have no children, Lawyer,” says the druggist.

“Children? How could I ever support them?”

“Poor chap!”

The magistrate now looks at the clock in earnest and rises. Fru Juliet meets him half-way. “What’s the hurry?” she asks, persuasively. “It is so pleasant to have you here.”

“Ah yes, my good lady, but the time has really come.”

All rise, extend their hands, give thanks, and thanks. The druggist was himself to the end. “Strange people to be leaving a treat like this. Now just look at that bottle of champagne, Lawyer! There it stands perishing in its bath of ice with no one to come to its rescue!”

Gordon Tidemand could on longer restrain himself. “No, let’s not try to hold them, Juliet. It is we who are to offer thanks to them for having had the kindness to come and look in on us!”

There was nothing to be said to this. Genuflection seemed really in order!

Later he remarked to his wife: “That was a rotten idea of mine. Did you ever in your life see such people! You can bet, I’ll never repeat this affair!”

Fru Juliet: “Sh, Gordon!”

“Oh, you’re always so ready to excuse!”

“They’ll remember, you’ll see,” she said.

“Do you think so? But they acted as though they had known of such things before.”

“They couldn’t very well say anything while they were here.”

“They didn’t have to say anything. But damned if they oughtn’t to have demonstrated an occasional sign of enthusiasm. Over the tokay, at least?”

Fru Juliet voiced her opinion that it had really been a splendid party, the guests both pleased and pleasing. The druggist had been in high feather and witty indeed, the postmaster’s wife was captivating.

“Yes, she too has been out in the world,” said Gordon Tidemand. “But the others? No, we shall never have them again. Eh, Juliet? Not by a damned sight!”

CHAPTER FOUR

Then came the autumn, then came the winter. And the winter was a dismal time, snow and cold, short days, darkness. The small farms and the lonely cottages had deep pathways through the snow to each other, and now and then a human form might be seen there, walking. It might be of an evening with moon and stars, and it might be the woman from Roten walking over to the neighbouring farm in order to borrow a skirt.

Ay well, and all the menfolk were off in Lofoten and Karel was off in Lofoten and it fell to the lot of that woman of his to keep things going, what with the children and the cowbarn, until some three weeks after Easter when the menfolk would be returning home. It was a hard time for her, she had good use for all her patience and all her frugal ways.

She had once been the girl Georgina, Gina to most, as poor then as now and not much for the eyes of a man, but young and healthy and able at work and she had sung so wondrously with her strong alto voice. Now she was Gina i Roten. She had not come from any high place and she had married into no worse state of poverty than some others, only that she was older now and many times a mother, and forty years. But was that anything! She was used to it and she was used to nothing else. Things might have been worse with her, of course they might; her years went by, one by one, and she had her children and her man and they had their little farm and their cattle in the shed, though ’tis true they owned but little clear. And if her man was a wizard at singing a ditty—ay, and famous for the words he had once set to a waltz—she was something in her own way, too. There was no one like Gina to stand upon the knoll and call home her creatures from the pasture of an evening. “Soo-a! Soo-a!” A melody which sang through the air, though ’twas nought but a cry, a call for the cows to come home, like a prayer in a voice of rich velvet. And in church she would sing out like no one else, and those at her side would fall silent. Her voice she had received from a God who could afford to squander his gifts.

She goes walking along the deep footpath through the snow; ay, and the path is like a deep ditch and she becomes white with snow to her knees. All is not well with her now, she is clean out of feed for her creatures and she must find a remedy. Tomorrow, along with another woman who is also in need of feed, she must search through the parish for hay.

“Good evening!” she greets in the neighbouring cottage.

“Good evening! Oh, is that you, Gina? Sit down.”

“No, sit I really mustn’t,” says Gina and seats herself. “Just passing by I was.”

“What hear you for news?”

“No, what can I hear for news when I’m never outside that door of mine?”

“Ay, we each have our things to do,” says the woman. “We must only thank God for the health that we have.”

Silence.

“Ay,” says Gina, with a bit of trouble on her mind. “I saw as you had a web up last fall?”

“Ay, and that’s no lie.”

“And so much for a web it was, too, I could see. There was yellow and blue and everything else you can mention. If a dress it was for, it was lovely indeed and all that.”

“Both for a dress and a skirt,” the woman replies. “I was beginning to go so naked for clothes.”

“Ay, and a shame it is to be asking. But it might be as you’d give me the loan of the skirt for tomorrow?”

The woman gives a momentary start, then says: “Ho, is it feed then you’re short of?”

“Ay, as it is!” replies Gina, with a violent nod of her head.

No, the woman needed no lengthy reflection to tell her why Gina wished to borrow the skirt. It was no riddle to her. For she too was running short of provender out in the shed. And it was far from likely that Gina wished to dress up and appear fine in the new skirt: she wished to carry home hay in it. It was an ancient tradition that one should carry home hay in a skirt; oh, it was something of an annual event there in the parish—the peasant skirt would hold so much, it was like a balloon when filled. Almost at any time a pair of womenfolk might be seen shuffling along through the snow with tremendous burdens on their backs—skirts tight full of hay and tied up with a rope. These wanderers were part of the winter landscape; there was always someone short of feed and always another who was a bit better off for hay and who was willing to sell a truss or two. The women seldom had a penny to their names before the return of their men from Lofoten, but a new and colourful skirt would be sure to gain them the necessary credit for a bit of hay; more, it would give the neighbours to understand that the need was not the result of mere poverty but of the enormous number of creatures for which one could never provide enough, and which represented a small fortune in themselves.

“But a pity it is to be asking you,” repeats Gina.

“No, that it’s not,” replies the woman, proud to be the owner of a skirt fit to loan. “Who’s to be with you tomorrow?”

Gina mentioned a name.

“Where has she borrowed her skirt?”

Gina mentioned another name.

“Ho!” says the woman. “Then I don’t imagine as you’ll be ashamed to be showing my skirt!”

“No, that I should never be!”

“Here it is. Double thick and summer wool every inch of the thread. Let me hear what you think of the border?”

“A miracle for work,” says Gina. “I’ve no words in my mouth to praise it!”

Gina returns home with the pride and pleasure in her of being able to swagger a bit on the morrow with such a splendid skirt. But on the way home she meets Aase, that witch woman, that cross between Gypsy and Lapp, that wandering plague of a woman.

“Bless the meeting!” says Gina, sweet as butter and stepping far out into the snow to make room for Aase. “Have you come from my place? And none but the children at home there!”

“I didn’t come to see you,” Aase answers. “I only looked inside.”

“Such a pity it was and all that! Had I been home, I should surely have given you a bit of this or that.”

“There’s nothing I’m needing!” Aase mumbles. So saying, she passes on.

Gina hastens home. She knows that her children are hiding scared out of their wits in the corner, that they are daring not so much as to move. Gina has received a bit of a scare herself—she is no greater than she is —but she must appear plucky for the sake of the children.

Entering the house she says at once: “What’s this I see, you’re afraid? Why, what a thing to be! That Aase? My, my! What then if it was? I just met her myself and all I heard was a bit of a kind word. Aren’t you ashamed to cry like that? Here it’s moonlight and all that! And all you have to do is pray to the Father in Heaven. What was I going to say—did she leave straight off?”

The children reply both yea and nay; they don’t know, they can’t remember, they hadn’t dared so much as to breathe—

“Ay, but she didn’t spit then when she left?”

The children give various answers, they really aren’t quite sure, they didn’t look—

The mother weighs the matter in her mind a moment: wouldn’t it be possible for her to run out and overtake Aase, slip something into her hand? Oh yes, she too is somewhat wrought up in her mind. But she doesn’t dare reveal it. Then Lillemor speaks up, Lillemor who is too tiny to be afraid; she asks mama what she is carrying under her arm.

This relieves all minds. “Ay,” says mama. “You simply should see what I have. All come here now to the light! This is the pretty skirt mama is to fill up with hay to bring it home tomorrow. Did you ever see anything so pretty!...”

Three weeks after Easter the cod ran out in East Lofoten and the menfolk returned home. An average year, the fishing light all the way through, but fine prices—a bit of change in their pockets again, wife and children saved once more. And the sun shone brightly and the snow turned brown and brooklets began to form which froze over every night only to become brooklets again with the morning’s sun.

* * * * *

The traveler is ready to depart for Nordland and Finmark with the spring line—silks and woollens, a bit of velvet, a bit of cotton, fashionable frocks, patent leather shoes. The chief, Gordon Tidemand, as usual stares at his salesman and feels he is a bit too shabbily dressed to do credit to the house he represents, but now as usual the man explains that upon his arrival in Tromsø he will purchase a splendid new summer suit from the finest clothier in town.

The interview was otherwise just as usual; sales had shown no satisfactory increase, especially of the more expensive articles wherein real profit lay. Something must be the matter. Weren’t the people up north willing to keep up with the trend of the times?

Oh yes, they were beginning to. But Finmark, after all, was Finmark. Up there one still had to dress according to the climate and daily occupation. But truth to tell, the ladies were already taking to high-heeled shoes.

The chief simply could not understand it; no orders for those marvelous corselettes he was offering. Heavy rose silk from breast to buttock which would fit the form like a glove. Why wouldn’t such dainty garments sell? Expensive? Of course, but how could one expect to appear like a lady without one?

“They’re too tight,” says the traveler.

“Too what?”

“Too tight.” And the traveler adds with a smile: “The ladies are so squeezed in they can’t even swallow when they try to eat.”

He should not have smiled, the chief does not care for his manner; he nods to indicate that the interview has come to an end....

Outside in the store old Altmulig, the jack-of-all-trades, stands waiting. He desires a word from the chief, but he is respectful and religious and does not even expect a personal conversation with his employer; instead, he sends in one of the clerks with a question.

His modesty yields fruit; he is summoned at once into the office. Altmulig has been there but once before, the day he found service on the place.

“Well well, Altmulig, so you’d like to know what you’re to do next, eh?”

“Ay.”

“What are the workmen doing?”

“They’re carting sea-weed for the fields.”

The chief thinks a moment. “How about going over the seines and seeing that they’re in perfect order?”

“Ay ay, sir!”

“No, never mind,” says the chief. “For I don’t suppose we’ll be having any use for them for some time.”

Altmulig: “If I may speak a word, there seems to me to be constant use for them.”

“So?”

“For, by the grace of God, there are always herring in the sea.”

“We couldn’t get any people out with them, right now,” says the chief. “They’re just back from Lofoten, and they want to rest. They’re hardly even willing to chop wood for their cook stoves.”

Altmulig: “I can get them out.”

The chief looks at him: “Do you think you could go out with them yourself?”

Altmulig shakes his head and crosses himself. “The Lord has made an old man of me,” he says. “If only it had been before!”

The chief nods as a sign of conclusion. “Good, get busy with this thing, then. Collect the crews and send them out with the seines. Where do you think we ought to tell them to go?”

Altmulig: “North. I’ve faith in a place called Polden—”

Odd that the chief should have acquired such deep confidence in this old altmuligmand of his in the course of no more than a few months. They had talked together of one thing and another and the old man had shown that he knew a thing or two—he had ability and it had been profitable to take his word in a number of matters. Gordon Tidemand was apparently an executive of vision and optimism, but in truth he sometimes felt the need of expert advice. What for instance did he know about this business of his, aside from book-keeping and the marketing of luxuries! His learning consisted solely of technique, language and office routine, university courses, punctilio—he could read the labels on French pipes and spools of English thread—oh, he had his talents, without a doubt, but at bottom he had but little understanding of business and his intelligence was rather a minus quantity. He was, just what he appeared to be on the surface, a mongrel creature, a mixture of races, no strong characteristics in his nature, a little of this and that, a wizard in the classroom, perhaps, but out of touch with reality. Taken by and large, he was a quite ordinary individual, but he had a burning desire to be a gentleman, in the English sense of the word.

Such was the man, nought more. He was really in sore need of the advice old Altmulig was ready to offer him. Even his mother was something of a rod and a staff to comfort him.

“I’m sending out the seines,” he said to his mother. “I’ve put Altmulig to rounding up the crews.”

“Have you had news of herring?” she asked him.

“No. But, by the grace of God, there are always herring in the sea. If all I did was to wait for news, I’m afraid we’d all pretty much starve to death. We must do something, don’t you think?”

“Things look rather dark, do I understand?”

“How can they possibly look bright? Store business and petty trading like that. People here really aren’t buying anything, either. They’re spinning and weaving themselves. Why, they live like mice in the field—they don’t seem to belong to this human race of ours. Here we are, required to make a living off this little town of ours, this grotesque spectacle of a town, a mere port of loading, a few hundred people with no more than a copper each in their pockets. It’s a mockery. I ought never to have come back home and taken over this business.”

“Well, let’s see once,” says Gammelmoderen. “You’ve quite a bit outstanding on your books. Can’t you try to get some of this in?”

“Get it in, mother? Set Lawyer Pettersen after these people? Collection letters, court proceedings, all that sort of thing? I couldn’t do that and you know it. Why, people would say that I was on the verge.”

“You have the downery and the salmon fishery. You have one thing or another. And first and foremost, you have an entire town leasing land from you. That ought to mean no small yearly income.”

“Yes, but that’s the cursed trouble, don’t you see?” exclaims the son. “I haven’t been able to sell these lands so that something definite could be done with them. No one seems to have money enough to buy.”

His mother: “Your father was opposed to selling off any of his land. He always said that if everything else failed, the rent from his lands would supply him with a solid yearly income, enough to live on at least.”

“Trifling details!” fumed her son. “Small change!” he fumed. “The downery? I have the figures and I can show you. A couple of feather beds, a couple of quilts. The salmon fishery? Nothing.”

“We used to have big fish there once,” mumbled his mother, her mind seeming to dwell lingeringly on the past.

No, there was nothing much there. Segelfoss? What was there to the place? What lived and had its being there? Everything was dead....

“Just take the mail I receive,” explodes son Gordon—“no more than what might come for a sheriff or a school teacher. A letter is slipped into a yellow envelope and importantly addressed to me; one day it arrives and I open it—it has to do with a horse! One man haggles with another man about the price of a mere horse. And I am acquainted with neither them nor the horse. A few weeks ago I received a letter from a man who would like to come and manage the salmon net for me. Yes, that’s the kind of mail I get! You don’t find three men simply taking care of the mail here as you would in a regular place of business!”

Gammelmoderen: “Who was it that wrote you about the salmon net?”

“I don’t remember. He said he had worked here before and knew all about the place.”

“What was his name?”

“Alexander, or something like that.”

Silence.

Gammelmoderen, approaching the matter indirectly: “Well, you are going to send out the seines again. Yes, it’s to be hoped they prove lucky this time....” She rises from her chair, takes a turn over to the window and glances out. “It’s beginning to thaw in earnest, isn’t it?” she says, simply to have something to say. She is restless. Not until she is on the point of leaving does she suddenly remember the point about the man and the salmon net. “Oh yes, Gordon, you must get that man back on the place,” she says. “He was the ablest man your father ever had. My, how he used to work the salmon net! Your father used to ship salmon off to the cities, all the way to Trondhjem. Smoked salmon. Good money. What did you say the man’s name was?”

“Alexander, I believe. What difference does it make?” mumbles the son, hunting about on his desk. “Here’s the letter. His name is Otto Alexander. I didn’t even bother answering him.”

“Yes, but you should do so at once. Sit right down and drop him a line. He will bring you in profits at once, you’ll see. The salmon net certainly isn’t out now, is it? Besides, we could easily use a salmon or two for our own table.”

“Of course, if you say so,” concedes her son. “I can just as well get the fellow here.”

* * * * *

Within the week Altmulig had kept his word and organized a full crew for each of the seining boats. But neither of the two bosses seemed to rely very much upon the old man’s word and they called together to consult with the chief.

“Yes,” said Gordon Tidemand. “He told you what I wanted.”

Ay, but he had made strange signs and crosses with his fingers, like as though he was casting a spell, or such-like.

They were not to concern themselves over that.

And then he had pointed out on the chart where they were to lie, one seine here, the other there. But, might they ask in all humility, wouldn’t such a business seem like a personal affront to the Almighty? Weren’t they to move along from bay to bay and use their spy glass and scan the sea and read the signs and do their best?

The chief rang and gave orders for Altmulig to be brought into the office. “Show me the chart!” he said to the men.

It was a bit of coastal chart borrowed from the sloop. The chief studied it, pretended that he understood it perfectly, put up a grand appearance, picked up a rule and measured: “Here is Polden, this point here!”

“Yes, but—” replied the seine-bosses. “But he said that one of us should drift about in this locality, near a place called Fuglværøy. And in both places both boats should simply lie still.”

The chief measured again, nodded and said: “That’s right. Those are exactly the orders he got from me.”

Altmulig entered the room softly, laid his cap beside him on the floor over by the door and, when recognized, stepped forward and bowed.

Gad, what a courteous fellow this old man is! Gordon Tidemand must have thought. “Your men here don’t seem to understand our orders very well,” he said. “Would you be good enough to repeat them!”

No trouble at all! Altmulig repeated his explanations and stood by his guns; he mentioned Polden and Fuglværøy, mentioned exact distances, mentioned the direction of the sea currents.

I wonder why he doesn’t stand over here and put on a few airs? the chief thought slyly to himself. “Won’t you step over and look at the chart?” he asked.

Altmulig took out his nose-glasses, but found no use for them. He smiled and said: “I have the chart right here in my head.”

“Ay,” said the seine-bosses. “But that we should lie still—”

Altmulig stood by his guns: “Ay, for seven days and seven nights is what I told you. If you have not shot your seines after seven days and seven nights, move seven miles north, up toward Senjen. But you will shoot before then, I know!” Again he crossed himself, both over his forehead and over his breast.

“That’s odd!” mumbled the bosses. “And why are we to lie exactly at these places and not move and not scan all the sea?”

Altmulig delivered himself like a true prophet and seer: “For it is exactly there the herring will turn up if there are any at all in those parts. Don’t you dare to doubt me! The herring, she knows her way through the sea. Whales and other vermin can force her off her course, but that you can see when it happens and move on after the shoal.”

“Have you conjured up herring there?” asks one seine-boss in desperation.

“Ay, for if so, we’ll have nothing at all to do with this business!” chimes in the other.

Altmulig looks up at the chief and asks: “I don’t know—was there anything more—?”

“No.”

He bows, picks up his cap over by the door and leaves the room.

Gad, what discipline! Probably picked up from the skipper of some big ship, Gordon Tidemand thought to himself again. Turning to his men, he curtly remarks: “There! Now you’ve had my orders explained to you a second time!”

Even the chief must have found Altmulig a bit too mystical, but he let the matter go. Why not follow out the old fellow’s directions! The last time the seiners had been out, they had craned their necks and stared about the sea, they had rowed hither and yon and stuck their noses into all the old herring coves they knew of, but they had come home empty-handed. Now let’s see this time! No seine in existence is a pot of gold each year, but every seine has an equal chance of stumbling onto the good fortune which means immediate wealth.

CHAPTER FIVE

During the spring Gordon Tidemand began putting up a residence back up in the mountains. He called it a hunting-lodge, but it was anything but a mere cabin, it was a regular house, a summer residence—in the event that his family might like to spend a few months “in the country.” He was busy with a large corps of workers and the work was progressing rapidly. There were masons, carpenters, and painters; a veranda with a truly dizzying outlook was added and, after that, a flag pole. For the time being, these would be all.

Gordon Tidemand had set much in motion since the amazing coup scored by his seiners. Oh, here was a man with an eye for progress and activity! And now at last he had the means, for the unthinkable, the almost unbelievable had actually come to pass: the capture of a gigantic shoal of herring off Fuglværøy, the miracle which had been reported in all the papers and which had turned the entire countryside upside-down. What else save the power of fate and good fortune had it been! Nor was it for any true master of Segelfoss to shovel vast sums of money into his pockets without putting them to some good use! So he ran his steamer pier far out into deep water to accommodate the largest of ships; by the expansion of store credit he extended a helping hand to many poor folk throughout the parish. There was the type of fellow he was! He even weighed in his mind a plan which he and old Altmulig had once discussed: a dairy in town to supply the entire district round about.

Yes, to be sure, he was good for a thing or two, but his mother shook her head; and when he began building his mountain home she stood there wringing her hands. Oh that Gordon, to think of moving out to the country, away from Segelfoss Manor! Well then, why didn’t Fru Juliet step in? No, how could she do that? She was the mistress of the house, a love bird, a mother, so beautiful, so sweet—she was only a woman, and her figure was lumpy again! No, it was not her place to tie her husband’s hands. Gammelmoderen, on the other hand, did absolutely nothing to stifle her voice; she was a woman of manifold experience and was bursting with advice. The widow of Theodore paa Bua did her reasonable best to restrain her son’s taste for extravagance, though for the time being she decided against having it out with him. On the contrary, she had reason to stand in well with him, to be good friends with him. Had he not heeded her advice about taking on that man, Otto Alexander, he who was so handy at bringing in salmon for the family table and who didn’t mind smoking fish out in the smokehouse even though it was late at night?

Gammelmoderen had become younger than ever; she went fluttering along the roads like a young girl and again she took to wearing a gold medallion about her neck. Bold she was indeed; the talk about her and a certain Gypsy lad had long since died away, but of late it had sprung up anew.—“Notice how she goes about singing?”—“That’s no way to do!”—“She stays with him out in the smokehouse, she goes aboard the sloop Soria with him, they have something to drink aboard, they are worse than any young couple!”—“And to think she has no shame in her!”

And that she surely had not; Gammelmoderen simply lacked all sense of shame, she managed her personal affairs with a conscience as clear as crystal—she was a daredevil, to say the least. But to object seriously to what her son was doing was, of course, not fitting or proper.

“I see so many strange workmen with picks and shovels,” she said. “Are they working for you?”

“Yes. They’re from the south. They are road-builders. They are laying a road up to the lodge.” “What, a carriage road? Listen to me now, Gordon, wouldn’t a footpath really do just as well?”

“No,” her son curtly replied.

And his mother gave in at once: “Ay, possibly you are right about that. What good would a mountain lodge be without a road leading up to it!...”

It seems that Gordon Tidemand had happened to mention his road-building project to his right-hand man, Altmulig; he had stated that he was of a mind to hire some expert people who would first of all do a bit of surveying and then stake out the route.

Ay, Altmulig had indicated that such would not prove so difficult.

“So?” asked the chief. “Do you think you could do it yourself?”

“Such work is right in my line,” replied Altmulig.

Oh that undefeatable fellow! Nothing seemed to leave him at a loss! There were many ways of going about it. A footpath presented no great problems.

“What, a footpath? Really, I say!” sneered the chief.

“Oh, it’s a carriage road you’d be wanting?”

“Of course, for we must figure on the transportation of provisions and equipment. I imagine the family will prefer living up there during the hottest part of the summer.”

“How stupid of me!” said Altmulig. “Well, do you want the line to go up gradually in a long curve, or would you rather take it short with a steep grade?”

“You may decide that for yourself. So far as I personally am concerned, the question of grade is immaterial, but I suppose my wife might occasionally enjoy walking back and forth.”

“We may have to blast our way along part of the way; it’s pretty rough country up there. I can take a little trip up the mountain right away and have a look around, if you say so.”

The chief nodded. “And while you’re up there at the house, you might decide whether we ought to put up an iron fence at the edge of the steep. For the children’s sake, you know....”

An invaluable assistance, that Altmulig. His very manner made a strong appeal to Gordon Tidemand. “Right away,” he had said—as if he might be asked to quit his place at any time, though it was he alone the chief could thank for the fortune he had made in herring! Had he put on airs and strutted, had he jumped up and cracked his heels together the day the wire had arrived from the seiners? Not at all. When the chief had read him the telegram, he had been moved to great depths, apparently; he had crossed himself, he had swallowed a lump in his throat. And his lips had trembled and his eyes had assumed a tint of washed-out blue. But his emotion had passed immediately; he had nodded and said: “Oh, so they shot the two seines together and closed in a bay, did they? What else does it say?”

“Only that the herring are 7—8 and 9—10. But I don’t believe I know what that means.”

“That’s important,” Altmulig had said. “That means so many herring by weight. They are average and better than average fish!” And in a flash he had become levelheaded and practical, a man who knew the next steps to be taken: Buyers, buyers! Wires to every town and city! Salt! Barrels! Order the sloop Soria to clear for the north this very day—“That is, if you agree with me!” he had been careful to add.

The chief had stared at him long. No hint of fishing about for a compliment, not a single boastful word. But the miracle itself, the successful gamble, these had fascinated the old man and he had said: “What a pity I couldn’t have been there to see it!”

That had been all.

Now Gordon Tidemand was not lacking in appreciation and it had been as clear as day to him what a debt of gratitude he owed Altmulig. It had been his desire to make a great fuss over him, to give a feast, a banquet, in his honour, but Altmulig had respectfully declined. Since arriving on the place the old man had lived in a single room in the servants’ hall, but the chief had promptly invited him to occupy one of the guest rooms in the Manor itself, a room with a full-length gold mirror, a carpet on the floor, a mahogany bed graced with gilded angels, a decorative clock on the mantelpiece.... Altmulig had simply shaken his head to all this and humbly and piously said no.

All in all an odd individual, this man. See there, how he still continues to work about the place with his usual care and diligence, with never a thought to spare himself, with never a thought for his age, or even a request for a raise in pay. The chief had of course offered a raise of his own accord, but—

There was no reason for that, the man had answered.

But couldn’t he find some use for a particular sum then, say? Wouldn’t he like to start up something for himself, or possibly make a certain purchase?

“Oh yes. But with your permission, let’s say no more about that!”

The chief had then handed him a sum large enough to have set him up in one business or another, but though several weeks had already passed, the old fellow had continued his position as general handy-man, altering not one detail of his daily routine. The only difference was that some one had seen him down at the post office sending divers money orders abroad.

* * * * *

Drilling and blasting and the singing of men up the side of the mountain, an air of festivity marking the progress of the work. There are several gangs of workmen along the stretch of road under construction; some blasting away rock, others working with cement; some digging up gravel, others wheeling it away. Altmulig goes stalking up and down the entire line, a thoughtful, intelligent foreman.

One day he says: “Blast this rock. It’s been in our way long enough.”

The men did not wish to blast it. The rock weighed well over a thousand pounds, but the workmen were husky and preferred wheeling it away just as it was. “Blast a mere pebble like that?” they said. Altmulig looked at them; they showed that they had been drinking, their whiskey had gone to their heads. In the course of their struggle to lift the rock into a wheel-barrow the wheel broke and the barrow was a wreck.

“Blast that stone!” ordered Altmulig.

No, there was one thing they simply refused to do; their dander was up and they would show that rock its place, they would finish it off man to man! “What the hell!” they said. “That’s one of those stones that sit there just making themselves heavy for spite. Give in? Not on your life!”

Five men succeeded at length in hoisting the stone into a wheel-barrow and wheeling it off to a fill-in. They came staggering back with triumph beaming on their faces. One man appeared to have injured his hand.

Altmulig called to a member of another gang and said: “Go back and blast that stone!”

“Now?” cried the others. “The stone isn’t in your way now, is it?”

The stone was not drilled, it was blasted with a direct charge.

But the workmen refused to pass up the matter, they muttered over their boss’s conduct and asked him if he were crazy. He made no reply. They called him an old fool and stepped up to him. Altmulig backed up against the wall of the cliff in order to protect himself from the rear, two of the worst trouble-makers in close pursuit. They desired to have him speak up and explain himself, he was simply not to stand there with an important look on his face and refuse to account to them, they offered to throw him over the tall rampart, they shook their fists in his face....

Suddenly Altmulig pulls a revolver from his hip-pocket and discharges it in the air. The two started back at the unexpected sound of the shot. “Are you shooting?” they yelled. But the look on the old man’s face must have given them some cause for alarm—he was as pale as death and he was grinding his false teeth in rage.—“What’s the sense of taking it that way?” they said and immediately tamed down. “We didn’t mean any harm by it.”

“Quit standing there chewing the rag!” cried their comrades to get them away.

During the noon knock-off and after they had worked off the effects of their intoxication, Altmulig stepped up and spoke to them: “You fellows are hired to work and obey orders. There isn’t one of you here who can take the responsibility of going against orders, for you aren’t that kind of people. Here you’ve gone to work and wrecked a wheel-barrow and injured a man, and what good did that do you? A wheel-barrow is not built to carry half a ton and a man with crushed fingers can’t work.”

Silence.

“Ay, but to blast a stone afterwards—!” they said.

“That’s the way we show discipline at sea.”

The men continued to mutter: “Well, we aren’t at sea here. And when you shot that revolver—don’t you know you might have hit one of us?”

“That would have been the least of my tricks—if I wanted to!” said Altmulig.

And looking at him they could see that he meant what he said.

But it was not long before peace again prevailed along the entire line.

Other things happened, as well. A bull came bellowing up the stretch of finished road, one of the manorial cattle, a powerful brute. It behaved itself like a fool, stood pawing up the road, dug its horns into the piles of gravel at the side and awoke the dead with its frightful bellowings.

“Go chase away that mosquito, will you!” some one said to a short, wiry, broad-shouldered little fellow from Trondhjem, a man whose name was Francis.

“Ho, so I suppose you think I’m afraid!” said Francis, starting off with a spade in his hand.

Altmulig was at the moment coming up the line and immediately cried: “Stop! What the devil are you thinking of!”

The bull let out a bellow to indicate how deeply he detested this Francis person, but neither bull nor man would retreat. “Stop!” screeched Altmulig again, but the Trønder refused to heed his warning; instead he picked up a stone and threw it. It reached its mark, but it produced no more of an impression on the animal than a mere drop of water. Suddenly the bull takes it into his head to charge. His tail outstretched, earth and pebbles flying out behind, he comes at his adversary and in a trice Francis is sailing through the air, past his comrades, over the parapet, down the mountain slope.

Finished!

The bull pauses for a moment in amazement. The end of the combat already? Then, for lack of something better to do, he gores the road with his horns, throws back his head and bellows.

Altmulig is ready with his orders: “Fetch some chains!” he commands.

Higher up along the line there were some chains used for anchoring the fascines when blasting was going on near the house. Several of the men began running up after them, apparently glad to be able to retreat from the danger zone. The remainder of the gang crouched as best they could behind rocks and portions of jutting cliff.

When the chains arrived they were fastened together with steel wire and carried in a circle about the animal. The entire gang took part in the operation. One of the men thought it best to stretch the chain across the narrow road and thus bar the way. “That won’t work, a bull can jump pretty high. We’ve got to catch him!” said Altmulig. Gradually the circle closed in; these many people yelling at each other at the top of their lungs seemed to confuse the bull—he snorted, but stood still. When he at last decided to launch a further attack, he found the chain encircling one of his forelegs and he was forced to resign from the field. Two men led him peacefully down the road to the Manor.

At this point the Trønder made his reappearance; that wiry little Francis came crawling back up the slope and asked for a hand to help him over the parapet. “Can’t you jump it?” some one asked in fun. “No, for I’m all cut up,” he replied. Ho, that devil of a fellow, he was anything but unscathed! There was a bloody gash in his head and he had a most unhealthy look about him. But he had come through with his life, though he himself could not understand how he had managed it. He was a tough little chap and kept referring to the affair in a humorous vein. “I’m all gravel inside and out!” he said. “Look here, I’m spitting gravel. How about some water, lads!”

“That’s a mean hole in your head,” they said. “You must have scrubbed up the entire landscape, the way it looks.”

“Ay, but let’s talk of that later. Give me some water now!”

He drew in a deep breath and was on the point of fainting. No, he had not come out of his bull-fighting venture unscathed. Later, Doctor Lund examined him and discovered that lie had two broken ribs and had a serious wound in his head.

* * * * *

The people of Segelfoss Manor came up to watch the road-builders at work. There were not only Gordon Tidemand and his wife Juliet, but Frøken Marna as well, she who had been visiting her sister married to Romeo Knoff further south. She was as blond as her mother, Gammelmoderen, and somewhat older than Gordon—she was well on in her twenties now, a handsome lady, quiet in her speech, a bit too quiet, somewhat sluggish, in fact.

And the people from town came up, too: Druggist Holm, the chief telegraphist and his wife, Postmaster Hagen and his wife. These visits of the ladies always acted as a tonic upon the workmen; the blasters would go about drilling for their charges with much whistling and vocal refrain, and the masons seemed unable to work their tiniest trowels without shouting as loud as they could. Frøken Marna did much to stimulate them; ay, to the last man they all seemed hopelessly in love with her.

“You were singing so lustily I really had to come up and see what you were doing,” she might coyly remark.

One day it is Adolf who replies to her: “Would you like to take a few cracks on this drill?”

“I could never hit it with the hammer, I’m sure!” she says with a shake of her head.

“Come on, have a try!”

“Oh no, you must be mad! I know I should hurt your hand.”

But the fellow is head over heels in love with her by this time and he begins at once to talk foolishness: “It would make my hand feel so good, if only you might manage to crush it!”

She stood there smiling at this, but with downcast eyes which gave her a sly, thoughtful look.

The workers undertook to wonder amongst themselves why Frøken Marna had never married and they asked each other what the matter with her could be. “You’ll see,” they said. “She’s the kind who can never find anyone good enough for her. Isn’t that right?” The Trønder Francis is somewhat more crude in his view of the matter; he is strolling about with a bandage about his head and, because he is enjoying workman’s compensation, he affects an air of great luxury. “Unless,” he suggests prettily, “she can’t work up any sensation for a man?”

Adolf, blindly infatuated, stands up for her and strikes a blow in her defence. “There isn’t anything the matter with her, that much I can say for myself. But you always were a filthy-minded swine, Francis—you can’t even look at a skirt without saying something offensive!”

And then one day came Davidsen, editor and publisher of the Segelfoss News, of a mind to write a bit of a story about the new road. As Altmulig was nowhere in sight, he turned to the workmen themselves, took out paper and pencil and began asking important questions. Now it so happened that Editor-Publisher Davidsen was an unpopular character with the men. They did not read his paper, had themselves a nose for news, and had soon learned what the people in town thought of him. He was in truth an able man and a toiler; he had one of his children, a small daughter, to help him in the office, and together they would set up the little sheet each week and it was thus they made their slender living. But no one respected him for all that, perhaps because he was always something of a spectacle in the shabby clothes he was compelled to wear. And inasmuch as fundamentally he was no more than a type-setter and printer, he could by no stretch of the imagination be considered as a person of quality. But he held sound, progressive ideas and no end of social vision, facts which were most apparent when, in meetings of the local commune, he was always able to triumph over the school teachers who knew nothing, thought nothing, were content to be merely radical.

Poor Davidsen, a tall, thin man in ragged clothes, the father of five children, the owner of two cases of type and a hand-press, a pauper thus, a louse.

The workers declined to answer his questions seriously and when he realized that they were only poking fun at him, he made the grave error of becoming annoyed and stooping to argue with them. He got nowhere in this regard, for theirs was the voice of the rabble, arrogant, illogical, deprecating—they winked at each other like baboons and laughed the man down. Francis was unable to work, but he was still able to exert himself in deviltry, and he hit upon a most amusing notion: he stealthily picked up a light charge of blasting powder and exploded it behind the editor’s back. Splendid, splendid! The workers all howled with merriment and the editor found himself squatting some distance away.

“You shouldn’t have done that!” he said.

Francis, roaring with glee: “We’re blasting up here on the mountain!”

“But not without warning, are you?”

Silence.

Davidsen then committed a further error in judgment: he addressed the gang with a bit of a lecture. “You are all too easily pleased with yourselves,” he began. “Was that anything to laugh at? This man here is merely crude, can’t you see that? I pity poor wretches like you who can laugh and have a good time over such an incident as this! It is in this particular at least that you excel us others: crudeness, and the ability to exercise it without self-disgust. In all our struggles that is the only weapon you have at your command. You are too easily satisfied! What you really need is a sense of decency, my good lads! What you need is the will to rise above your essential crudity of nature, but this you lack entirely. Even the negro is gifted with this power of buoyancy and has the desire to compete for the decent honours of this world. But you, my good friends, all you have is the negro’s flippant tongue, his voracity—”

They interrupt him: “We haven’t got his black skin, either.”

“Our workers should be a proud class, and pride means honest simp—”

“Give him another dose of that powder, Francis!”

“Farewell, my lads, think over what I have said!” Herr Davidsen bowed and left them.

“Did you ever see such an idiot!” said the workers. “Think over what I said! Come on, lads, let’s sit right down and think over what that fool said! Hahaha—”

And in turn came Lawyer Pettersen aloft to inspect the road. “There’s that fellow they call ‘Buttonhead’!” cried the workers, who already knew all about him. But here was a man they respected; they knew that he was hard about forcing collections, that he never hesitated to throw some poor wretch into bankruptcy and that he cashed in big profits from dealing in the life blood of others. Oh, of course, he enjoyed their respect, for now he was at the head of the Segelfoss Savings Bank—by Gad, he was a bank president!

And in turn came Doctor Lund and his wife....

CHAPTER SIX

District-Doctor Lund was acquainted with a number of the working men; he had cared for several of them and each and all now touched their caps in civil greeting. A subduing wind seemed to sweep over the entire gang when their eyes fell upon the doctor’s lady; they removed their hats to the last man and those furthest away leaned toward one another and whispered: “Say, just get a good look at her!” Fru Lund herself stood staring after Altmulig who was busy over at the tool-chest.

“Do you notice whom that man looks like?” she asked.

“Who—he? But that must be the foreman,” the doctor replied.

“He looks so like—he looks like—”

“Yes, my dear, but what earthly difference does it make!”

The doctor turned to converse with the workmen; he spoke with his patient, the man from Trondhjem. “Where was it you were pitched over the wall?” he asked. He was shown the spot and he shook his head: “It might have gone far more seriously with you than it did,” he remarked.

Fru Lund makes her way over to the tool-chest where Altmulig is busy with something. She looks at him for a time, then says softly:

“Good-day, August!”

Altmulig glances up, peers carefully about him and makes no reply.

“Isn’t your name August?”

“What my name is—they call me Altmulig here.”

“I recognized you,” says Fru Lund. Altmulig begins pawing about in the tool-chest.

Fru Lund: “Don’t you want me to recognize you?”

“Leave things alone! I’m not the kind of man you should know.”

“Hahaha,” she laughs. “My name is Esther—don’t you remember me from Polden?”

Altmulig, uneasily: “Don’t let the doctor—I mean don’t let everybody—but anyway don’t let the doctor hear what you say!”

“Karsten, come here! Here’s an old friend of ours!”

The doctor was no less interested than she. He too recognized August, shook his hand warmly and laughed because the fellow had wished to shield his identity. They spoke for a long time together and August remarked that it was not pleasant to be reminded of his days in Polden—he had not been all he ought to have been, whilst there.

“How so, how so?” asked the doctor. “You acted in all justice and decency toward everyone up there.”

“That’s one thing I certainly did not!”

“Oh yes, that is to say, Paulina—wasn’t her name Paulina?”

“It was,” said his wife.

“Yes, she cleared up everything for you. Moreover, with your own money. You don’t owe a soul any money. Didn’t you know that?”

“No. I don’t know anything about it. My own money, did you say?”

“So you never knew about that! And there was loads of it left over, too, I have heard.”

August, kindling: “So they got the factory going at last, perhaps?”

“Why, where have you been all this time?” asked the doctor. “The factory? That I really do not know. Was it a factory, Esther?”

“Yes. You had stock in it yourself, but you got your money back. Don’t you remember?”

“They sold it then, perhaps?” asked August. “But that was stupid. If I had been there, they would never have done that. It was a good factory as I remember. Steel beams inside and an iron roof.”

“Yes, and you won a goodly sum of money,” said the doctor. “In a lottery or whatever it was. Esther, you know more about it than I do, don’t you?”

“Yes, a large sum of money. Paulina took care of it for you.”

“Hm,” said August.

The doctor glanced at his watch. “We must be going. I have office hours beginning at four. Come over and see us, August, and we’ll tell you all we know. I remember how we used to have a chat or two back in the old days. It’s splendid to see you again. Why, great Scott, to think you never knew anything about it! Was it as frightfully long ago as all that? How long ago can it have been, Esther? Well well, no matter. Have you been down in South America again, August? Drop over and see us real soon; we have two boys, and they’ll certainly be interested to hear you.”

Both the doctor and his wife gave August their hands and departed.

The workmen had been burning with curiosity and they now undertook to ask their boss a question or two. And the boss himself—no, how could he deny it, they were old acquaintances of his, friends of his younger days when he had been something of a man! The old codger had been lifted back into the sun, he had got his name back, he was August, a human being again, he could look in the mirror and recognize his face once more. How long ago it all seemed! It really might have been only a dream. Oh yes, they had been very dear friends of his, his best friends, in fact....

“The Fru as well?” they asked.

“The Fru? That Esther, you mean? She’s sat on my lap more than once. Why, I’m her godfather.”

“She’s as pretty as a picture!”

“It was me more than anyone else who was responsible for getting her married to the doctor.”

“How’s that, didn’t he want her?”

“Oh yes, I suppose he did. But just the same, I had to step in and fix things for them.”

Francis: “Then I suppose it was that he got next to her too soon, eh?”

Adolf: “God, Francis, but you are a swine! She wasn’t that kind!”

“No,” corroborated August. “In that direction, she was like the finest lady in silk and gold.”

“How funny it can go,” the men said. “Here you run into them again!”

“Such you may say and be right! Naturally I’ve known right along that they were here, but I didn’t want to give myself away to them.”

“Why not, Boss?”

“It just wasn’t right. I was not up to their level.”

“Oh, you’re all right!” they said to encourage him.

August waved the suggestion aside. “Now?” he flared. “No, now I’m nothing at all. But it was another matter in my younger days. An enormous factory—hundreds of men working for me.”

“No, is that right?”

“I say no more,” mumbled August and resumed his pawing about in the tool-chest.

* * * * *

The meeting with the doctor and his wife had brought August back to himself and given him something to occupy his mind. He had money left over, they had said; all his debts in Polden had been paid up and there was money left over. Wonder where it is, he mused. To be sure he had not exactly been on his knees before; Segelfoss had been a cosy haven after his many wanderings—board and lodging from the very beginning and now at last a goodly sum of money given him by the chief. But what did such things amount to for a man of August’s South American background! After sending the last postal money order abroad—oh, there had been so many of these and no country had been forgotten—he had had little enough money left. Some of it had also gone for a bit of red and green dress material for that Valborg from Øira for the reason that her husband, Jørn Mathildesen had lain abjectly on the ground at his feet and begged for it. A bit more had gone to buy a horse for Tobias who had had a fire. One thing after another, and the money had leaked through his fingers; some of it he had lost at cards. At cards? Ay, cards had taken their toll. And is that to be wondered at? Was there anyone who could reasonably expect that August would be unfamiliar with and deeply opposed to gaming and speculation? Wager and win, risk it and lose it, throw in another stake, keep the pot boiling, play....

He had fallen so innocently into the game. The gardener Steffen and a few of the small dealers from town had formed the habit of dropping into his room of an evening, and what better form of amusement could they have hit upon? This old handy-man on the place had traveled far and wide and, good Heavens, what those eyes of his had not seen in the way of people and birds and business and champions and kinds of trees and mountain ranges! Wild, wild, no sense of order or proportion to his recollections! And the Gypsy, Otto Alexander had also been a frequent visitor—he would call on the evenings when he was able to get out of smoking salmon with Gammelmoderen.

One evening when they are all sitting there together the Gypsy lets those keen eyes of his range about the room. At length they fall upon a ponderous tome and beside it on the shelf a miniature volume.

Thus it all began.

“What kind of a book is that, Altmulig?” he asks, regarding the larger.

“A Russian Bible,” replies August.

“Let us see it!” they all said.

August adjusts his pince-nez and exhibits the Bible to his guests, directs their particular attention to the full leather binding and the brass corners. “I don’t want that you shall handle it with any old hands,” he says and begins turning the pages reverently. Occasionally he pauses to cross himself and occasionally he turns the book to impress the others with the remarkable characters in which it is printed.

“Can you read that thing?” they ask.

August smiles benignly and indicates that it would be the very least of his tricks to read the book from cover to cover.

“But why a Russian Bible?”

“There’s more power in it,” said August.

“How more power? How do you mean?”

“It’s to lay your hand on when you take an oath. Our Bibles are no good for that. And you can bind and absolve with this one.”

They talked a bit about that. August was full of secrets regarding the power of his Bible to “bind and absolve,” but he had with his own eyes seen how great this power was.

“Will you sell it?” asks one of the small dealers. Oh that picayune soul, he was thinking of reselling the holy book at a profit! Heavens, what an unscrupulous fellow!

August wound up the conversation with high ceremony: here now he had this Russian Bible, and never so long as he lived would he let it out of his possession.

The Gypsy again ransacks the room with that piercing gaze of his. “And that little book there, what kind of a thing is that? Well, I’ll be—I mean—”

“That’s a prayer book,” August answers.

“It’s a deck of cards!” corrects the Gypsy, reaching up on the shelf.

There lay the deck in full sight and handy for use, so there was nothing odd in the fact that the Gypsy had discovered it and picked it up in his hand.

“Quit handling everything you can lay your hands on in here!” said August.

“A deck of cards!” the Gypsy repeated.

August: “Impossible! I don’t own any stuff like that. Is it witchcraft? I had a prayer book up there on the shelf, and now it’s gone, and a deck of cards lies there in its place!”

“Hahaha!” they all laughed. “Let’s try out the cards,” they said. “Come on, Altmulig, deal them out!”

August crossed himself: “I won’t dirty my hands with them!”

So they began playing without him whilst he stood looking on. They took out their small change and played for this, they won and lost, August looking on; they waxed eager, they swore loudly and became excited, one of the party threw down a whole krone....

“I can just as well take a hand or two,” said August.

His money seemed to have wings; one krone after another found its way into someone else’s pocket. At first he sat there as unwillingly as he could make it seem, the expression on his face one of the utmost piety. He was forever hesitant to handle such a filthy thing as money and often he would leave his winnings in the pot for the next deal—double!—it was as though these fellows had dragged him by the hair into this miserable game for kroner and øre in which he was not the least bit interested. But the others were full of excitement, slapped their cards down on the table and their profanity had by this time exceeded all reasonable bounds. August stuck in some money, hesitantly.

“You lose,” they said.

“Do you think that is losing?” he replied. “Ho, that’s giving away money. Let the gift go!”

In one respect he was most austere: they were not to sit there chattering and holding up the game. He did not look, as he sat there, like one who would blow out his brains as soon as his money ran out—no, no, it was the game, the game itself which fascinated him. He nodded his head with vehement pleasure whenever the game was fast and close and he had begun to reach out his hands after the cards even before they were passed out by the dealer.

“There you lose again,” they said.

“A gift! Let it go, let it go!”

“Hadn’t you better cross yourself?” they asked, teasingly. “And what good to you is that Russian Bible of yours now?” they asked.

Oh those fools, those ninnies, they thought he minded the few coins he was losing, that he was worried and that he would go and jump over the falls the moment he should be broke. They doubled themselves up with laughter and joy each time they won a krone from him and could slip it into their vest pockets. Then August laid his hands on the cards without looking at them, placed two old hands over the deck and prayed unobserved. Ay, unobserved.

His luck changed and he won a few hands. This made him reckless and his old eyes blazed feverishly in his head. Call or double! he prayed again unseen.

They looked at each other, shook their heads and threw down their cards.

“Call or double!” he challenged the Gypsy.

The Gypsy accepted the challenge and picked up his cards again, picked up one card too many and like lightning threw down another.

“That’s cheating!” the others cried. “Give that one back!”

August, alone whom the act concerned, said nothing. The Gypsy’s swarthy face was unusually pale and his mouth had begun to tremble.

When it was seen that August had lost, the others again cried out: “Ay, but Otto here cheated! You fellows should have thrown in your hands and let us in on a new deal. You picked up a jack and threw down a seven-spot,” they said to the Gypsy.

“I would have won without that jack,” said the Gypsy.

They disputed the point for a time, August paid up without opening his mouth, but that was the end of the game.

One of the merchants tried to sneak off with the deck when he left, but August halted him. “Come on with that deck of cards!” he said.

“But you said it wasn’t yours, didn’t you?”

“Come on with that deck of cards!” August repeated....

Small happenings, trivial disagreements, but they continued to play of an evening. Others dropped in for a game; one evening Jørn Mathildesen dropped in. He never had a penny to his name but August gave him a krone to keep watch outside the door and to tap on the window were any of the road gang to be seen approaching. Instinct and experience had taught August never to play cards with those working for him.

He lost and won and lost again. Now and then it would go hard with him and he would be forced to lay out a whole banknote, but he would never allow it to be understood that such had fazed him. On the contrary, he preferred to create the impression that these evening games were for him but a pleasant diversion. Of late he had begun to give serious consideration to a couple of the postal money orders he had sent abroad. Heavens, but they had cost him a pretty penny, it seemed, now that he had but a slender remnant of that tidy sum he had received. But a remnant it was, for all that—and what could he do with a remnant? What better way of using it than simply to gamble it away!

* * * * *

One evening after supper, he took a stroll over to the doctor’s place where he was warmly received, and regally entertained. Doctor Lund had already spoken to the magistrate regarding the sum of money August had up in Polden. It had possibly been deposited to his account in a bank up in Bodø or Trondhjem. It had already been sent for—

“You’re a lucky man to have money drop into your hands from out of the sky in days like these.”

“How much do you suppose there is?”

The doctor didn’t know and all his wife had heard talk of back home in her native village was that it had been a large sum.

August fell to chatting with Fru Lund about Poldeners, living and dead. Now and then she had received a letter full of news from her mother.

He inquired after Edevart.

“Edevart?”

“Edevart Andreasen. You know him.”

Oh, but he had been dead these past twenty years—didn’t August know anything about anyone? Edevart had gone sailing north to overtake August when the latter had fled from Polden. Alone in an open boat in the teeth of a gale from the south-west. He was lost. He had even borrowed the mail-boat. Well, that had been fifteen years ago, at least.

August is silent and thoughtful for a long time, then he speaks as though talking to himself: “Ay, it was the devil and all that he had to die.”

The doctor’s two sons came into the room; perhaps they had been told things in advance, for they sat right down and began listening. But as nothing was said of South America and robber bands they stayed but a short time.

“And Paulina, she’s still alive and doing business in that little store of hers,” Fru Lund went on. “And Ane Maria is still alive, but old Karolus is dead. And Ezra is a wealthy farmer with land galore. And Seine-owner Gabrielsen—”

August: “I am mindful to ask if those little spruce trees of mine are still living and growing?”

“I really don’t know,” said Fru Lund. However, she appeared touched, so possibly she knew very well what had happened to those Christmas trees of August’s.

And the factory down by the fjord and the fine houses he had built there in Polden and the fish rocks he had ordered cleared of turf that they might be used as a drying grounds—

The two boys again entered the room and sat down to listen. No change, only more tedious talk about Polden.

The doctor asked: “About yourself, August, have you been down to South America lately?”

“No.”

“Well, where were you last?”

“Last? Ay, it was Latvia, I believe. It isn’t so easy for me to remember all the countries I’ve visited. I’ve been in so many cities, hundreds of different climates—”

Ah, now he’s off! the boys must have thought to themselves.

“Yes, you’ve been through a lot in your day,” said the Doctor. “How were things in Latvia?”

“Latvia, Esthonia, Lithuania—all those Baltic states—in fact, the Baltic Sea itself—”

“Eh?”

August repeated his ancient hatred for the Baltic Sea: “It’s more treacherous than a Bengal tiger and it’s not fit to sail on. Just a filthy cesspool! And it’s drying up, too, did you know?”

The two lads laughed aloud and were now certain that August was off on one of his yarns. But nothing more came of their hopes. No, neither the doctor nor his wife were able to pry a yarn or even a full-fledged lie out of August any more. He was no longer August of Polden; he was an old man now, and religious into the bargain.

Fru Lund: “What is it they call you here at Segelfoss? I heard the name some time ago, but I never realized that it could be you. Aren’t you going to call yourself August any more?”

“Ay, August is, of course, my Christian name. But Altmulig is my every-day title here. It was me myself who told the chief to set me down as an altmuligmand.”

“That chief of yours is quite a man, isn’t he?”

“The chief?” August cried. “Say, there isn’t a more remarkable fellow to be found in this world. I’ve been inside his private office and he can look through three thick ledgers at once and keep right on talking to me. I’ve seen it with my own eyes!”

The doctor: “That road up the mountain is going to cost him a pretty penny, isn’t it?”

“Ay, it’s a real road we are building.”

“When will it be completed?”

“That’s for the Lord to decide. We’re working on it as hard as we can. The chief has placed this trust in me and given me a big gang of workmen to put it through.”

Sound entertainment was now out of the question and the small boys left the room for good.

The doctor: “What was I going to say, August? I saw you on the street one day talking with the daughter of old Tobias. Do you know her?”

August did not answer immediately; he blushed and appeared somewhat bashful. “How’s that?—Do I know her? No. Hm, so you saw us, eh?”

“There’s a family that’s always in trouble.”

August: “I understood as much from her. She was complaining to me.”

“One misfortune after another in their lives. Now they’ve lost their horse. Their house burned down and that looked bad enough, but now it seems as though they will have to whistle for the insurance money.”

August shook his head.

“Nothing seems to succeed for them. They had a grown-up son. He never came home from Lofoten. They have a half-grown youngster left and the rest are all girls.”

August offered no comment. Yes, he had become a tiresome old man.

“Well well,” said the doctor. “When your money arrives, we’ll look you up under the name of Altmulig. Never fear, we’ll look you up.”

* * * * *

After the departure of the doctor, Fru Lund gave free play to her tongue. That gorgeous creature! Why, it almost seemed as though something were troubling her mind and that she was desirous of unburdening her soul to someone who would understand. The strain seemed to increase and her mouth began to tremble. August could not control his amazement. That Esther who had always seemed so clever and sensible, who had married herself a doctor, whom God had elevated to the status of “Fru”—see there, she had taken to tears!

It appeared that the cause of her outburst had been August, who in her mind was a symbol for Polden. “I am mindful to know,” he had said. That had sounded so sweet to her ears, for such was the speech of her native village. And did he remember the song about the girl who had jumped in the sea? Oh, but he should remember, for there were others, too, who might like to do the same.... “It’s so nice to hear you using the words of our village, August, for I’ve not heard them for many a year. But you’ve forgotten everything, haven’t you? Don’t you remember Polden, August? That father and mother of mine, they’re still alive. You remember them, don’t you? My mother, she was that Ragna, you know—that Ragna! And Johanna, that sister of mine who went south with the pastor and his family? She’s married now to a baker and they have a large bakery with many men. And that Roderik, my brother, the mail carrier? You had him to work for you when you were building that factory of yours, and you lent him the money to build him a house and all that. But you never mention any of them. But you can talk dialect, like I can, and I was so touched when those words came into your mouth. I had almost forgotten those spruce plants of yours, but then you said: ‘I’m mindful to ask if those little spruce trees of mine are still living and growing.’ That’s just the way you said it, and Herregud! I could hardly keep back the tears. They were planted along the south side of the house and the whole house is so tiny, and mother she sits there on the doorstep, and at home there is only one window with such wee tiny panes, but everything so neat and clean. She wanted to give me that cape which Roderik had bought for just herself alone—” The doctor’s wife sobbed aloud.

August sat there, scared out of his wits and gazing about uneasily.

“No, he has gone,” Fru Esther says. “He has left me to myself. He was kind and left me to myself....”

She continued to speak about Polden, mentioned the pretty little footpath leading down to the boathouses, mentioned the brook where the women used to wash their clothes—it was so pretty with its flat projecting stones on which one could go hopping along.... There sat the doctor’s lady, but now she was that Esther once more, a romping youngster, hungry, barefoot and in rags, but happier than she had ever been since those days. Oh, didn’t he remember the song they all had used to sing? Ay, the girl, she had jumped in the sea! Surely he could believe her, for she knew every word of the song by heart.

The good lady was anything but fortunate in the matter of her audience. Were it homesickness which was burdening her soul and were it a word of comfort she was yearning for, she could not possibly have found a less sympathetic creature than August, who had never had a home in this world and who did not even have common sense enough to realize this lack of his life. He, a mere vagabond, a sterile knockabout, who had dragged his roots behind him from land to land, and who had never known a different mode of living! Never a father and mother, never a table at which he could sit as one of the family, never a grave to care for, never a hymn for his homeland booming with God’s voice within his breast. Only a machine, constructed as an instrument of progress, of industry, of business, of mechanics, of money. A life, but not a soul. The happiest days of his youth had been squandered upon the sea to which he had long belonged. But Fru Lund was not a sailor and lacked all power to interest him.

She might have told herself that, in her present dilemma, this fellow had nothing to offer her, but she was easily contented and she continued to pour forth her soul to him. The mere fact that he had once been in Polden, had lived in a house in Polden, was enough for her; she leaned toward him because he was a friend from the dear days of her youth. “I am mindful to ask—” in those words lay the every-day speech of Polden, the very throb of Polden’s heart.

She was not unaware of the fact that he was unable to see through to her plight, that he merely pitied her objectively, but she kept right on, none the less. “I’ve not been home once since I came here,” she told him.

This amazed him far less than the other things she had mentioned but, even so, he managed to blurt out: “And only a couple of days’ journey north from here! That’s funny!”

“Ay, that’s the way it is with me here. Never been home! But what brought you here to Segelfoss?”

“Who, me?”

“As for me, I came here because my husband brought me here,” she went on. “But I hate it here, everything about the place. Here there are too many grand people for me. I can’t play the piano or do anything else. And if it weren’t for the boys, I should certainly find myself running away.”

“You don’t mean that, do you?”

“Home to Polden, and stay there.”

“For good?” he cried. “No, you want to get away! And to Polden?”

“I’m so sad here in Segelfoss. You can’t understand it, but I’m just like a crow cast in with a flock of grand peacocks.”

“No, no, no! So you’d like to get away! And you, the prettiest of them all. Well I never—”

“That isn’t it,” she said. “No, you’ll never understand. It isn’t a question of being a tiny bit pretty in the face—although I know now that that’s the only reason he took me. No, it isn’t that. And now I can’t sleep nights again, and I can’t get hold of any drops.”

“Can’t you get all the drops you like?”

“No. He refuses me.”

“I can get drops for you,” says August. “I’m well known down at the drugstore.”

The lady shakes her head: “I don’t dare take them any more. Once I did, but he found out about it. It isn’t that he is cross when I ask him; he just says no, they’re not good for me. You see, August, that’s the way it goes when a man marries beneath him and I should never have allowed him to do it. That’s the reason why he moved down here to Segelfoss—he didn’t want my mother and father to visit us in our home, and there isn’t much more I can say about that. But that’s what I mean when I tell you I’m a crow in with a flock of peacocks. That’s why he scolds me and nags at me and worries himself sick. We get books from a book-club we belong to. But I’m no person for books and such-like. Oh, but my mother was a great one to read—she knew everything in books both inside and outside of school. But he comes to me with this or that book I’m to read. Ay, and I read it and I understand most of what’s written in it, but when he asks me questions about it, I always find out that it was only the worst and the most unimportant parts I have carried away in my mind—not the real bone and marrow. And that’s the way it goes in everything. Once he sat up in bed and before I knew what he was saying he ordered me to turn away from him. I leaned over to look him in the face.—‘Turn over, do you hear!’ he stormed.—‘Why must I?’ I asked.—‘Well, if you must know, it’s your breath!’ he said and jumped right out of bed. But my teeth are good and I scrubbed my mouth, August, so it must have been simply his nasty temper which made him jump out of bed that way. And many times when he’s been out playing cards of an evening, it’s his own breath which smells something frightful, but I have never said anything to him about it, for he’s always so proud of himself. Another time he said to me: ‘Once a certain member of my family might have become a minister of state.’—‘Hm,’ I said, a tiny little bit angry. ‘It wasn’t perhaps you, was it?’—‘Not I, unfortunately,’ he said, ‘for you see that’s all over now that I’ve married you.’—‘So you see it’s best for me to go back where I came from,’ I said. ‘For thus maybe I can find some comfort and peace of mind for myself as well,’ I said. ‘And as for that, I was far better off in the days when I used to stand in the kitchen cooking your food for you, before I was married to you or anything else!’ I threw this answer right in his teeth and I was bad friends with him for a whole day. But you know how it is, we both wanted to have things pleasant between us and that night in bed he said to me as usual: ‘How about it, Esther? You and me, you know!’”

“Well,” said August, “if that isn’t always the way it goes! If anyone had asked me, I’d have said there goes a perfect couple.”

But the lady shook her head and said plaintively: “No, we’re not. If it wasn’t for the boys, I don’t know what—”

August: “Two mighty fine lads! I don’t know when I’ve seen two such stout little youngsters.”

“Yes, and they must never know that their mother and father are bad friends. My husband says as much, too. And he is afraid that gossip might get about in town. But such can’t always be avoided, you know. Our maid overhears an occasional word and her mind fills in the rest. Of course, she can’t keep her mouth closed and thus it is bound to get out. I’m sure it has already. I know from a number of things.... There, he is coming back! I hear him—” The lady pauses a moment to listen. Then she hastens to utter these last few words: “You mustn’t tell a soul what I have told you, August! And what I’ve told has not been in criticism of him, but simply to show you that I belong back in Polden, back home in the village where I was born. I’ll never be a human being here. That’s why you made me cry when you were talking—haha—curious, wasn’t it? And no one else has ever got me to cry! Sheer nonsense on my part, of course—”

* * * * *

Thoughtfully, August strolled home to his room. He discussed the evening with himself, checked over and audited the events of the evening in his own mind. Oh, he was more than the mere dust of old age! Dear Esther, dear lady, the high and the low, the humble and the proud, each has his problem to face. And you have yours. No one can escape, we are all defending ourselves against something. But to sit an entire evening talking about Polden, bawling over Polden—what the devil is Polden to us? Of course, of course! He had played on the accordion on more than one occasion and sung the words, as well. But the girl never jumped in the sea! That was all nonsense! No one jumped in the sea. She merely sat there and wrote a verse in which she thought she had jumped in the sea. God bless you, Esthermor, my little Esther, all she did was sit there on the beach and write a verse about jumping in the sea. After that she had marched straight home again. Ay, and as for you, my dear doctor, my splendid friend, who wanted me to sit there and tell those boys of yours stories about South America and Latvia, I simply couldn’t allow myself to get back into the habit of exaggerating....

No, August was far from the dust of old age; had he been merely that, he could not have checked over and audited the events of the evening. And was he acquainted with one of Tobias’ daughters? Yes! Briefly, yes he was! But that was the affair of no one save himself. He had met her on the street, she had looked at him so humbly, she was very poor, and she had such pleading eyes. Why had she looked at him that way and why had he stopped to speak with her? She must have heard that Valborg of Øira had received a wonderful new dress from him, and it did not exactly go against August’s grain to be recognized as a wealthy man one had heard about. A horse, you say? Ay, we’ll find a way out of your difficulty!

Yes, as a matter of fact he had stood there on the street with a flood of sweet sympathy welling up within him, God forgive him his sin, if it was a sin! He had asked her where she lived and she had told him: the district folk called South Parish. “What name do they call you by?” he had asked. And she had told him: Cornelia. He had taken down her name, puffed out his chest and written it down with a pencil. August had known how it would be; back home, breathless, she would tell her people: “He took a book out of his pocket and wrote my name in it!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Later on in the summer it came about that Tobias got his insurance money after all. All who could had helped him. Tobias’ wife had testified that he had positively not gasped in his sleep, that in fact he had screamed, uttered a little cry in his sleep, and this had turned the tide. Cleared of all personal blame for the fire, he already had neighbours and regular carpenters at work putting up a new house for him. Nor was the new building to be more in the way of a home than the old—there would be parlour, kitchen and two bedrooms just as there had been before and these were enough, these would serve all purposes. Few cottages, in fact, could boast of two bedrooms.

One of the bedrooms would be for the old people, the other for Cornelia and the children; thus it had been before, and thus it would be again. But if travelers and strangers were to stop in for a night’s lodging, Cornelia and the children could easily give up their room and find corners of the parlour in which to rest their weary bones; thus it had been before, and thus it would be again. It might be wandering pedlars who would seek refuge over night, or it might be some preacher or evangelist, now and then a tourist, perhaps, or only some weary vagabond lacking means to stay at the hotel—to such could Tobias offer the shelter of his roof.

The first stranger to occupy the new bedroom was a traveling Anabaptist. He was a handsome, middle-aged man with the eyes of a fanatic and a Jesus-like beard. He was selling or giving away religious pamphlets and holding revival meetings in the cottages round about. After a week of furious activity, he had succeeded in stirring up a tremendous amount of fear and religious fervour up and down the countryside. When no cottage could be found large enough to accommodate his meetings, he called upon Pastor Landsen and succeeded in obtaining the use of the school-house. He was carrying on a terrific campaign, people even came from town to attend his meetings and no one seemed to find it amiss to squander an hour or two on prayer.

It was a remarkable thing about that Anabaptist: his audiences seemed unable to detect any difference between his gospel and other statements of God’s Word. Oh, but there was a deeper meaning to his work! After each sermon and appropriate prayers, he would conduct his following down to the river and, in its waters, baptize them. This was all in accordance with his earnest belief that it was the only thing to do—these people were black with sin and he would give them this opportunity to clean themselves up for the Lord. But they had been baptized before, had they not? To be sure, but in running water? Was a baptismal fount the same thing as the River Jordan? No no, my friends!

This preacher with those burning eyes of his had delved deeply into esoteric literature; he was a devil of a fellow to settle the doubts of his people and the regular pastor of Segelfoss received a rather good impression of the man. This priest of the parish, this Ole Landsen, he was anything but contentious in spirit, it was never his thought to find fault with others. The Segelfoss News had interviewed him and asked whether he did not consider these revival meetings in the school-house and these baptisms in the river to be getting folk off on the wrong track, to which the pastor had replied that this question had its juridical aspect. People who had interested themselves in the revival might otherwise have put their time to far worse use. And it might be shown that these religious exercises were actually of benefit to this one or that one, who knew? “Those people are groping forward after the light exactly as we others are doing. We none of us know anything, we simply believe.” Thus Pastor Ole Landsen had expressed himself.

And there they all went to meeting, children and womenfolk, mostly, but a few men, as well. A full house. And there in the midst of them sat Mons-Karina, chewing tobacco, spitting on the floor and rubbing it dry with her foot. Valborg from Øira attended, though she had perhaps dressed herself up a bit too grand in a new dress of fine green and red material. Cornelia of South Parish came with her mother and her younger sisters and her half-grown brother, Mattis. And after a time, in truth, came also Karel i Roten and his wife Gina and their little ones. And Karel had a gift for song and made the most of the hymns, but when Gina, with that glorious voice of hers would sing out, the others would all fall silent. Now and then a local Salvationist would join the gathering and now and then one of August’s road-workers.

Full house and tears and a frenzy of emotion. Ay, and nothing to be done about it. It was only the district-doctor who had dared to murmur: “That ducking in the river is a wild idea. One can catch cold from such a baptism, one can develop pneumonia, cystirrhoea, rheumatism, bad hips, stiff fingers.” Thus District-Doctor Lund had expressed himself. But none there was who would take a doctor’s word where religion was concerned.

* * * * *

August is restless these days. He wanders about waiting for his money from Polden and is unable to interest himself in anything aside from his daily supervision of the road construction. As Gordon Tidemand’s right-hand man it is not for him to mingle with the common herd, and on Sundays when he is idle, it is his custom to go for long walks in the country. He carries a staff to swing and talks to himself as he walks.

He wanders out to Tobias’ new house. Cornelia is not at home, no one is home, the house is empty. The only sign of life is the horse, grazing a short distance away. He inspects the house from all angles. As a builder of houses himself during his younger days in Polden, he gazes at the present building with a keen professional eye. Nothing new to learn here, walls of skinned logs, moss to seal the cracks, a small porch, a turf roof. No panes of coloured glass in the door.

He strolls over to the horse, a gift from none save himself and which he is now seeing for the first time. Observing a woman approaching from the neighbouring farm, he draws himself up and goes stalking about the horse as though he were something of a connoisseur. He tries to lift up one of the animal’s forefeet, but the horse simply lays back its ears and turns its back on him.

The woman draws near; it is Aase, tall and exotic in appearance, clad in her Lappish cloak and moccasins, a tall sugar-loaf cap on her head, a scarf about her neck and with a whole cluster of dingledangles hanging from her belt. August does not look up at her.

“Are you afraid of the horse?” asks Aase.

He casts a hurried glance in her direction without answering.

“I saw as you were afraid.”

“I wasn’t exactly afraid,” August said. “I just wanted to look at his hoof.”

“What ails the hoof?” she asked, and easily lifted up the horse’s leg.

August was already beginning to feel a bit uneasy. “I just wanted—I thought he needed to be shod,” he said.

“This is that Tobias’ new mare, but ’tis little enough she is worth,” Aase said. “Them as owned her before let her go because she kicks. Would you be wanting to see her other hoofs?”

“No. But what the devil does all this have to do with you?”

“Is it the horse or something else as has brought you out here?” Aase asked.

Such a woman! How much did she think he would stand for? “Say, you!” he cried. “Why don’t you get back to your own kind and use that jaw of yours on them?”

Together they walked over to the house and August remarked that there was no one at home. Without heeding his remark, she stepped inside. When she came out again, she paused to spit on the doorstep. Ho! So that’s the kind you are, eh! August mused and promptly crossed himself. He took fright and crossed himself again, twice—forehead and breast. Aase paid not the slightest attention to him; instead, she seated herself on the doorstep and deliberately filled her pipe.

“Here’s an odd bit I’ve got,” he said and held something in his hand to show her. “I was wondering how you’d like to have it?”

“An old coin? With a hook?”

“I soldered the hook on myself so the coin could be worn on a chain. Have you ever seen anything like that before?”

“I’ve many just like it already.”

“But this one is sacred,” said August. “It’s been sprinkled with holy water in Russia. I was wondering if you’d like to have it?”

She hooked it onto the chain which held her other gewgaws and looked approvingly at it. With that, she must have decided to make some return for the favour. With a quick gesture, she turned her cap inside-out and put it back on her head with the lining on the outside. “Let me see that hand of yours,” she said. “No, not that one. The one as you gave me this with!” She inspected the hand, back and palm, lifted it up three times and nodded. “Friday child,” she said. “Rubbish fit for nothing!” He withdrew his hand and crossed himself with it. Both of them were very much in earnest.

When she rose and started off, he called after her. “Hey, don’t you know you’ve got your hat on wrong side out?”

“Ay—seven paces!” she said cryptically and halted. With that, she adjusted her hat properly and left him altogether....

It was getting on toward meal time and he strolled homeward, swinging his staff and talking to himself. He might have asked her what she had seen in his hand, he might have learned a few things about his fate, how things would be for him after his money arrived, for instance. Nonsense—she didn’t know any more about it than he did himself! But she had spat upon leaving the house.

He fell in with a few of those who had been down at the river getting themselves baptised. One of the small dealers from town who had been at the card table in August’s room gave an amusing account of the hallowed event: Mons-Karina, it seemed, had stepped into the water with a wad of tobacco in her mouth and she couldn’t find a place to spit—hahaha—she couldn’t spit in the holy water! It had looked as though they would have to get rid of her, without bothering to baptise her. But the revivalist had suddenly got a brilliant idea—he had taken her downstream away from the rest and ducked her there. Haha, how funny it had been!

“Are you coming to play cards this afternoon?” asked August.

“No,” said the merchant.

“No?”

“I wouldn’t touch my hand to a card this day.”

“All right, do what you want!” August muttered with exasperation.

But August had yet to obtain the information he was seeking, and some time passed before he got up sufficient courage to come out with a direct query. “Was anyone from Tobias’ place baptised?” he asked.

“From Tobias’ place? No.”

“I thought maybe there would be, seeing as the preacher is staying over there. A certain Gypsy woman spit on the doorstep of that new house of his today, so I was thinking that it might be just as well for Tobias to get himself baptised.”

“Hm, it must have been that Aase, then—that witch! All she does is go about spitting misfortune upon folks’ houses.”

“Wasn’t that Cornelia baptised either?” August asked.

“No—no, there were only four of us today.”

August stopped dead in his tracks and shouted: “What! You, too?”

The merchant also stopped and nodded: “Ay, so it would seem,” he said.

“Well, I’ll be—what the devil did you do that for?”

“What does anybody get baptised for? You talk like a fool!”

August turned on him scornfully: “You’re a pig in holy matters! Weren’t you baptised already in the name of the Trinity? Hm, this is the worst thing I’ve ever heard!”

The man attempted to excuse himself: “Things weren’t going so good for me, let me tell you. Both Karel i Roten and that wife of his got themselves baptised, and you see Karel occasionally does a bit of business with me.”

August shook his head: “You’re just like a lot of swine, the whole pack of you, all filled up with superstition and false idol worship. And what’s that damned old angel-maker doing, staying out there with an innocent girl in the house? I’d stand in my right, if I went and reported him to that chief of mine.”

“Save your steps,” said the man. “The preacher is all ready to leave town now. I was the last one he baptised, at least for the present—”

So that was the end of the card game for that evening; the merchant had got himself baptised and was using this for an excuse and the gardener Steffen had gone off somewhere with his sweetheart. Not even the Gypsy Alexander was anywhere to be found.

Nothing else to do but eat, take a nap after dinner, go out for another walk and wait on pins and needles for that money of his to arrive. Why the devil didn’t it come? What was the matter? Well, it was a good thing, in any event, that that preacher fellow was on his way.

During the latter part of the afternoon he found himself down by the pier where two small boys were throwing stones at the sloop Soria. Suddenly he heard a stone strike home with a splinter of glass. Nimble lads they were, but they were unable to get away before August had recognized them—they were the doctor’s two sons, two little hellcats, two little rascals when it came to getting into mischief. It is possible that there was someone down in the cabin—a couple the lads had hoped to disturb.

* * * * *

There would be an evening of cards, after all. Jørn Mathildesen turned up and got his usual krone for acting as sentry. The merchant had changed his mind and appeared.

“What are you doing here?” August asked.

“Didn’t you say something about a hand or two of cards?” the man returned.

“I thought you got yourself baptised today! Didn’t I tell you that you were a pig about sacred matters?”

“Ay, but we can’t all be Jesus, you know.”

The gardener Steffen cut short his playing the swain and came racing over to August’s room as though frightened stiff he might miss something and with him he brought one of the clerks from the store, a regular demon at cards. Only the Gypsy was absent.

This was the first time the store-clerk had met with the sacred circle, but he lost no time in going after what small change the others had in their pockets. “Never saw anything to beat it!” said the merchant and lost again. But August was in even tighter straits than he; he was obliged to break the last banknote he had to his name. This was his present remnant, and what is there to do with a remnant? Reckless, excited, he stayed in the game.

The party lasted until midnight, Steffen and the store-clerk winning consistently. After they had cleaned out the other pair, there was nothing further to detain them and they rose and picked up their hats. They whistled, cast taunts at the losers and were in the highest of spirits when they left.

The merchant was furious at the whole group, at the entire world and demanded if August wouldn’t be good enough to cross himself a few times! Oh, he was in a vile humour, ashen with rage, desperate.

“Don’t cry about it!” said August and laughed at him.

“I should have listened to my wife and stayed away from here,” the man wailed. “Here I sit now as naked as when I was inside my mother’s womb.”

“You’ve got your wedding ring on!” said August.

“What’s that!” screamed the man.

“Let’s play for that.”

“Who ever heard such sinful talk! You haven’t got a single øre left to set up against it.”

“I’ll play you my Bible against it,” said August.

“Your Bible!” said the man, pausing to take a long breath. “You’d be committing a sin to play for that.”

August began shuffling the cards and said: “Best three out of five hands.”

The merchant won the first hand.

August took down the Bible from the shelf and laid it on the table. What did he want with it, heavy as it had been to drag about with him from country to country? An old Russian Bible. “Lay down the ring!” he said.

With much effort the man got the ring from his finger and laid it on top of the Bible.

August won. They were even. He also won the next hand.

The merchant was trembling by now, but he took fresh hope when he evened the game by winning the fourth hand. The score was two-all. The next hand would tell the story.

August prepared to deal.

“Shuffle the cards!” said the man.

August refused.

With that the merchant let one card slip to the floor and began counting over the cards he held in his hand. “I’ve only got four cards,” he said. “New deal!”

“Why?” asked August. “There’s one of your cards on the floor.”

“Yes, but you saw what it was. New deal!”

August good-naturedly threw in his hand and said: “All right, deal them over, you rascal!”

He lost. Naturally he lost with the wretched cards he received in the next hand. Very well, that old Bible had been so heavy to drag about with him from country to country. The merchant let out an audible sigh of relief, returned his wedding ring to his finger, stuck the Bible under his arm and withdrew....

So there had been an evening of cards, after all.

Gammelmoderen called at August’s room before he had crawled into bed. Flushed in the face she was, youthful in appearance, charming. “Altmulig,” she said, “I saw you down by the pier this evening. Someone was throwing stones out at the sloop.”

“Hm,” said August to keep from stepping into something.

“Yes. I had just gone aboard to look around, but then they began throwing those stones so there was nothing else for me to do. Will you set some new panes in the skylight early tomorrow morning?”

“Ay, ay, ma’am!”

“Early, before you go to work on the road?”

“Ay, ay.”

“Thanks, Altmulig. You’re always so nice to come to!” Gammelmoderen said and slipped out the door.

It was one o’clock.

The Gypsy stopped in before going to bed. He was as drunk as could be, but he was holding it well. He gave out that he had been up in the mountains hunting for angelica root all day Sunday.

CHAPTER EIGHT

August was up at six o’clock the next morning. He realized what it meant to Gammelmoderen to have the skylight repaired before Gordon Tidemand should be up and around.

He would be unable to obtain glass and putty before the opening of the store with the arrival of the clerks at eight o’clock, but he could row aboard the sloop and look round, scrape out the old putty and otherwise get things ready.

On the wharf he stumbles across Adolf, the road-worker. August is surprised by the meeting, but Adolf greets him with a “Good morning,” and looks his boss straight in the eyes. He conceals nothing.

“What—is that you there, Adolf?”

“Yes, but I was just going back home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Nothing. I just took a walk down here.”

“Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I slept all day yesterday. The whole gang of us slept through.”

“I understand you’ve had a falling-out with that bunky of yours,” August said.

“No—Yes, he’s got such a filthy mouth.”

“You shouldn’t let that bother you. You know what kind of a fellow that Francis is.”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I ran into you. Your gang is to begin on that new cut. And some of the curbing is set in crooked. See that it is set in straight. I won’t be up for a time, I’ve work to do down here.”

Adolf nods to this and remarks: “No, I shouldn’t let it bother me. But he keeps it up night and day. It’s terrible to listen to.”

“Nonsense! What is it he says?”

Adolf does not answer this question; he goes straight on to explain: “Ever since she bound up my finger the time it got hurt.”

August had heard of the occurrence: Marna, the chief’s sister, had been on the spot when Adolf had bruised his finger. She had torn a strip from her handkerchief and tied it about the finger. That had been all. Well, no doubt Frøken Marna would have done as much for anyone else, but Adolf was young and good-looking and she had probably taken a bit of a fancy to him. What of it? There was nothing wrong in that. But much had been made of the affair and Adolf, a sensitive lad, had been driven out of the bunk-house, out of his bed where he slept, by the vulgar taunts of his comrades.

“I was wondering if you’d say something to him,” said Adolf.

“Rubbish! What does he say that’s so bad?”

“He makes indecent remarks.”

“Go on home and get an hour’s sleep,” said August.

He rowed aboard the sloop, scraped the dry putty from the damaged skylight, swept up after himself, set a few things to rights, coiled up a rope and hung it up where it belonged—this old sailor man, he felt at home aboard ship. All morning his mind was busy with petty reminiscences; he had a deck beneath his feet again, he was happy, he gazed up at the rigging, and from old habit cast an eye at the weather. The tramp of his feet on the deck echoed hollowly through the empty hold of the vessel. That good skipper Olsen, he ought to have swabbed down his craft, he ought—she appeared none too spic and span after her recent cargo of herring. But no, Skipper Olsen was never about; he lived ashore, he owned a little farm which occupied his entire attention.

August stepped down into the cuddy and picked up a few glass beads from the floor. Those little devils of the doctor’s had scattered glass beads all over the cabin, on the table, over in the bunk—why, he even had to shake out the blankets. Along with the beads, a hairpin or two fell to the floor, a lady’s belt and another strange-looking object—a snow-white bit of elastic, such as a lady might wear to hold up her stockings. Someone must have quit the place in haste, August mused—had skipped out and forgotten to take this stuff along! He makes a small bundle of intimate articles, steps up on deck and heaves it into the sea.

Finished with his chores, he hastened up the road in the direction of the store. But he had spent too much time on board; there came Gordon Tidemand driving down the road! A most unfortunate meeting, for the chief made a point to halt him.

Oh but there was no danger, the chief was as cordial as ever.

“There was something I wanted to ask you, Altmulig. You’re sure you’re making the road wide enough?”

“Wide enough? Ay, you’ve no cause for worry there.”

“But you see, I’m buying an automobile. Will the road be wide enough for that?”

“How big of a car will it be?”

“A regular touring-car. A five-seater.”

August reached instinctively for his measuring tape, but without unwinding it, he began to reckon things out in his head: 180, extra for fenders 50. “Plenty of room!” he decided.

“Thanks, that’s just what I wanted to know,” said the chief, and drove on.

A devil of a fellow, that Altmulig! A good kind to have around, Gordon Tidemand thought to himself; a person who knows what’s what both at sea and ashore!

Gordon Tidemand was abroad somewhat earlier than usual—not that he was downright worried over anything, though he was, to be sure, concerned about a certain matter, a grand plan he had been working out in his mind— a consulate at Segelfoss, the first to be set up in town, perhaps the only one—a British consulate! He had been secretly arranging the details and had secured the backing of a number of persons of influence; among these several he had known in England had been actively interested. He was not in doubt as to the outcome, but he had been unable to control his impatience of late and he could hardly wait to get down to his office to see what the mail might bring. There were no obstacles to hold up his plan, he had no competitors in the field, the need was apparent, but there was an endless amount of red tape to be gone through in all the various offices. And that meant waiting on pins and needles.

He enters by his own private door he had had put in for him in order that he might avoid walking through the public part of the store. The shades are already rolled up, his mail is laid out on the desk. Without taking time to remove more than his right glove, he pounces upon his mail.

Ah—the letter!

He slits it open with a paper-knife. He is still methodical enough to do this at least, but his hands are trembling and his brown eyes are like gleaming gimlets.

Ah—the official document!

Phew! He reads it over, finds no mistake with it, glances at the date and studies the scrawling signatures. He throws off his top coat, claws off his other glove, climbs onto his high swivel-stool and goes over the papers once more from beginning to end. He is absorbed in this for some time and wastes no glance on the regular mail before him.

He begins pacing the floor. The people out in the store realize that some important matter is at hand. There can be no mistake about that. He considers the effect of his appointment; he had been not a day too early in ordering that automobile and he would speak to Altmulig at once about making the stall and carriage shed over into a garage. He would have to see about getting a British flag, he would have to arrange for a uniform. Wouldn’t this likewise mean an increase of trade for his business? Perhaps he ought to put on another salesman to represent him from Helgeland to Trondhjem. The name of his house would carry a special appeal— “Representing Consul Gordon Tidemand, Segelfoss—”

He rings for his head-clerk, nods to the latter’s greeting and says: “I’ve noticed a number of hideous signs and posters in the neighbourhood of my office door—see that they are removed!”

“Yes, sir.”

“All those margarine advertisements.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And all those tobacco posters. And those placards advertising canned goods. Away with the whole business!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, there was nothing more.”

Yes, it would have been a pretty sight indeed to have had the British consular escutcheon hanging there in the midst of all those screaming portraits of sardine tins!

He cast a hurried glance over the regular mail, cut open a few envelopes— bills and customs clearance papers. A local letter is naturally a begging letter; he receives many of these, for the most part from the surrounding parish—a magnate such as himself could not very well avoid such correspondence.

He slits open one of these begging letters. A sheet of water-ruled paper, awkward hand-writing, possibly somewhat cramped by design, but the contents comprehensible for all that: he should not neglect to keep an eye on certain persons and on the sloop Soria. As, for example, last night, when there were feastings and other abominations going on in the cabin until well past the hour of midnight—an event which was but one in a long series of similar events. There was an old saying: “From the devil race, and Gypsies chase.” There was one Gypsy she was chasing all right, but not in the way that was meant. “Am writing this as one who has long been your friend, but if it is true that you have his Gypsy eyes, then it is my advice that you chase him off the place at once according to the old saying as it was meant and let all the old talk be buried in the past. Sincerely yours, an Admirer.”

He neither screamed nor ground his teeth, he simply crumpled up the letter and thrust it in the stove. This was best. Gordon Tidemand was not wholly unfamiliar with the scandal about his mother; whilst growing up he had many times heard dark hints as to his paternity, though no one had ever had the effrontery to come out with it once the young master had attained his full manhood. The present letter was of no importance, it wasn’t signed by anyone, it was nothing for a consul to bother his head about one way or the other.

Suddenly remembering that it was summer and that there was no fire in the stove, he walked over and threw in a lighted match. The letter along with much other accumulated rubbish immediately burst into flame. Yes, this was best.

He worked for a time on his books, arranged his correspondence, copied down a few figures, but was too deeply concerned with the great news the morning had brought him to be truly diligent. Tomorrow would also be a day; today he would make an exception and leave his office early. It would be a pleasure for Juliet and his mother and sister to learn the news. He rang and gave orders for the horse to be put back in the harness.

Leaving his office, he observed the head-clerk aloft on a step-ladder; the latter was removing the advertising posters from the vicinity of the chief’s private door. Seldom did it happen that the chief would utter a superfluous word to his people, but on this occasion he nodded to his head-clerk and said: “Ah, that’s better!”

* * * * *

Speechless were those at home, dumbfounded when he laid the documents on the table before them. Who had ever seen such a boy! If he hadn’t gone and snatched himself a consular appointment without so much as breathing a word to a soul! And British consul, to boot! We’ve suddenly become wife and mother and sister to an eminent man! Come here, children and creeping infants, come here and look at that father of yours!

“Yes,” he said. “But just wait until I get my uniform on!”

“Why, Lord bless my soul!”

They suddenly decided that there should be salmon for lunch, that there should also be a glass or two of wine, perhaps even a drop of liqueur to sip with the coffee. “That’s the very least we can do to honour you!” they told him.

Over and over again at table they discussed the details of his triumph. What would be his duties? To represent the British Empire at Segelfoss, to look out for shipwrecked English sailors cast ashore by the waves of the Atlantic. “You may have a first mate to dance with yet, Marna!”

“Hahaha!” laughed Marna.

“But will you get anything for it?” asked his mother, that shrewd, that practical widow of Theodore paa Bua.

“Nothing save the honour,” he replied somewhat curtly. But, glancing over at his mother, he bit his tongue. She was so beautiful, so intelligent, that mother of his; she wished him nought but well and she was the youngest one of them all. “But it may prove indirectly of material benefit to me,” he added. “I am planning to increase my clientele. I might take on another traveler to represent me south of here. That might not prove entirely out of the way, what do you think? Skoal, little mother!”

“I’m going to sit right down and write to Lillian,” said Marna, “and tease her a little because her husband is not a consul!”

“She may come back at you,” said her brother, “and ask you what kind of a husband you have, for example!”

Marna struck at him with her napkin and told him to keep still.

“What’s that? You have the nerve to tell a consul to keep still?”

“Hahaha!”

“Skoal, Juliet!” he said raising his glass. “I wish, though, that I might rather have made you a countess!”

“I haven’t a thing to offer you in return,” said Fru Juliet, her eyes brimming with tears. Oh that charming Juliet, she was so far along she was touched by the slightest thing. He was often obliged to comfort her.

He replied: “Yes, Juliet, you have given me far more in this world than ever I have deserved. And you keep on giving and giving. You have no equal in giving. Smile, Juliet, you have good reason to, you know!”

And all at the table drank to her.

While they were at their coffee, the phone rang and Gammelmoderen rose to answer it. She returned immediately and said: “It was the Segelfoss News wanting to know whether it was true that Gordon Tidemand has been made consul.”

They clapped their hands and cried: “What’s that? Well, I declare!”

“Yes, the morning papers in Oslo had it, and Davidsen has just received a telegram.”

“Well, I never! And what did you say in reply?”

“I said that it was true!” beamed Gammelmoderen.

Silence.

“Yes, what else could you say!”

During the course of the afternoon many called up to offer their congratulations. The chief telegraphist who had certainly been the first in Segelfoss to learn of the appointment was careful to say: “I was passing the News office and saw a bulletin announcing the event!” The district judge called up, the doctor called up, and there were many more besides. It was a grand day. The telephone wasn’t silent for a moment.

Druggist Holm called up and asked for Frøken Marna; through her he congratulated the household. Just another of his sudden impulses. Later he remarked: “I did not wish to disturb the Master personally. But you, Frøken Marna, you are young and beautiful enough to forgive me.”

She started. Frøken Marna, he had called her, though she had hardly more than met the man! “I shall give them your greetings,” she said.

“Thanks! That is all I dare implore you to do—for the present.”

He was a madcap.

CHAPTER NINE

There were two sides to his nature, however, many sides, but he was also a madcap. Happy-go-lucky and reckless, somewhat careless in the matter of dress—one wide and one narrow shoestring, a hat which had seen better days. But essentially good-natured and of strong character, a well-spring of whimsical notions, occasionally even regretful over the mistakes he had made.

Aside from being adroit at swinging on a trapeze and rowing a boat, he was also something of a mountain-climber and in none of his activities did he think to spare a muscle. He had likewise a habit of going for long walks in the country, whether this was due to sheer boredom or a thirst for physical exercise, and indeed he was on friendly terms with natives of the rural districts who interested him with all the things they had to tell. There was, for example, the case of the man who, this very spring, had got drowned when the horse he was driving had backed both him and itself into the river below the falls. Both man and horse had been lost. But what had he been doing so near the falls with such a skittish colt? No one seems clever at guessing the riddle and the sheriff says it is a thousand times impossible ever to solve the mystery. “But here now’s what I think—” offers the man who tells him the story. “If he had been using a sledge— but a cart it was he was driving, so that when he was trying to turn on that steep slope there, his wheels, they must have slipped back and pulled the horse down with the cart. Ay, that’s how she seems to me. But much there is as is kept from the light of day in this and they say as that Aase had just been spitting on that doorstep of his. And now ’tis as that Aase should be brought before the law to tell the things as she knows, but the sheriff, he won’t so much as touch a hand to her, so there’s nothing as can be done about anything. And his family as lives on behind him—his woman and four little ones—so boundless poor they are as nobody here would think, their man and support all dead and gone and even their horse was drowned. And the two oldest out begging in one part and the mother and the two littlest out begging in another! It might be as there’s something the Herr Druggist might find to do for them?”

“Of course, of course,” says Holm. “If only I—no, the idea is mad!”

“If only as to speak a word for them somewhere?”

“What was the man’s name?”

“Ay, there you see, ’tis almost a blasphemy to take in one’s mouth!”

“How so?”

“For ’tis no human name to be called by with such!”

“Well, what was his name?”

“Don’t tell that I say it—’twas Solmund!”

He would certainly have liked to do something for the surviving members of Solmund’s family, but what means did a mere druggist in Segelfoss have at his command! He could go for long walks and meet people and listen to their tales and return home. But what was he, really? A nonentity. He could sit and play patience, he could sit and read books—

Yes, but he could also play the guitar—oh, he was something of a master when it came to playing the guitar. The postmaster’s wife, Fru Hagen, who understood music, said she had never heard such guitar-playing in her life. He sang a bit, as well, in a quiet, subdued, almost shameful voice, but there, too, he showed that he was really a musician. Nor was Fru Hagen able to sing much herself, now that she had lost her voice. But this did not prevent them from having many a pleasant time together over their music, she on her grand piano: Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven—he on his guitar: light songs and ballads. Yes, art and music all the way through, even on a poor guitar.

It was his habit to get himself mildly drunk; he said he would never have the courage to play for the postmaster’s lady unless he were in such a condition as would warrant her forgiveness. There was a touch of bravado in his attitude, possibly a conscious modesty, an attempt to emphasize the fact that he was no bourgeois. He enjoyed himself in Fru Hagen’s company; she had lived much among artists abroad and had a good bit in common with him. Together they would play and laugh and chat. No, he was not always drunk, nor in truth so very often, and were he to come to her on rare occasions after a bit of a bout with his fellow-Bergenser, Vendt of the hotel, he would be no less amusing and voluble than usual. To the contrary. Nor would Fru Hagen be any the less herself, either; she knew how to keep pace with him, that handsome little lady, graceful as a willow bough. They could hold the most incredible conversations together, many times actually verging on the point of subtle flirtation, and God knew if on some occasion they might not play with fire a bit too carelessly and cause a conflagration.

“Do you know, it is quite possible that I love you,” he says. “But I don’t suppose that you would care to close your door to me on that account?”

“Such would never enter my mind,” she replies.

“No, for I am such a nonentity. And my outward appearance, I don’t suppose that is much of a temptation to you, is it?”

“Oh, no, I consider my husband better looking.”

“Here, here! That won’t go,” says Holm, shaking his head.

“He is fond of me.”

“Well, so am I. And, do you know, I’ve just taken a notion to part my hair in the back.”

“Heavens no! I’d rather have you just as you are.”

“Hm.”

“For you aren’t exactly homely, you know.”

“Homely? Why, I’d be downright handsome if only I didn’t have this ugly nose in the middle of my face.”

“It really isn’t ugly,” says Fru Hagen. “I consider it quite full and lovely.”

“Hm. But do you know what I’m thinking as I sit here? That we could easily hear your husband coming up the front steps.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. And that I should have plenty of time to kiss you before he gets home.”

“No,” says Fru Hagen, shaking her head.

“I don’t see how you can very well avoid it,” he mumbles.

“What would I say if he should suddenly come in on us?”

“You could say that you were sitting here reading a book.”

“Hahaha! I never heard anything quite so brazen!”

“I might steal a kiss, you know. As though I knew it were forbidden.”

“Better let it go altogether. You see, I’m a married woman.”

“I don’t believe it. You are a young and fascinating girl, and I have developed a tremendous passion for you.”

“It is difficult to discern any signs of that passion in you,” says the lady. “Especially, when I know very well that it doesn’t exist.”

“What, after all I have said!”

“Said? You haven’t said anything.”

“Are you mad? Of course, I didn’t exactly say in so many words that I would die upon your grave. But such you must assume for yourself.”

“Shall we play a bit again?” she asks.

“Out of the question! For now I am about to take you in my arms!” says Holm, rising.

But Fru Hagen avoids his embrace, gently—as it were, winningly—and steps across the room to the window where she stands in full view of the street. “Come here and see something!” she says.

The annual German musicians have arrived on the north-bound steamer and have stepped ashore at Segelfoss to play their serenades. And they will survive, as they have in the past survived; they will be received with friendship and a bit to eat in every house, so welcome they will be. But first of all, they make their way out to Segelfoss Manor where they form in a circle by the kitchen door and run through their entire repertory. Their visit is not in vain; with the first blast from the cornet, the inmates rush to the windows, the children flatten their noses against the panes and even the beautiful Frøken Marna raises a window and seats herself on the ledge to take full advantage of the concert. But Fru Juliet, she is on the verge of tears and refrains from showing herself, in such wise does she react to the serenade—that adorable mistress of Segelfoss, good heavens, see how easily touched she is! But down in the kitchen the maids glide in waltz-time each trip they take between cook-stove and sink, and as for Gammelmoderen, she too sways a bit to the music, though she has a young child in her arms.

And when the concert draws to a close, the eldest of the children, a little boy, steps out with an envelope containing money. Ah, banknotes! They are not niggardly at Segelfoss Manor. If only Gordon Tidemand himself had been at home, he would have rounded off the gift, added to it, added much. He would have shown the sort of man he was.

The musicians take off their hats and bow, first to the boy, to this little gentleman, and then to all the windows, both upstairs and downstairs. The young dark-haired cornetist even kisses his fingers to the beautiful Marna aloft in her window, though she hardly so much as returns him a smile, that phlegmatic creature! It would take a virile lover indeed to kindle a flame in that lady’s breast!

With that, the musicians wander down into town and station themselves outside the postmaster’s home for their next performance. Here they are accustomed to exchanging a few words of German with the lady of the house and to receive a few kroner done up in a paper and thrown down into the band-leader’s cap.

A procession of children and young people have followed them down the street, for here is a grand experience in their lives—a cornet, two violins and an accordion, music played by four men all at once, to them a living fairy tale....

The band strikes up. And in the window stand the postmaster’s wife, Fru Hagen, and Druggist Holm, listening.

“Have you a krone?” she asks. “For I have only one.”

“I have two,” he replies.

She opens the window, hats fly off, smiles and recognition.—”Guten Tag, meine Herren!”—“Guten Tag, gnädige Frau!“—“You’re late this year!”—”Ja, gnädige Frau, a whole month later than usual. Ve vere delayed back home in Chairmany. But ve vill hurry along later now so ve come to Hammerfest before die Hundstage.”

Fru Hagen takes aim at the cornetist’s cap, and even though she is near-sighted, she throws the money. It finds its mark, how could it miss? For the young man is so flattered at being chosen by her, that he almost falls on his face in his efforts to catch her packet. The entire band laughs and the lady in the window laughs, too. “Danke schön, gnädige Frau! Vielen Dank!” And then the devil must have let loose inside that young cornetist’s breast, for he steps directly up to the window, looks the lady straight in the face and kisses his fingers to her. The two are in such close proximity, that it might just as well have been a kiss on the mouth. “Glückliche Reise nordwärts!” says the lady, stepping back from the window to hide the shameful blush on her cheeks.

“Mercy me!” is all she says.

But Druggist Holm has found something else to interest him and utters no reply. He has caught sight of a little boy and a little girl who, hand-in-hand, are standing outside the circle of town children. They feel lost in a town of this size, and for safety’s sake, they cling to each other’s hands. Both are carrying little pasteboard boxes under their arms, as they stand there watching the musicians, their mouths agape, all eyes.

Holm says to Fru Hagen with a deep bow: “Madam, I must leave you, I have completely forgotten that I must go on duty, though it breaks my heart.”

“Dear, dear, so you must go!” she replies. How clever she is never to allow herself to be amazed over the sudden whims of this man!

“Thanks for today, madam! It breaks my heart.”

He hastens out of the house and gathers up the two children as they stand there clinging tightly together. “What’s your father’s name?” he asks of the boy. A foolish question; the lad simply stares at him.

“Are you from North Parish?”

“What did you say?”

“I said, are you from North Parish?”

“Ay.”

“You probably don’t know. What’s your father’s name?”

“Father, he’s dead,” says the boy.

“Drowned below the falls?”

“Ay,” answer both children at once.

“Come, you must have something to eat!” says Holm.

God knows what he could have had at home good enough for these little shavers, seeing as they needed so much. And it was probable, too, that they were expected to take something home in those pasteboard boxes of theirs.

He takes them straight to the hotel.

* * * * *

A lovely predicament in which Druggist Holm now found himself! His last words to the children that day had been: “Come back tomorrow!” Yes, for they had given him those tiny sorrowful hands of theirs whilst thanking him for his food, and in his, they had seemed like little bird feet, and he had been quite overcome with emotion.

And yes, bright and early the following day the children had returned to the hotel, and thereafter they had come each day. This was splendid, a pleasure Holm would hardly have cared to deny himself. But now their mother had also joined the company and with her she had brought the two youngest, and that made five in all—it was now almost as though he had got himself a family! To be sure, the mother had come on a legitimate enough errand, to thank the druggist, but could he have allowed her and those two tiny tots to go away without a little something to chew on themselves? Who could be so hardhearted? And on the following day, at meal-time, the mother had returned to the hotel—she had lost her kerchief, she said, and imagined she might have left it at the hotel. Oh well, it wasn’t so easy to have four little ones! The mother came right frequently, and Holm could not send her away. The hotel-keeper asked him if it was his thought to marry the widow.

At length he was obliged to go to the welfare agency just as though he had once had this family and was now unable any longer to support them. This helped, as thenceforth the widow received definite support—nothing grand, to be sure, the painful bare necessities—but she received her grocery orders regularly and her children were no longer beggars.

“Phew!” said Druggist Holm.

And meanwhile the town had been ringing with music. The band-leader was like an old friend, recognized by folk from year to year; he played outside the hotel, he played outside the drugstore, packed up his band and led them out to the magistrate’s home and the parsonage where they played, and on the way back to town, they stopped to play for the doctor—joyfully received wherever they went. Doctor Lund himself had stood with his arms around his wife’s waist on the porch to listen, and fortunately the small boys were at home instead of being away on some errand of mischief. They went into the house after the coins they had themselves been saving, they collected money from their parents and from the girls in the kitchen, gathered in quite a sum and presented this to the band. The leader thanked them profusely. A tray of food and drink was brought out to them and after that there was more music and at length farewells were said. A charming farewell, not too lengthy and not too curt, a cultured farewell as in years past. But there, suddenly the cornetist was off again. The rascal, he had an eye for beauty, good-looking as he himself was with his burning gaze and his shining dark hair. But how ever had he found courage for this latest gesture of his! He raced up two of the three steps to the porch, knelt on the third and kissed the hem of Fru Esther’s garment! That mad buffoon! His act constituted a serious breach of discipline, the third and worst he had committed that day, and the leader called out sharply to him. Nevertheless, he did not come until he was ready. At first the doctor’s wife had not realized what was happening but then her lovely face had gone red as fire and she had uttered a laugh of embarrassment.

“Auf Wiedersehen!” the doctor called after the band and he, too, laughed, though his laughter was possibly a bit forced.

“That crazy fellow!” said his wife. “He wasn’t with them past years.”

“But perhaps he will come back again!” said the doctor.

His wife looked at him. “I didn’t have anything to do with it,” she said, and entered the house.

The doctor followed her in. “You didn’t have anything to do with what? Do you think I care about that? Are you mad!”

“No, no, everything’s all right.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, my dear Esther!”

Without another word, she left the room, mounted the stairs and continued on up to the attic. There she had a certain dark corner into which she could creep and hide, a heavenly corner which was all her own. Poor little Esther from Polden, in no wise grand enough to be a doctor’s wife. No, it had been easier to be this doctor’s cook.

The devil take that cornet-player! If he hadn’t come all the way north from Germany just to set folk’s heads awhirl in this backwoods town of Segelfoss in Norway! From the sound of the leader’s voice, too, it was apparent that even he was strongly resentful of the young man’s conduct and had the latter not been the most invaluable member of the quartette, he would certainly have let him go. But the cornet, my dear, that marvelous shining horn which brought in whole capfuls of money! Yes, it was the cornet which created the wildest sensation and it must have been a gift from God Himself to enable anyone to produce living tones from it. The doctor’s sons who had accompanied the band, received permission to try the horn, but they were unable to get a single sound out of it. They became annoyed and tried it again, but not a peep would it give forth. “Oh the devil!” they cried and almost burst blood-vessels trying to get it to speak. The cornet seemed to smile at them, for all that it politely declined. Then one of them placed a finger on one of the valves—the instrument emitted a squeak. Ah, they had discovered the secret! They were probably the worst-behaved boys in town, but they were certainly no fools! By the following day the musicians were finished in Segelfoss. There had been no great changes in the town since the year before; a couple of new craftsmen, a butcher and a watch-maker had arrived to try for a living in this new field, but these were not the type to squander one’s musical gifts upon. The band was thus delighted to learn that a north-bound freighter, leaving that night, could take them aboard and drop them at the next populous port of call.

The doctor’s boys, though it was past midnight, stole out of the house and followed the band aboard. And the Segelfoss News carried a friendly notice of the visiting German musicians. They came each year like migratory birds, stopped off at our little town and brought us all joy again, leaving behind them the nostalgic memory of a pleasure which had spread through all the homes, but which had been all too short. Auf Wiedersehen! Welcome back next year!

CHAPTER TEN

Odd that Segelfoss does not flourish, that business does not develop here with people earning money hand over fist, and traffic bustling in the streets. Just look at Gordon Tidemand, the Consul! He is up and doing, he has many irons in the fire.

There he is in the bank exchanging a few words with Lawyer-Banker Pettersen—the “Buttonhead.”

“My account is over-drawn—hm—a small amount, really less than one might expect, merely a few kroner. However, it is necessary for me to have cash to my credit.”

Yes, “Buttonhead” will care for his needs with pleasure, with extreme pleasure, in fact. For “Buttonhead” knows that the Consul would still have his ground rents even were all else to fail. Furthermore, his holdings here in the parish represent a whole fortune in themselves, a fortune “Buttonhead” would be only too glad to take over, if necessary.

“All right, then make it for—let’s say ten thousand. I’ve many workers on my pay-roll and I’m expecting a motor car.”

“Buttonhead” makes a note of the figure, 10,000.

So much for that.

The next person to be interviewed was Altmulig. Ah, there was one throbbing with life and activity! Altmulig was hard at work laying a cement floor in the garage which was to house the new car; haste for this had been so necessary, that he had been compelled to discontinue his supervision of the road-building work and to leave this in charge of Adolf. The automobile, it seems, had been telegraphed for and might already be on its way north. Wasn’t that sufficient reason for haste! But wasn’t there likewise reason for haste in completing the very road along which the machine would roll when the Consul and his family were sojourning “out in the country?”—Altmulig is hard-pressed. He hasn’t a moment to devote to his road-gang for he must help the Gypsy Alexander and the gardener Steffen with the cementing of this floor, though these two in turn are likewise hard-pressed, the one with his smoking of salmon, the other with the necessity of hilling the potatoes and weeding out the turnip beds. The whole pinch for time lies simply in the Consul’s unquenchable thirst for activity.

“Altmulig,” he says, “it has just occurred to me that Olsen, that old skipper of mine, never seems to look after anything any more. He seems to spend most of his time raising potatoes and going to the movies with his wife and children. You’d never know he was working for me. I was wondering in what condition he left the sloop. Do you know?”

Altmulig says nothing.

“I’m afraid he’s left things pretty much open so that anyone can get in. I believe we ought to lock things up on board.”

Altmulig says nothing.

“Do you suppose you could see to this, Altmulig? Fit her with locks both fore and aft. And there are some bed-clothes and other things to be brought ashore. You can obtain what locks you require at the store.”

Altmulig: “Ay ay, sir.”

The Consul inspects the cement work. “Well, I see you’re getting on in fine shape.”

“We’ll have to hurry if we want to be finished in time. We’ve another garage to build, you know.”

The Consul receives this with a jolt: “Good Heavens, I had quite forgotten about that!”

The Herr Consul has so many things to remember, Altmulig politely suggests. But with regard to garage number two, the one down at the store—the Consulate!—it had been Altmulig himself who had brought up the need for it. He now reports that he would knock out the wall between the stall and the carriage floor and turn the whole place into a garage.

“Does it have to be as large as all that?”

“It ought to be,” Altmulig replies, “to make room for the gasoline tanks, the spare parts, the oil cans and a lap robe to use when it’s cold.”

“Of course. Naturally. Do you drive a car yourself?”

“Well, I haven’t got an operator’s license.”

“I have one,” says the Consul. “But mine is English. We must both see about getting ourselves Norwegian licenses. It is possible that I shall need you to drive for me on occasion.”

He nods and is on his way, thinking no doubt how fortunate he is to have a man such as Altmulig to fathom his every problem—a miracle-worker, a genius in head and hand. And how well he knew how to behave! Had it come to Altmulig’s mind to congratulate him upon his consular appointment? Of course not, he had simply addressed him as “Herr Consul.” Others would have stepped up, seized his hand and vulgarly congratulated him. Skipper Olsen, for example....

There stands Altmulig, for his own part smoothing out a cement floor and anything but pleased in his mind. He is waiting on pins and needles for that money of his which never arrives. Not that he is hard-up for cash—he still receives his regular pay from the chief, enough to care for his needs—no, what he really lacks is capital. Furthermore, he is constantly being interrupted, summoned from all quarters and never able to see anything through to a clean finish. To fit locks aboard the sloop will take him away from his work just that long; his two assistants will be helpless to go on without him. And briefly, he ought to have paid a certain call down in South Parish long before this. But does he ever find himself with a spare moment on his hands? Oh, he could find important enough business to take him down into South Parish, some downright pressing errand. Never fear as to that, for who could contradict him? But during the day he has no time, and during the night he must sleep....

“Go on back to your regular work until I’m finished aboard the sloop,” he says to his helpers.

“All right,” they say. “But we could keep right on here, then maybe we could get through some time. What do you think yourself, Altmulig?”

“Think? You have your orders!”

But Alexander has something of a personal interest in the matter and— “It’s all foolishness to lock up the sloop,” he says.

Altmulig ignores the remark.

“For there isn’t a lock made that can’t be picked,” says Gypsy Alexander.

Altmulig looks at him. “Take my advice and stay off that sloop after I’m finished there today.”

“Hm.”

“Ay, just you take my advice! Unless you want to run into something you’re not looking for!”

“What are you talking about? What should I run into?”

“I’ve warned you,” mumbles August and with that he crosses himself.

The Gypsy, as an afterthought: “No, I—that I should go aboard? No, all I said was that we should hurry up and get finished here. Come on, Altmulig, don’t go and get mad now!”

* * * * *

On Sunday August took the bull by the horns and left for South Parish. Naturally he could not get there afoot in a minute, but who ever heard of a man crawling out of bed and shaving himself at three o’clock in the morning in order to be in South Parish at ten!

He does not deck himself out in all the finery he has to his name, but he does put on a brand-new red-plaid shirt over which he buttons no more than the bottom two buttons of his vest in order to expose his shining breast.

What does he want down at that new house of Tobias’? Has he come on a pressing errand? No one can contradict him. He is August. He is an old free-lance wanderer, a stranded sailor, his trade is alt mulig, everything under the sun, his place is everywhere, his life’s meaning changes day by day. Do not ask him about his errand. It is for him to raise that issue. He is just like everyone else, save that he has a bit more intelligence, a bit more ingenuity; he has a sense of grandeur and adventure, he evolves plans and has the will-power to execute them—the equipment, as well. Otherwise, he is just like everyone else. And yet—

It is he who can ask: What in the world has become of all I have got out of life? A scamp and a prevaricator, a braggart, a gambler, a fool, a law-breaker, too, at times—but innocent of malice, naïve to a degree, and born with a friendly nature, and the ability to enjoy one’s self. Here he stands today in his old age and, in the language of Gordon’s accountancy, his assets exceed his liabilities.

A loser he has been in every undertaking, in love, in his quest for lasting joy, in the rightful cravings of his nature. Fate has exacted substantial deductions from whatever gains he may have made in this life. Downright abused he has been, no blessings have fallen upon his head, behind him, wherever he has gone, ruins have lain in his wake, though he has always striven to give the best that was in him. And how he has striven! Who has ever found him at his wits’ end? For him life has been less to relish than to endure; he has staggered along under the weight of his days and his years. And now his time is over and he knows it; no change shall come into his life, no ultimate reward shall be his; he expects no justice, nor even mercy. And yet—

And yet he makes straight for South Parish and the house where Tobias lives. And he lies by saying that he has come on pressing business, to look at a horse—a horse he has already seen. Well, who can contradict him?

Upon his arrival the household is thrown into a panic of excitement. To the extent of their humble means, the members of the family are attired in their Sunday best, Cornelia even with a silver ring on her finger. But did they have a single thing to entertain him with in the way of food? The cupboard was bare; in desperation the mother of the house stood there with her hands upon her breast and said: “We have company! We have company!” Cornelia tore the kerchief from about her head, dusted off a chair and invited their guest to sit down.

“You mustn’t let yourselves get all upset just because of me,” said August, though inwardly he had no objection to being regarded as an important arrival.

Nor was this the first time the family had seen him; both Tobias and his wife had already made a trip into town to thank him and bless him for the horse. And they had been bewildered and excited then, too, though that was not to be wondered at, when they suddenly found themselves the recipients of this clear gift of a horse—the rich stranger had waved all suggestion of a promissory note aside. They had enumerated all the horse’s good points, told how they had come across the animal in the neighbouring parish and purchased it on the spot—a mare, brown with a black mane and tail, a white face, four legs—ay, naturally she had four legs, but sturdy legs, they meant, as sturdy as fence-posts—four sturdy fence-posts for legs, was what they had meant to say. The only trouble with her was that she had a bit of a bad temper, she had a little trick of laying back her ears, but this was unimportant, hardly noticeable, in fact, and Cornelia and her mother could easily capture her by offering her a wisp of hay. They could never thank him enough for this wonderful mare, never so long as they lived.... “I’ll come out and look at the horse some day soon,” August had said. And today he has come.

Cornelia’s small sisters and brothers have huddled themselves in one corner of the room and stand there peering out at him. They are wearing but little in the way of clothing; all are barefoot, all have grey starved faces and long silken eyelashes—the family trait. One small lad has a wide-awake appearance, the faces of the others seem dull and lifeless. There are four of them in all. Including Cornelia, the grown son who remained in Lofoten and the daughter in service at the druggist’s, there are seven children in the family. Prolific parents, it would seem.

Various religious tracts and pamphlets left behind by the evangelist are in evidence about the house. It is annoying to August to be reminded of this man and he inquires tartly what kind of a fellow he had been. A person to keep in one’s house, for example?

Ay, he had been a first rate man.

How first rate? Had he been anything else but a miserable whelp of a vagabond?

Ay, said Tobias—an extra fine fellow.

Had he paid for his keep?

Lord, yes. Paid for the whole sheep. Slaughtered a sheep for him, they had.

August could get nowhere with them; they defended the evangelist, shielded his head with their hands. Paid for the sheep—well, why shouldn’t he have paid for it? He had eaten it up before he left, had he not? August is many times on the point of interrupting this distressing conversation by asking to be shown the horse, but he keeps on asking questions. Had he been a young man? What had he looked like? Questions which had for three weeks been plaguing his mind. They had probably polished his shoes for him, Cornelia had perhaps sewed buttons on his clothes, they had seen him off on the ship—oh, there were so many secrets to be fathomed!

“I got this silver ring from him,” says Cornelia.

“What!” August screams at the ceiling. “What did you get that for?”

“I don’t know, he just gave it to me. Took it off his own finger and gave it to me.”

“Show me the horse!” bellows August, rising.

They go outside, the whole family takes him out to show him the horse. It is grazing in a field at the side, it glances up, lays back its ears in silent fury and continues to nibble the grass.

“Don’t get too near her, children!” their father warns. And with that he proceeds once again to enumerate the creature’s fine points, beginning with her remarkable powers of digestion. “See how broad and strong she is! Look at those legs! As sturdy as fence-posts, I’d say!” Then—“I wish as you’d look in her mouth,” he suggests, “have a look at her teeth—”

No, August was not the least bit interested in her teeth; he said that he could see at a glance that she was a splendid animal. No one could tell him anything about horses. Look straight through them, he could! And in order to emphasize his knowledge of horse-flesh, he adjusted his nose-glasses and studied the mare from all angles.

They were unable to capture the creature for the purpose of stroking it and admiring its coat. Hardly! The beast would scowl out of the corner of its eye and immediately turn its back on anyone attempting to approach. “Well, she has that little bad habit,” said Tobias. “But otherwise she’s as gentle as a lamb!” And again he undertook to offer August his extravagant thanks and blessings....

August draws Cornelia to one side and speaks to her in a low voice: he has not seen her since that first time, where has she been keeping herself?— Home. She’s been home the entire time. Many things to do. Hilling potatoes. Of late she’s been cutting peat.—She might have come to town and gone to the movies with him.—Ay, that would have been fun! She has heard about them. Living people and animals just like in real life!—Would she like to go with him that evening?—Oh, if only she could! But she has the creatures to tend to and the milking.—Couldn’t her mother do the milking?—Heavens, ’twas not to be thought of!

“It’s just that you don’t want to!” he said. “All right!” he added with a hurt nod of the head. He could see at once how things stood! He took a couple of long strides but he lacked the fine courage to leave her and go off by himself and sulk.

She for her own part felt badly and she, too, took several long strides to catch up with him. “Could I have a few words with you?” she asked.

“All right, let’s go over to the barn.”

He held no illusions, his time was over, had been over for more than a human generation. He had nought save antiquity to lavish upon her; he lacked future, significance. But he had felt a foolish little warm spot glowing in his breast. Age had crushed his heart beneath the weight of many long years, but one day that heart had none the less fluttered because of two eyes which had looked at him from beneath their fringes of long silken lashes and a feeling of tenderness had seized him, a sweet urge to be something to the girl.

They were walking against the wind and for her this was nothing at all. For him, however, this was trouble enough; his old eyes watered and he was compelled to wipe his cheeks without letting her see. Oh, but the devil, he was still what he was, was he not?—a man in a red plaid shirt, a man who could make a gift of a horse or two!

The barn was empty and bare, not a wisp of hay or anything else to offer them comfort, so they sat down, side by side, in the doorway. They sat down and looked back in the direction of the mare grazing in the field beside the house. Nought else was there to see save the road and a youth rambling along from the neighbouring farm.

“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” August asked.

“Nothing,” she replied. “I just didn’t want you to be angry with me!”

He decided to give her more time and fell to stabbing the ground with his staff. Meanwhile she kept her eyes fastened upon the youth rambling down the road. She did not utter a word. No, it appeared that Cornelia had withdrawn into herself and would refuse to talk.

“Where was that preacher fellow from?” August asked.

“The preacher? I don’t know.”

“Well, he must be from some place, mustn’t he?”

“Ay, I suppose he must.”

“Hahaha, I have to laugh when I think of it, but is it so that he baptised folk?”

“Of course. But we didn’t get ourselves baptised. None of us did.”

“He wanted you to, though, I suppose?”

“He mentioned it. But he wanted to wait until he came back.”

“What, is he coming back here? No, I imagine that will depend just a wee bit upon what the Consul has to say about it, if I should happen to mention the matter to him!” August nodded and tightened his lips.

The youth is rambling past; his face is unnaturally pale and he appears to be greatly excited over something. Just as he is passing he calls out: “Well, I see you’re having a good time!”

Cornelia herself goes pale as death but August takes no notice. He is absorbed entirely in his own problem and asks: “Did he have a beard?”

“What’s that?” she asked, bewildered. “That lad?”

“I mean that preacher fellow, that vagabond. I asked if he had a beard.”

“Oh, him! Yes, a long beard.”

“Naturally. He’s one of the kind that never take the trouble to shave, but go about looking like pigs. Excuse me!”

“Ay,” says Cornelia and she too laughs.

“But was it perhaps a thick pretty-looking beard?” August inquires sarcastically.

Cornelia laughs again. “No, I don’t think so. Just ordinary,” she says.

“Was he young?”

“Young, did you say? No.”

August glances at her with something akin to humility in his eyes. “Ay, but I suppose he was younger than me?” he asks.

“I couldn’t say. How old are you?”

“Oh,” answers August, evasively. “I’m a real old man now. Just a worn-out piece of junk.”

“My, how you talk!” she says mildly.

“Ay, that I’ll admit straight out. An old piece of junk!” His contempt for the vagabond preacher leads him to deliver a further blast in that direction. “So he isn’t as old as I am, eh? Then I’m mindful to know what the devil he had to come simpering around here for. You can tell him from me that I’ve no more use for him than I have for this stick I’ve got in my hand. Who ever heard of such a thing! Too lazy to shave off that beard of his! A fool, that’s what he was, a mere puppy, a cock with a comb—”

“No, no, no! He was not!”

“He certainly was, and I know it. But that’s nothing. A man to be a real man has to be old. That’s what I mean!”

“Ay.”

“I’ll give that fellow something he’s not bargaining for. Now what do you say to that?”

“I? What do I care about him”

“Hm?” asks August, amazed.

“What do you mean? It’s not the preacher I’m to have.”

August, still more deeply amazed: “Yes, but—you see, I thought—”

“Hahaha!” Cornelia laughs. She throws back her head and laughs uproariously.

August thought for a moment and, as usual, came back with a quick retort: “Well then, you can go to the movies with me, can’t you?”

She shook her head. “Didn’t you see the lad who just went by?” she asked.

“That lad? Ay. Oh, so he’s the one you’re to have?”

She stepped down from her seat and made sure the youth was a good distance away. Returning, she was more communicative, she was willing to talk. Ay, he was always after her. She couldn’t go anywhere, either to a dance or a meeting, without his flying into a rage. He was furious with her now just because he had seen her sitting there with another man. She didn’t know what she was going to do with him.

August fell into a brown study, gave thought to the manifold complexities of life. “But,” he said, “if it isn’t that preacher fellow you’re to have, why the devil did I get myself all worked up over him?”

Cornelia laughed and answered that she had wondered about that herself.

So August had lost again, had staked much and lost again. Regret and deep chagrin, his world seemed topsyturvy. Nevertheless, he was gallant in defeat. “Ay,” he said, “now that it’s a young good-looking lad you’re to have, Cornelia, there’s all the difference in the world. I say no more.”

But now it was her turn to open her heart and it seemed as though this were the matter about which she had intended to speak to August. “Things aren’t so definitely settled between us,” she said.

“Hm. Then maybe you don’t care as much for him as you might, eh?” he asked.

She sighed and shook her head. Then suddenly she burst into tears. Oh, the manifold complexities of life! The point was: she had another lad!

August was speechless.

And the fact of the matter was that relations between this other youth and herself were becoming more and more settled and definite. Ay, but Hendrik, he would give her no peace. So really she didn’t know what in the world to do. Why, this very day he had come to her and threatened to shoot them both.

“Hold on, hold on! Wait a minute!” said August. “Who said he was going to shoot?”

“Hendrik. The one we just saw go by.”

“Well, what’s the other one’s name?”

“Benjamin. He’s from North Parish. But Hendrik said he would shoot him right off the face of this earth—”

“Oh, go kiss your grandmother!” snorted August.

“And he means what he says, too. He’s been and asked that Aase.”

“That Aase? Oh, piffle!”

“She has given him much advice, for Aase, she’s angry at us and would like to make things hard for us. It’s all because of one time when we couldn’t put her up over night. She’s tried to make things hard for us ever since. She carries a grudge so long. That’s why the whole thing seems so awful.”

“Don’t you bother your head about such stuff!” August said in a soothing voice. “He wouldn’t dare shoot. And as for that Aase, I’ll see she is put in prison. And I can do it, too. I’ve been thinking of it for some time.”

Cornelia, catching her breath. “Bless you! I knew if only I could have a talk with you—”

August swelled and went further to console her. Did she imagine for a moment that Hendrik would dare to shoot! How old was he?

“Twenty-two. But that Benjamin, he’s twenty-four.”

“You shall have that Benjamin!” August decided. And now it was his intense desire that she should look to him; the time was ripe for him to declare himself. “Don’t sit there crying, a young thing like you!” he says. “You don’t see me crying, do you? I’m a worn-out piece of junk—there’s no use trying to deny it—a perfect example of an old broken-down thing, like a star that falls out of the sky because it’s too old and weak to hold on any more—you needn’t try to deny it. But I’ve had my day, and what a day it was!”

“Ay, I dare say you have!”

“You may be sure of that!” he said, beginning to boast. “Why, Lord bless your soul, you never saw anything like the figure I used to cut when I was young. Once I had three after me at the same time and here you’ve only two. And another time a party of girls chased me out on the ice. Yes sir, and the ice was strong enough to hold me, but there were five girls after me and that was too much for it—it broke and down they went. I’ll never forget it. Two of the girls were as pretty as could be—”

“But what happened to them?” Cornelia anxiously asked.

“Oh, I saved them,” August said to relieve her mind.

If he had abused the evangelist too shabbily, he went far to make up for it now. He entertained her and consoled himself with the tales he told her, perhaps even believing the words he spoke. After rattling off a number of yarns, he came out with this one: They were in a foreign land, it seems, and a young girl was sitting outside her door playing on a harmonica. It was lovely music she was playing and the girl herself was beyond his powers of description, so utterly lovely she was. She had numberless strings of pearls about her neck and her body was draped with no more than a mantle of gauze—it was a summer day and the air was warm. In her own language they had called her Signora, so that was probably her name. The moment she saw him, she rose to her feet, walked over to him and smilingly invited him into the house. Inside she refused to sit anywhere save on his lap.... “Cornelia, you must believe me, she was a sweetheart worth having! But there was trouble between us when it came time for me to go back to my ship, for you see I was on shore-leave at the time. Well sir, I couldn’t do a thing with her. She was determined to go aboard with me and she insisted she would never leave me so long as she lived. Do you know what I did? I took her aboard with me, gave her something to drink and a few other things besides. But in the meantime a pack of swine ashore began shooting at me.”

“Shooting at you?”

“Ay, but that didn’t bother me any in those days. The worst trouble was when the time came for her to go back ashore, for that she refused to do and simply sat down and cried.”

“So you didn’t stay with her?”

“A thousand times impossible! How could I stay with them all? She was only one. But she was with me in my cabin for a good long time, and my, how pleased and happy she was over that! Ay, that was in the old days!” said August, with a sigh.

He must have enjoyed rolling these juicy stories over his tongue; they did him good, they were all he needed. When Cornelia asked him if he had never been married, it would have been sweet indeed to have answered: “Not yet!” But, instead, he fell sad and intimated that such bliss had been denied him by fate. Oh, but he had had many earthly experiences, and one time, in particular, in a land where the palms and raisins grow, he had been engaged to marry a certain girl but nothing had ever come of it.

Had she died, then?

Ay, God rest her bones! He paused to feel sorry for himself, uttered a series of pathetic sighs. He might have asked Cornelia to blow her cool breath upon him, as though he were a child that had bruised its head. But—“So much for that!” he said. “I’ve had my day! And this much I can say for myself: I’ve never married any of them and gone off and left them with a lot of children to support. No sir, I’ve never done anything but well by them. I’ve never committed any sins against them.”

“Ay, and even we got a horse from you! Good Heavens, if only we could do something for you in return!”

“A mere trifle!” said August.

“We’ve wondered at home if we couldn’t maybe darn socks for you or something else like that. But, I suppose it’s an insult even to mention a thing like that. You have everything that anyone can—”

Suddenly Hendrik appears around the corner of the barn; he scowls at them and is on the point of going his way.

August, suddenly wide awake: “Hendrik, come here!”

Hendrik looks over his shoulder and halts in his tracks. He has become startlingly aware of the fact that August is sitting there with a revolver in his hand.

“Come here, I said!”

“What do you want with me?” asks Hendrik, deathly pale.

“Oh no! Oh no!” pleads Cornelia.

August: “I hear you’ve been threatening to use a gun on some one. I’d just like to warn you against it. Do you see that aspen over there? Do you see that red leaf?”

“Ay, what about it?”

“Just this!”—August crosses himself, forehead and breast, takes momentary aim and fires.

The red aspen leaf has disappeared, only the branch is left there trembling. A bull’s-eye, fool luck. Hendrik’s jaw drops open. A miracle from Heaven that the bullet found its mark, for the shot had been fired at random. But August had paused to cross himself twice and no doubt that had helped—there was something uncanny about it, an act of sorcery, an appeal to the Evil One for help—ay, and thus was Aase powerless!

August looks at the boy. “You can see, I’m a fellow you’d better steer clear of!”

“Ay—”

“Now step over to that aspen and I’ll put a nick in your ear!”

“Oh no! Oh no!” Cornelia squeals.

Hendrik’s teeth are chattering. “I didn’t mean—that wasn’t what I meant— I never—I only said it to—”

“Go on home!” August commands him.

Cornelia leaps to her feet, clutches the boy’s arm and off they flee together.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The sloop had been locked up fore and aft, whatever could be the reason which had called forth this measure. What was the matter with Gordon Tidemand? He hadn’t suspected his mother of anything, had he? That couldn’t have been it; he had had no grounds for suspicion. She had merely been aboard to look around. Nevertheless for several days Gammelmoderen had been deeply concerned over something; she had missed a certain belt of hers and if it were on the sloop she could have left it, it would now be locked up tight. Delicious food for scandal.

She could not go aboard again to search for it, nor could she ask Altmulig if he had found it. The situation was painful indeed. Naturally Altmulig might of his own accord have let fall a word or two; she had given him the opportunity, had smiled and dropped the proper hints; but no, he had said nothing. So there was nothing more to be done about it.

But a final ruling in the account was that the sloop was now locked up. But it was more than the mere cabin of a sloop Gammelmoderen now found herself deprived of. Of a truth, she was still young in body and spirit; it was splendid to feel herself a part of life once more, and, since she was not of an age to be free from all possible danger, she had a devil of a lot of courage when it came to taking risks.

She was always present when there was salmon on hand to be smoked. She had important duties to perform in the course of this delicate process; the right kind of smoke was essential and in exactly the needed volume. She was indispensable there in the smokehouse.

But to an equal extent was the Gypsy Alexander likewise indispensable. So there you have it: an indispensable pair. There was no one to equal him at hauling salmon out of the sea, no one could split the fish so evenly down the spine, no one could salt it and stretch it and take out the bones as neatly as he. The gardener Steffen had attempted it, but he had made a mess of things. And when all these preparatory tasks had been performed, Alexander would mount the roof and hang the salmon in even rows down into the smoke-vent and lightly cover it over. And there again had the gardener Steffen proved clumsy; once he had lowered a string of salmon all the way down into the fire pit. No, there was an art and a science to smoking salmon.

It was likewise Alexander’s task to cut peat and heather and moss and juniper for use in the smoking process, for this was a combination of fuel which would give forth billows of smoke without once bursting into flame. Adjoining the smokehouse itself was a storage bin packed with this fuel. The moss and juniper must be kept at all times moist, the peat and heather dry. So here too was a question of science.

Alexander was a good man for the job, an expert at work of this nature. He had elevated the smoked salmon industry at Segelfoss to the point where shipments were made to the cities, to the point where it was earning a steady profit upon which the chief had already begun to rely. That Alexander, that Gypsy! Tall, thin, a lonely man, no friends in the town, but a tower of strength in himself, steel in that back-bone of his. And all were, in truth, against this swarthy stranger, and he would hardly have bothered to remain on the place had he not been both subtle and cunning—he would not have bothered to stay on, were it not for Gammelmoderen.

The affair between the two was audacious and thoroughgoing, though not entirely lacking in glamour, passion, and romantic love. There was a mad though loyal bond between them—a bond of Gypsy forging—which nothing could break asunder and which under different circumstances might have been given a fairer name. They might have parted company to their mutual advantage. But this they did not; their passion was as poignant as youth’s first love. But it was dangerous and deeply afflicted.

They had met during their younger days, he and the widow of Theodore paa Bua. The original fusion of their passion had taken place during a golden opportunity out in the berry field—she had given him a certain look upon leaving the house and he had gone a round-about way and met her. Violence—violence and violation, but so welcome, so unimpeachable. Ay, and their affair had continued without interruption throughout two whole summers and one winter. When they parted, they had had good cause to remember each other and when they met again they had neither of them changed; they were the same mad lovers they had been during their earliest youth. Segelfoss again, he and she again, wine and rapture, madness and bold adventure. And their conscience was perfectly clear—Theodore paa Bua was dead.

They had a deep secret between them, did they not? Yes, but they never mentioned it to each other, never referred to it, not once during their moments together. But it was there all the time like a tender bond between them. Possibly the parental emotion. Both were devoted to Gordon Tidemand.

“They’ve locked up the sloop,” she told him.

“I know it,” he replied.

“They’ve locked up the sloop,” she repeated softly to herself.

The fact had not seemed to bowl him over; he smiled, and he had such white teeth in that swarthy face of his. Everyone considered Alexander’s eyes too piercing and they were all a little afraid of him, but she—she called him Otto and loved him. Oh, how deeply in love with him she was! And this was so strange. He was frivolous and cunning; he pilfered and robbed and appeared none too pleasing from the rear, he had no sense of honour toward anyone, he seldom bathed, went about with gold rings in his ears, blew his nose through his fingers—all this and even more. But he was hot-headed and pugnacious; as lithe as a willow, he could leap a good meter aside before one could strike him a blow, and once he had jumped out of a second-storey window in the main building and landed on his toes—all this, as well. He was a tramp and a rogue. But Gammelmoderen had no fault to find with him; he was possessed of the voracious eroticism of his race and he kept her in a constant state of yearning. They had been in the habit of meeting four, or at least, three times each week, though there had never been any definite arrangement. But now they no longer had a comfortable sloop cabin in which to lie as man and wife, now they could only meet out in the smokehouse occasionally when there was salmon to be smoked. But he was never at a loss, even so; a wild fancy might strike him and he would gather her into his arms, wrestle with her and drag her bodily into the storage bin where the peat and heather was stored.

“The door!” she exclaims. “The door is open!”

But he cares not for that, he cares for nothing in the world but her. The odour of peat and heather assails their nostrils; they are out in the berry field again!

Afterwards neither of them appear any too bold; no, they realize the risk they have taken.

She says: “You’re so careless, Otto!”

“Ay, but what other way is there for us?”

“But what if someone had come?” she asked.

“Ay,” he answered with a shake of his head.

“And if some other time someone should come?”

“Ay.”

The storage bin was a dangerous retreat and it was foolhardy indeed to leave the door open. But possibly an open door, after all, is less likely to arouse suspicion than a closed one. Furthermore the floor of the smokehouse would emit a loud squeak were anyone to come. Oh, but it couldn’t go on that way, in the long run it couldn’t go on! Well? They would have to find another way. They were really in a tight place at last. They could not walk along the same pathway together without having eyes staring at them from this window or that. Alexander shared his room with the gardener Steffen, and Gammelmoderen’s room in the main building adjoined the nursery on the one hand and Marna’s room on the other. A luckless tryst in Gammelmoderen’s room, nought else, had been the cause of Alexander’s miraculous leap from a second-storey window to the ground.

Everything seemed so preposterous.

But a storage bin and a bed of peat and heather, these were at least accessible; all they had to do was walk in. And—“Leave it to me!” Alexander would say. “Leave it to me!”

So there was no great change, after all.

Time after time they had taken alarm and nothing serious had happened. They were helpless but they were bold. They let things go.

Now and then they would be called away for some purpose, Gammelmoderen to wait upon Fru Juliet or the children, Alexander to perform some small service in the kitchen—lift some heavy object or kill a mouse in the wood-box. They were at close hand and easy to find. Possibly there were times when they were intentionally disturbed. No, their position was anything but enviable.

See, there comes Altmulig now with orders for Alexander to come finish up the work in the garage. The concrete they had laid Saturday had had two days to set. It would be all right now for them to proceed with their work.

“Haven’t got the time,” answered Alexander.

“The fact is we’re putting up a garage,” said Altmulig. “And we’ll have to hurry the work along.”

“You must go, Otto,” said Gammelmoderen.

They made short work of the garage at the Manor and moved their tools down to the Consul’s place of business in town. Their first task there was to tear down a partition. After that they spaded up the ground, set up scaffoldings and started in pouring cement. A big piece of work; August was here, there and all over. He had it in mind to make the place over into a really fine garage. The consular escutcheon had recently arrived and now appeared as the only object of embellishment outside the chief’s private office. August had decided of his own accord to brace the walls of his garage with steel struts and divide the wall-space off into panels. This work could, if necessary, be performed after the arrival of the Consul’s new car.

There came spectators to watch him at work—loafers and youngsters. Editor Davidsen of the Segelfoss News came and interviewed Altmulig about this auto stable which already had the appearance of a residence fit for a lord. The doctor’s young sons were there constantly and it was impossible to shoo them away. Two young hellions, they were, forever climbing about and sitting astride the roof beams. To be sure they climbed to no great height, but the floor beneath them was of solid concrete, as hard as rock, were either of them to fall. Altmulig spoke to them frequently and warned them particularly against standing on one foot on the beams, a trick they had begun to perform. And yes, he had been right: one day the elder of the two boys came tumbling down. From no great height, to be sure, but the floor was as hard as rock and the impact was exactly what was to be expected. He laughed and said that he was all right, but when he tried to get up, he found he could no longer stand. No, there was some trouble with one of his legs—it was broken. So he had had a serious fall, in spite of Altmulig’s warnings. Alexander took him on his back and carried him home.

There was great excitement at the doctor’s, the mother beside herself and unconsolable, the doctor desiring to take his son to the hospital in Bodø, unable to do so for three days as there would be no south-bound steamer until then, and thus himself obliged to set the leg in temporary splints. No end of excitement in the house, for the boy was not laughing now, he was bellowing.

The following day the doctor’s wife came racing up to August, beside herself and unconsolable: her son had put in a perfectly hideous night, he had screamed and was possibly even dying, for his father, the doctor, had probably squeezed all life out of the leg with all those awful splints, that’s the way it looked, and he had given the boy drops to make him sleep, but he hadn’t been able to sleep. She had begged him to administer a stronger dose, but he had refused. Now she had heard about ... the doctor’s wife draws August with her out into the street, far away from the garage, meanwhile continuing to chatter her explanations: everyone was so kind, a neighbour woman had come to the house and she had heard of someone who could put a person to sleep, who could soothe that boy of hers; he screamed so and he couldn’t fall asleep and now August must help her in her trouble....

Ay, August would help the doctor’s wife, he would help that sweet little Esther who had herself been unable to sleep and who was now so utterly beside herself. “Just you take and go home now,” he said. “I’ll throw on my coat and be off in a jiffy.”

“Do you think you can find her?”

“Don’t you worry about that!” answers August. Oh that August, he was always so emphatic about the things he said. “Don’t you worry about that!” he had said.

“And this would be such a good time, just now,” says the doctor’s wife. “My husband was called out this afternoon and he thought he would be gone quite some time.”

August looks at his watch and reports: “She will be in your house before six o’clock!”

* * * * *

August kept his word; Aase came to the house. He had made tracks straight to South Parish and inquired indirectly as to her whereabouts. Wandering about as was her custom, he had learned, and the day before she had been into town. He had located her at last in the old Lapp’s hut where she lived, had paused on the threshold to cross himself as a precaution against her power of evil, and stepped in. Aase was willing at once, Aase had nothing against being called to the doctor’s house.

“It’s a lucky thing I found you,” said August.

“I was expecting a message,” she replied. “That’s why I am at home.”

“It’s a broken leg,” he explained.

“I knew it before you told me,” she replied.

She knew it before he had told her! Hearing this, August again took the trouble to cross himself. The devil was in this female creature!

They began walking off together. “You’re not to come with me, do you hear!” she said, motioning him away. With that she went stalking off alone, tall, of proud and regal carriage. Arriving at the doctor’s home, she marched without hesitation straight up the steps in front. The lady herself admitted her and led the way up to the sick room. As though by tacit agreement they stole softly without speaking up the stairs—to be sure, the doctor was out of the house, but there were the maids to be considered.

Aase stationed herself by the bed and gently picked up the patient’s hands. The lad was so amazed by the sight of her that he let out a little squeak. He quite neglected to bellow. In truth he had never had any real cause for bellowing; it had been merely a case of bad temper with him, he had bellowed merely to arouse his mother’s sympathy.

“See here!” says the lady, turning back the covers.—If only her husband, the doctor, had been here now!—“Just see here! Great ugly wooden sticks, bound all up with wire! Is there any wonder that he screams? Bound all up like that—”

Aase passed her hand up and down the bandaged leg and pulled up the covers again. She observed that the lad was staring curiously at all the dingledangles hanging from her belt and that he was attempting to pull himself up in the bed to get a better look at them. Aase removed the belt, handed it to him and said: “Hold it a bit.”

“Am I to hold it?”

“Ay, look at it closely.”

This was not a difficult thing to get him to do. Such odd things: a smoking pipe of iron with a tiny perforated iron lid, a clever piece of work, and the pipe itself so graceful and so small; tobacco in a leather pouch, punk in another pouch, steel and flint for striking fire, objects of bone and silver, a foreign coin on a string, a knife in a case, the knife inlaid, the case engraved with symbols and runes; last of all a heart.

“Smell of it!” said Aase.

It contained a little sponge; there was nothing more strange than that inside, nothing to spring out and strike one in the eyes!

“Smell of it!” said Aase.

The lad smelled of it and said: “What an awful smell! Here, mama, you smell!” They both smelled and Aase said to the boy: “Now smell it a little more!”

The boy was ever so deeply fascinated by all the oddities attached to Aase’s belt, but at length he became tired and offered to hand the little museum back to her.

“Hold it a little longer!” said Aase.

“No, why should I!” fretted the boy, but he obeyed and again inspected the articles which hung from the belt. He was quite drowsy by this time and began to yawn; his eyelids had grown heavy, now and then he would close them and open them again with a start, but at length he kept them closed.

His mother whispered ecstatically: “He’s asleep! Just to think, he’s asleep!”

Aase moved over to the door and motioned the boy’s mother to accompany her; outside in the hall they remained standing together. It was then that Aase began to speak mystical and incomprehensible things to little Fru Esther. Oh, she drew herself up, puffed out her chest and affected an air of deep wisdom; she also performed a number of nonsensical rites, such as taking her own tongue between her fingers and swaying her body. And little Fru Esther, she thought this woman both handsome and hideous with that uncoiffed hair of hers which fell to her shoulders, those large horse-like teeth, that coldly arrogant face beneath the pointed cap she wore. Her hands were long and unclean, her fingers covered with heavy rings.

“I can never thank you enough,” says Fru Esther.

Aase: “When he wakes up, turn his night-shirt inside out and put it back on like that.”

“Ay.”

“And see as he wears it that way for a day and a night.”

Fru Esther nods.

“Then the doctor can take him to Bodø! Such will do him no harm. I’ve stroked him back to full health.”

“Will he be lame or have a stiff leg?”

“No.”

“Oh, to think he won’t be lame!” exclaims Fru Esther, enraptured. “Aase, see here! Take this—it’s only a banknote, such a small amount for such a great blessing. Please don’t spurn it!”

But Aase draws herself up again and brushes the money aside: “Away with it. Don’t even want to look at it. Have no use for it—hm, money! What are you thinking of—”

At this moment they hear the front door opening below. The doctor lets himself in, closes the door behind him and walks about through the rooms downstairs, calling in a loud voice: “Esther! Esther!”

“Yes!” his wife calls softly down the stairs to him. She is trembling, she would like to get Aase out of the way, urges her to retreat up into the attic. But Aase is proud and is of no mind to retreat. No, it is not for Aase to hide from any man!

The doctor mounts the stairs. His wife urges him to be quiet. “Sh! He’s asleep. Aase has put him to sleep!”

“What’s that?” asks the doctor. “Aase?”

“Yes. She came and put him to sleep.”

The doctor flashes his teeth and utters an enraged laugh.

“The idiocy of some women!” he growls.

His wife: “Don’t forget, he hasn’t had a wink of sleep for a day and a half—”

“Get out of here!” the doctor commands, addressing Aase and pointing down the stairs.

“He has my belt—”

“Yes,” explains Fru Esther. “He’s asleep with that belt of hers. He’s lying with it in his hand. I’ll—”

The doctor is already on his way into the boy’s room.

“Don’t wake him up,” his wife whispers after him. “Oh, don’t wake him up, I beg of you!”

“Here!” says the doctor, thrusting the belt with its cluster of dingledangles into Aase’s hand. “Now get out!”

Aase pauses deliberately to fasten the belt about her waist. The doctor is no doubt impatient over the delay this involves; he attempts to hurry her down the stairs, he attempts something in the nature of a push to help her along.

But no, this is no way to treat such a one as Aase; in a flash she wheels about, stretches forth her arms with fingers out-spread like claws and flings them in the doctor’s face.

A hoarse scream—the doctor leaps from the floor and clutches his face with his hands. Aase turns and marches proudly down the staircase.

For a moment the doctor remains stooping slightly forward, as though attempting to recover his balance.

“What’s the matter?” asks his wife, trembling. “Did she injure you?”

“Injure me!” He straightens up and removes his hands from his face. “See for yourself!”

One of his eyes, bathed in its own blood, is hanging down his cheek.

CHAPTER TWELVE

How many silly ways folk could find to waste a man’s time! Hither and yon August was called away from his work, consulted about this thing and that, gabbled at, and if there was no one else to disturb him then it would be the chief himself who would come to him with some question or problem. And when it was the Consul who addressed him, it was not for August to continue cementing his wall whilst answering; no, he must stand with body erect and deliver respectful replies.

“Can you drive a car yourself, Altmulig?”

“I haven’t the papers for it.”

“No operator’s license, eh? I have one,” said the chief, “but it’s in English. I wish you would find out what we must do to obtain Norwegian licenses. I’ll need you to relieve me when the occasion arises. This is a fine garage you’re putting up here.”

“If only we can get done with it!”

“Let’s hope so! It was too bad about that tumble the doctor’s youngster had in here.”

Altmulig: “I warned those lads ten times if I did once, but I was only wasting my breath.”

“They are incorrigible, those two. And now the doctor himself has trouble with one of his eyes and must go to the hospital as well. The ship is sailing tomorrow. By the way, I’d like to have all three of you down at the pier tomorrow to help the doctor and his son aboard.”

“Ay ay, sir!”

“Fine. Then you’ll see about those driving licenses, won’t you? I’m sure it has something to do with the sheriff or the judge—”

Later the chief-telegraphist stopped in—the bookworm. Again August was obliged to stand erect.

Any more Russian books?

No.

Any other rare books?

No.

“I may as well tell you,” the fellow said, “I bought that Russian Bible of yours.”

“Ho! Didn’t I know how it would be!” exclaims August. “So he turned it into money, did he!”

“He came and offered it to me.”

“How much did you give for it?”

“First let me know what the man paid you for it.”

“A swine about holy matters!” says August. “If I’d known that, I’d never have let him have it.”

“I paid him five kroner. Was that too much?”

August: “He’d better not come around me any more. Once he tried to sneak off with a brand-new—that is to say, a prayer book of mine—an old prayer book—”

“What language was it?”

August returns to his work, muttering: “He’d better not try to set foot in my place again—”

Later, trouble sprang up between the road gang and the blacksmith. Adolf comes to August with a complaint; the smith was so incompetent, Altmulig must take a hand.

Very well, Altmulig has it out with the man. The smith is unskilled in his craft; the blasting drills refuse to stand up, they either shatter or crumple at a blow; the man does not know how to temper his steel.

“Ho, so you say I don’t know how to harden steel, eh?”

“No. And if you can’t turn out better work than that, you’ve had your last drill and your last pickaxe from us.”

The smith laughs: “I’m the only blacksmith in town. I don’t know of anyone else. Unless you’d like to get the sexton to edge your tools for you!”

“I’ll telegraph for a field forge and do the work myself. And as for that, there’s nothing to prevent the Consul from getting a regular blacksmith to come here to Segelfoss.”

The smith turns pale. “A regular smith, did you say? Say, I learned my work from none less than Ship-smith Orne in Tromsø.”

“I can’t help that, you can’t temper a crow-bar so it will hold up.”

“Well, maybe I can’t. But if you think you can show me how, I’ll be glad to take lessons from you. Hahaha!”

Altmulig is pinched for time, he is behind with his work as it is; nevertheless he thrusts a bar in the forge and sets Adolf to working the bellows. The smith is an ill-natured spectator. Altmulig is no smith, but he is alt mulig, which means also a smith. This job he has set his hand to positively must succeed. But he has been faced with difficult problems before, this is not the first time he has stood at an anvil—he has tempered tool steel before.

And of course he is successful. He thins out the tip of the bar, keeps a sharp eye on the heat, stands ready with a handful of sand in the event the heat should become too intense, beats down the tip again, hammers it to a fine edge and for the third time buries it in the forge, this time calling for a gentle heat—take it easy on the bellows there, Adolf; ay, take it real easy now. Carefully, oh how carefully, August handles the bar at this stage.

“Now what do you generally do?” he scornfully asks the smith.

“What do I do? Why, I stick it in the water. Finished!”

“Well that’s not what I do!” said August.

No, that was not what August did; he thrust the glowing end of the crow-bar into the sand-box, held it there no longer than a split second, looked at it to make sure it had the correct bluish tint, delicately touched the tip to the surface of the water, withdrew it, touched it to the water again, withdrew it and examined it to make sure the bluish tint had all but disappeared, thrust it into the water again, turned it about in his hands, cooled it gradually.

They tried the edge with a file; the file would not bite. The smith nodded. They tried to blunt the crowbar by striking it against the anvil; they failed; the edge was still there. The smith nodded again. “I’ll try it like that after this,” he said respectfully. “Now go after this drill!”

“Haven’t got the time. But go at it the same way with your drills,” Altmulig advised. “And a little less heat on the pickaxes as there’s iron in with the steel. You must learn about these things. Remember, go easy when you’re trying to harden your steel.”

Altmulig was lucky this time and could strut, but he might not have been so lucky a second time. Possibly too he had employed a bit more hocus-pocus than was necessary. But he had maintained his reputation as an expert.

He turned to Adolf and said: “There’s a couple of places in the road we’ll have to go back and go over. Too narrow for the car, the mudguards will strike against the cliff, I’m afraid. We’ll either have to build it out to the left or blast away more of the cliff to the right. I’ll be up this evening and decide which will cost us least money. By the way, how are things going up the line?”

Adolf was quick to reply. “It’s that Francis,” he said.

“What’s the matter with him?”

“He’s just the same as usual.”

Altmulig: “Say, you’re an ass to let yourself be bothered by riff-raff like that Francis! Tell him from me that he’s to keep his mouth shut while he’s working for me!”

So much for that. But the interruptions, the general time-wasting continues. How discouraging! The following day Alexander fails to turn up for work in the garage. “Better and better all the time!” August bitterly complains.

“He’s smoking salmon,” the gardener Steffen replies.

“We’ll never in all eternity be through with this garage!”

“Well, the Consul makes more money smoking and shipping off salmon.”

“Money, money, money!” grates August. “What’s the good of such trifles? Here I’m building a road up the mountain and a garage in town—isn’t it enough that I’m doing to put this town and the people that live in it ahead? What the devil does that talk of yours amount to!”

“I merely told you what’s keeping Alexander away. That’s nothing to bite my head off for!”

“Do you know your way around up in North Parish?” August asks.

“That’s where I come from,” Steffen answers.

“Then I suppose you know a lad named Benjamin?”

“Ay, a neighbour, as you might say.”

“A lad of twenty-four. Is he from a farm?”

“Ay.”

“Go and get him and bring him here!”

“How’s that—now?”

“Certainly. And he’s to be in working clothes and have his lunch with him.”

When Benjamin arrived it was afternoon—another half-day wasted. Another whole half-day! Altmulig growled to himself. Altmulig is curt and commanding, desirous perhaps of impressing this new helper of his, and possibly he has good reasons for wishing to do so.

Benjamin is a friendly lad, somewhat slow in his movements, no crack hand, but able to accomplish the tasks he is put to. It is he who is to have Cornelia, eh? Well, maybe we’ll see about that! Nothing very grand about him—ptt, not a trace! He is young and that’s all. But a man to amount to anything must be old!

They work on steadily until quitting time and then get things ready for the morning. Alexander will be with them tomorrow and that will be some help, at least. If only the steamer they were waiting for would arrive this evening! Then they could help the doctor and his son aboard without wasting further working hours.

But in this they prove unfortunate: outside the store there was a telegram announcing that the steamer was late all the way north out of Senjen.

In the morning they start in working again and, as there are four of them now, they manage to accomplish quite a bit. Benjamin is a sturdy lad—yes, but let us not exaggerate—he is anything but a shining light, and furthermore he goes about with a full beard cluttering up his face. Odd people here in this world! But Altmulig sees through him at once and says: “What are you trying to look like with all that fancy trimming, a skipper or a kaiser?”

They continue their cementing for two hours or so. Then they hear the steamer whistling out at the point. Naturally, now that they have hit a stride in their work! The spell is broken. Alexander leaves them at once, for it is he who is to take in the shoreline. The others follow him to the wharf. The entire town is astir with excitement; grown folk and children and dogs, all go wandering down to the pier—even Jørn Mathildesen and his wife, Valborg from Øira make themselves part of the throng. There he goes brazenly walking along beside his wife, as smug as anyone else, and he in rags and she in her red and green dress.

Doctor Lund arrives hatless because of the bandage about his head, his son reclining on a spring mattress loaded onto a wagon. Fru Lund and her second son are accompanying the procession, Druggist Holm acting as escort. The Consul and his entire household, along with other members of Segelfoss society, are on the pier to greet them—the situation is all so sorrowful, they wish to share the misfortune.

“How in the world did it happen, Doctor?”

“Don’t ask. I was due for a bit of bad luck, I suppose!”

Fru Lund is weeping, careless of the fact that tears ill-become her; sometimes she stands beside her son, sometimes beside her husband. She utters but few words, merely pats them on the cheek and shows how much she loves them. Fru Juliet does her best to console her, and with her own hand brushes out the wrinkles in Fru Esther’s cloak.

“The boy is worse off than I am,” says the doctor. “He should have been taken to the hospital at once. It’s possible now that they may have to re-break and re-set the bone!”

“I don’t know which one of you is worse off!” answers little Fru Esther, shaking her head. “You are both so badly off!”

The boy, for his part, did not seem to be taking things too hard. When any one asked him if he were in pain, the little rascal would smile and admit that, yes, those wooden splints surrounding his leg were anything but comfortable to wear!

There was no great difficulty about carrying the box-springs aboard and when the boy was safely installed in his cabin, Alexander went below to see about a number of boxes of smoked salmon he was shipping south—valuable merchandise, worth gold.

With the departure of the ship the four garage-builders returned to their work. They might have remained on the pier to watch the crowd streaming back into town, but they could not afford to waste further time. They returned to work on their garage.

Suddenly the doctor’s wife appeared in the door. “Psst! One moment, August!”

August was obliged to drop his work and go out to her. Ah yes, but this time it was little Fru Esther and that was a horse of a different colour— there was no one else like her! “Keep at it, lads,” he said. “I’ll be right back!”

But no, he did not return immediately. Fru Esther was beside herself and in need of consolation! August was given a full account of the affair with Aase; at length Fru Esther was doing more weeping than talking. But this seemed to ease her heart. She had no qualms about divulging the entire gruesome secret; the doctor had taken the matter calmly, but he had requested her to keep things dark. Oh, he had been so strange about the whole affair, he had; not a harsh word had he spoken to her, though it was she herself who had been to blame. He had bathed the eye and set it back in its socket and bandaged it tightly in place, but several days had now passed and something had surely gone wrong with it—he himself believed that Aase’s unclean fingers had given him an infection. “Oh, it’s all so horrible to think of! And now he’s beginning to fear for his other eye. And that means he’ll be blind—”

“Oh my, no!” said August in that emphatic manner of his. “Not a chance!” he said, with a shake of his head.

“Don’t you think so, August?”

“Why, Lord bless your soul, my dear, do you think that if I got pus in one of my fingers here and had to have it cut off, I’d get pus in my other nine fingers, as well?”

And now August must tell her a story selected from his adventurous career. “Once I knew a sailor who had one of his eyes nipped out, but he wrapped it up in a piece of paper and went to the doctor and had it put back in again.”

“The same eye?” the lady inquires.

“Ay, but whether it was the same identical eye or not is something I can’t insist on, for I wouldn’t want to exaggerate. But it must have been, for the man was gone several days and when he came back aboard he had the same number of eyes as the rest of us and even when we went right up to him and counted closely the number was always the same. No, you see, these men of science, no matter what you say, they can do just about what they please. And I just thought of another man. Once he had a glass eye put in his head and he always insisted that he could see just as well with that glass eye as he could with his regular one. So, for that matter he might just as well have had two glass eyes in his head.... And it’s just the same with ears, too,” August goes on to explain. “How often haven’t I seen it happen in countries abroad that on Sundays they would stand around talking and suddenly whip out their revolvers and shoot off some fellow’s ear! But from all I could make out, that never did the man any harm—he could hear just as good as ever. No, I’ve never let myself get upset by the thought of losing an eye or an ear, or anything else about me, either, for in these days there’s nothing stops them when it comes to fixing a fellow up. Ay, just you believe what I’m telling you.”

And it was Fru Esther’s earnest desire to believe him. August gave her confidence; she could speak the language of her childhood and youth with him—her mother tongue, Poldenese—without being obliged to watch her words, and this alone was a pleasure and a blessing.

August: “It was a shame and a pity about that lad of yours falling down and breaking his leg.”

“Ay, but for him my man’s not afraid. There will only be trouble for him if they have to break and re-set the bone. But he’s not to be lame or stiff-legged, for that’s what that Aase said.”

“A broken bone, that’s nothing in our days!”

“Ay ay, August. Now I mustn’t be keeping you away from your work any longer. But I had to tell you how everything went. It seems so good to talk to you.”

“I could just as well walk home with you, but I’m not much to look at in these clothes I’m in here at work.”

“You mustn’t even think of it, August. I can just as well walk home alone. Bright daylight and all that—”

But when August returned to the garage, Alexander had quit the job. Yes, he had seized his opportunity and had sneaked out the back door.

“Well, by the jumping—!” shrieked August. “Where the devil has he gone to?”

“He’s gone out to his net.”

It would do August no good to swear. Alexander had gone his way.

* * * * *

Alexander had his own affairs to manage. He must empty the net of salmon, he must clear it of seaweed and jellyfish, he must cast it out again. He must prepare the salmon he has caught, must split it and smoke it and clean up his boxes in preparation for the next shipment. And last of all, it is barely possible that he may collect his usual reward from Gammelmoderen today. She had been down on the pier when the steamer had lain alongside—that sweetheart of his, and she was younger and more loveable than any of the others—she had stolen a furtive look into his eyes and blushed to the roots of her hair. There was no one who could blush quite so charmingly as she, that healthy, red-blooded creature!

Late that afternoon he arrives at the Manor with his salmon; she meets him at the door. All is well; they go out to the smokehouse together and light their smudgy flame. The door is unlocked, she is nervous, but nevertheless she glides with him into the storage bin—in there where it is dark and still. Oh Otto!

But something seems wrong this day. The entire household has been down to the pier; even Fru Juliet herself has been out, and this is not as it has been on other days; the Consul has been taken from his work in his office, in his Consulate, and now, as it is already lunch time, he strolls up home with the others. And this too is not as it has been on other days. It is just as though the two smokehouse lovers have been given exactly enough time to get down to business, but not a moment over. The door opens and the floor outside gives forth a squeak. “Leave it to me!” Alexander manages to whisper.

Gammelmoderen begins at once to upbraid him in a loud voice. The widow of Theodore paa Bua recalls the language of her youth and uses it to good advantage. To be sure, it was impossible for her to wipe the flush of love from her face, but she scolds in a fish-wifely voice, steps out into the light and roars at him over her shoulder: “I won’t stand for your impertinence! You call that good fuel, you clumsy clown! You needn’t come around here and try to show me, you good-for-nothing weed, you!”

“Such monkey talk as you use!” Alexander answers her back, he angry as well. He is so downright enraged that he flings himself across the room between the Consul and his mother and storms straight out the door. Oh, but he is furious!

“What’s up, mother?” asks Gordon Tidemand.

“What’s up! Why, he wanted to show me how to sprinkle the moss in there, but he’d better not try that. Did you ever see anything like him? Such a clumsy clown!”

“Juliet would like a word with you,” says her son and leaves her.

* * * * *

Next morning Alexander again appears at the garage quite ready for work. Silent and thoughtful, he seems, too. At eleven o’clock he throws on his coat and says: “I’ll be right back!”

Wrathfully, August barks after him: “Someday I hope you can get rid of what’s eating you!”

Alexander makes straight for the chief’s private office. Oh that Gypsy, that rogue! He’s up to something and there is no limit to his reckless courage. What does the chief know about that prearranged bout last evening between Gammelmoderen and her Gypsy sweetheart! He knows nothing and it is his wish to know nothing; he is too much of a gentleman to eavesdrop or yield to petty suspicion. But Alexander, he is of no mind to be scolded again by Gammelmoderen, not if his name is Otto Alexander! Far from it, and no one need expect it of him!

He knocks on the door and steps in. Altmulig, well-disciplined chap that he is, would drop his cap to the floor and stand there at attention. But not so this Alexander,—oh no!—he is literally boiling with anger, he holds his cap in his hand and begins jabbering away at the top of his lungs even before the chief has given him permission to speak.

“There’s one thing sure,” he says, “I refuse to be scolded right before your ears!”

“What’s that?” asks the chief, wrinkling his brow and doing his best to comprehend. “What are you talking about?”

“Like last night! You heard it!”

“Oh, that!” says the chief. “But, my dear fellow, what was there to that!”

“For I’d sooner leave the place,” continues Alexander in keeping with the plan he had invented whilst working in the garage.

“That’s all nonsense,” says the chief.

“All right!” Alexander nods disagreeably and is on the point of leaving. “I’ve said all I’m going to about that!”

He is even on the point of placing his cap on his head right there inside the office. A thing which a man like Altmulig would never have dreamed of doing. But the chief is an angel for tolerance; he puts up with this crazy Gypsy, he refrains from ringing for one of his store hands to come and pitch him out through the door. To the contrary, the chief smiles ingratiatingly and asks: “But that business of last night, is that anything to get yourself all worked up over?”

“Yes!” barks Alexander.

“You certainly can’t leave us on that account.”

“Oh I can’t, can’t I! That’s what you think!”

The chief turns the matter over in his mind, glances, as it were, casually at the large account for smoked salmon and says: “It is really too bad you don’t feel you can stay on with us here, now that we are just beginning to show results. Frankly, I am at a loss.”

Alexander likewise weighs the matter over; possibly he has gone far enough. In a somewhat milder voice he asks: “Do you think yourself it is very pleasant to be called a weed and a clumsy clown, just because we had a bit of a quarrel?”

“No, that I certainly do not,” answers the chief. “And I really do not understand it. It’s not at all like her. She probably became annoyed because you tried to teach her how to sprinkle the moss. Don’t you see, she has been doing that very thing for many many years—since the days when my father was alive.”

“Oh I know all about that!” exclaims Alexander. “I was here in those days, too. I was here when you were born. And we used to sprinkle the moss together then and she never spoke a harsh word.”

“There, you see? And you can be certain that she didn’t mean anything by it this time,” the chief attempts to mediate. “On the other hand, I assure you she’s always spoken of you in glowing terms.”

Alexander: “Ay, and it was a bit of glowing terms she gave me last night, wasn’t it!” He weighs the matter further in his mind; he is as crafty as the devil himself, the last word in strategem. “Well, we’ll let those glowing terms of hers go for what they are worth—I’ll stay on if you’ll let me lock her out of the smokehouse.”

The chief, failing utterly to comprehend: “Lock her out of the smokehouse?”

“Ay. Lock the door so she can’t get in.”

“But I thought she was quite indispensable there?”

“And that she is; I’ll say nothing to deny that,” admits Alexander. “But there are many things I can do by myself and when it’s time for her to step in with all that silly hocus-pocus about the colour of the product, the smell, the taste and all that—why, I suppose I can call her in.”

The chief thinks this over: “Yes, I hardly imagine she will say a word against such an arrangement. I shall speak to her about it. I even believe that she will be grateful—”

* * * * *

Alexander returns to the garage. “Didn’t take me long, eh?” he beams. He did the work of two, joked, carried in bags of cement, whistled and sang. And on the following day he was in the same excellent humour. Two whole days passed before he was again compelled to visit his net and perform his smokehouse duties.

And he held a conference with Gammelmoderen in regard to the precise and proper moment when he could lock himself in the smokehouse, with her at his side.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

August had heard nothing further concerning his money from Polden. The whole thing was possibly no more than a rumour, a mere exaggeration. Well, August was accustomed to disappointments in life. In the meantime he could continue to build roads and construct motor garages in the interest of progress.

At length, when so many days had gone by that August had lost both hope and angry regret, he was again reminded of the money by the arrival of a messenger from the magistrate’s office.

The messenger was a young office employee who took his duties seriously. “I have in my pocket a letter from the magistrate,” he began. “What is your name?”

August smiled and gave his name.

“That is correct!” But in order to avoid a mistake, he added: “Are you known by any other name here on the place?”

“Altmulig.”

“That is also correct. Now this letter contains instructions for you to call at our office immediately to receive an important declaration. You must call within the next few days.”

August realized in a flash that his money had at length arrived; he assumed a bit more of the manner of a great man, stretched forth his hand and said impatiently: “All right, let me have the letter! I can read it myself!”

The young man: “I can make the whole thing clear to you. For it was myself who wrote the letter. You are to call between the hours of nine and three when our office is open. You are to see me first; I shall then give you further instructions.” August became crafty at once, took out his notebook and began to write in it. The art of writing was not beyond him; he would show the young man that he knew the letters of the alphabet. Ay, and he even adjusted his pince-nez to give himself a more imposing appearance. “An important letter, did you say?”... He writes....

“No, that is not what I said. An important declaration is what I said. There is a vast difference between the two. You are to call and receive an important declaration, I said.”

August strikes a line through what he has written and enters the correction. “From the magistrate, did you say?”... He writes.... He glances at his watch. “I’ll just note down the time that you came!”... He writes....

“I didn’t know that you were so experienced in matters of this nature,” said the young man. “But I now observe that I have made a mistake. Possibly you are likewise aware of the subject of this important declaration?”

“It’s not impossible that I do. I have so many interests. You see I have business all over.”

“This has to do with an inheritance, or whatever it is, in Polden. That much at least I can advise you.”

August flourishes his arm in a gesture of impatience. “I have so much property in Polden—a whole section of the town, a seining outfit, a factory—a large factory. You don’t mean to tell me that the State has been sticking its fingers into that factory of mine, do you?”

“No, I can assure you that such is not the case. But more than that I am not at liberty to divulge.”

“Between nine and three, did you say?”... He writes.... “And within a couple of days?”... He writes....

The young man: “I shall herewith deliver the letter to you in person. It is already too late to call at our office today, as we shall soon be closed. But at some future date will you be good enough to appear between the hours prescribed.”

With that he turned and left, that young seedling of Norway’s dear bureaucracy, that small piece of the dough of Norway’s brand of statesmanship....

* * * * *

Druggist Holm is the next to stop in at the garage. He greets August familiarly and asks jocularly: “Letter from the King?”

August flings the letter unopened over onto a bag of cement. “A mere note,” he remarks superciliously. “It’s only that I’m to call at the magistrate’s office and pick up a sum of money.”

“Money? In these days!”

“Well—I’ve been expecting it long enough. The Herr Druggist is out for a walk?”

“Oh I walk and I walk. Yes, I’m taking one of those idiotic walks of mine. Listen, August, I’ve a message for you from Fru Lund. She’s been left so alone, you know, and she’d like to have you stop in at the house some time when you’ve a bit of time to spare.”

“Glad to,” says August.

“She’s just had a telegram from the doctor and she would like to speak with you.”

“I’ll be there this evening.”

“Thanks.”

Druggist Holm hastens off. He walks for the sake of walking, walks briskly, leaves the whole of South Parish behind him, penetrates well into the neighbouring parish and at length turns homeward after several hours of roaming about. He is a perfect fiend for walking.

He is in the very centre of South Parish on his way home when he suddenly comes to a halt. Something happens to him; a feeling of sweetness sweeps over him, a rosy kindling of his every sense. Others would perhaps have noticed nothing, but this wanderer, Holm, stops short, turns and for a short distance even retraces his steps. And upon his return home, as he was reaching for his patience cards, his heart was still aching from the delicate moment he had experienced.

The following day he called upon the postmaster’s wife to tell her of this thing that had happened to him: he had been walking out in the country the day before through the section they call South Parish. On the way home he heard something and halted fair in his tracks. It had been a woman aloft on a knoll, a rustic housewife calling in her kine. “Soo-ah! Soo-ah!” she had called. Well, was that anything? No—yes, it had been something; a flood of harmony it had been, sheer loveliness poured forth into the sky, a thing of matchless beauty. He had turned and stared at the woman as she was descending from the knoll, and thin and poor she had appeared, a woman of something past thirty—Gina, her name was—Gina i Roten. He had walked home with her and exchanged a few words with her—she had both husband and children. Her family was not in distress; on the contrary, they owned a small farm with a mortgage, a few head of cattle. Her husband had been in the habit of entertaining at dances and gatherings with a whole repertory of ballads and ditties, but he had given up singing his songs after his recent baptism by a traveling evangelist. And for the same reason, his wife would no longer sing anything but hymns—though, for that matter, she knew but few secular songs. “But God help me, if her voice isn’t a thing of beauty!” Holm exclaims. “She knew all the hymns by heart and she simply sat down and sang them to me with absolutely no thought of the time. And do you know the words that I spoke? ‘Jesus Christ!’ That’s all I could find to say. Silly, wasn’t it?”

“What was her voice?”

“Let me see—alto, I believe.”

The postmaster’s wife sat, as was her custom, with her head thrown back, her eyes partially closed—she was so terribly near-sighted—but she was an interested listener and at length she said: “I must arrange to meet her.”

“Good. Gina i Roten. A little farm in South Parish. I told her that she and her family could become as ill as they liked, she could have all the medicine she needed from me free of charge. Hehehe! That was an odd thing to say, wasn’t it? But I meant it!”

“Is it far from here?”

“No. But can’t we go out and call on her some time together?”

“Yes, if you will promise to behave yourself.”

“What!” he cries. “In the middle of the main road!”

“No, I don’t trust you.”

“It’s a different matter here,” says Holm, glancing about.

“You are mad.”

“In my arms—”

“Keep still!”

“—through that door over there.”

“Hahaha, we wouldn’t get far that way! That’s the kitchen.”

“There, you see what it leads to when you keep things from me! I meant that door over there.”

“Keep still. You meant nothing. But à propos that woman: when shall we go out to her?”

“The very day and hour you yourself shall determine.”

“You must have an able pharmacist,” says Fru Hagen.

“Extremely able.”

“For you are away from your store day and night.”

“Not so at all! Now that the doctor is away I have to work like a dog. Especially on Mondays.”

“Why especially on Mondays?”

“People are coarse enough to make love over the holidays, for that’s when they have most time to spare. Then on the following Monday, they all come to me for medicine.”

“Silly!”

“Honour bright! They come to me for something to brace them up!”

“Well, what do you give them?”

“Well, what do you take yourself when you feel yourself spent—from such things?”

“I never feel spent—from such things, as you say.”

“Nor I either—unfortunately!” says Holm. “So I really don’t know what to give them. I’ve been giving them white sulphur salve. What is your opinion of that?”

“What—to rub on oneself?”

“No, they take it internally.”

“Oh, you’re impossible!” says Fru Hagen, shrieking with laughter.

“Yes, for you see there’s a bit of arsenic in it, a drug I’m not supposed to dispense without a doctor’s prescription.”

“We could go out and call on your woman today, if you like.”

“God bless you, sweet lady, thanks!” beams Holm. “If you only could know how sweetly you said that—your voice!—the golden tones of muted strings—”

“I have a pupil from one to two. Then we have lunch. We could start out around three.”

“How splendid, how splendid! I never knew anyone like you to ascertain the exact hours when I am free!”

“Hahaha!”

“It’s no laughing matter. Your words have already struck home and made an impression upon me. Hjertet blir saa stort derved (My heart o’erflows because of it), as it says in the song. I know of no one quite like you—sweet and lovable, charming and seductive—”

“No faults?”

“Ah yes, you have one fault.”

“What is it?”

“You are cold.”

The lady remains silent.

“Seductive but cold.”

“But what are you, then? A phrase-maker. Just that. You make a fine show of your depravity, you bristle and pretend. But it’s all artifice with you.”

“The devil you say!”

“So. And now you must go. My first pupil will be here shortly.”

Holm: “Did you mean what you said?”

“Some of it.”

“See here now, Fru Hagen—you ought to have waited for me instead of coupling up with that old stamp-seller of yours.”

“Mm—no—I’d rather have him than you.”

“The devil you say!”

“Yes, I surely would.”

“All right, then I shan’t go with you to call on Gina i Roten.”

“Oh, I’m certain you will.”

“No sir, I won’t. Now hear me again: don’t you suppose I might be able to make some headway with Marna?”

“With whom?”

“Marna. Marna Theodorsdatter of Segelfoss Manor.”

“Why, I’m sure I don’t know.”

“She is exactly the type I admire—a most promising girl, of large, superb proportions. I really ought to marry some day, don’t you think?”

“Of course you should. You, as we others. You might try your luck with Marna.”

“You do not advise me against it?”

“Oh no, not exactly.”

“No, it is you that I love!”

“Now you must go.”

“Well, I’ll be back for you at three.”

* * * * *

They started off, the druggist with his guitar on a broad silk band slung over his shoulder, Fru Hagen on the arm of her husband. Oh yes, the postmaster had taken the afternoon off and was to accompany them. “Do you think I can ever be rid of her!” he said. But Holm must have wondered to himself just who could ever be rid of whom! It annoyed him keenly to be obliged to include the postmaster on this jaunt—that fellow, that detestable individual, he prevented him from walking beside the lady and exchanging his idle banter with her. But the weather was fine, field and meadow bloomed and breathed fragrance into the breeze, the birds were twittering, the foliage trees spread forth their broadest leaves, and not a person to be seen on the road.

Well, but Postmaster Hagen was hardly a man to be overlooked. Slightly under middle-height but solidly built and muscular, intelligent of face, not bad looking. He uttered no contentious chatter, but he uttered no imbecilities, either.

“Suppose we appear at the doctor’s,” he said. “Fru Lund is so lonely these days.”

“What in heaven’s name should we do there?”

“You could play and Alfhild could sing.”

“And you?”

“I could pass the hat.”

His suggestion gained no adherents. Nor had the postmaster apparently expected that it should; he had probably spoken up merely to prove he had a voice.

“Mysterious about the doctor having had his eye torn clean out,” he said.

Holm caught him up with a product of his own imagination: “Was there really anything mysterious about it? The doctor is returning home from a sick call; he takes a short cut through the woods, runs into difficulties and a dry branch claws out his eye. What if it were something like that?”

“Well, I suppose it was something like that. But has he had himself cared for in Bodø?”

“No. He wired that he would have to go on to Trondhjem. No doubt he has already left.”

There was no further mention of the affair. Nevertheless the postmaster apparently still felt called upon to make conversation: “If only we don’t scare off the people we are going to see. There are three of us, you know.”

Holm: “Yes, and three makes quite a crowd.”

“Well, I can just as well remain outside.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind!” puts in his wife, clinging to his arm.

The postmaster nodded: “Dit Ord min Lov, Alfhild! (Your word my law, Alfhild!).”

“No, you mean ‘Dit Ord mit Lov!‘ (Your word my leave), don’t you?”

Holm squirmed at the sound of such nonsense, swung his guitar across his breast and began thrumming the strings.

The postmaster: “I believe it’s done me good to come along today. Usually I sit doubled up in my office all day long, sucking on my pipe and gossiping with my accounts. Out here there is fresh air.”

“Gossiping with your accounts?” asked Holm. “What does that mean?”

“That is to say, I sit there talking to myself.”

“That must be boring indeed,” Holm flung at him.

The postmaster accepted the remark good-naturedly. “Oh no,” he said. “I keep myself most pleasantly amused. I talk much better when I’m alone than when I’m in company with others. Thus it is with all lonely ones.”

“Do you make your husband feel lonely, then, Fru Hagen?”

“I am lonely myself,” she replied.

The postmaster: “Yes, that you are. But you artists and musicians, really you do not find it so terrible to be alone—you have your art—you have your songs, your guitar.”

“But you sketch, don’t you!”

“What’s that, does he sketch?” asked Holm.

“Of course, he sketches. But he is furious with me now for telling on him.

“Why, no—I’m by no means furious. But you promised me you would never talk nonsense about it.”

“Oh, so you sketch?” the druggist repeated. “I never knew anything about that.”

“I most certainly do not sketch. But if it were possible to make a living at it, I believe I might turn to sculpture.”

“Hahaha!” laughed his wife, apparently proud of him, and squeezing his arm.

They had arrived at the farm. Not a child to be seen, not a dog. Silence over everything. The woman of the house is observed sitting in the house, the upper part of her body quite nude. She is working over a white garment held across her knees. Her breasts are loose and pendulous.

The party halts abruptly.

“What are we stopping for?” Fru Hagen asks and quickly adjusts her pince-nez. “Good heavens—!” she says.

The druggist: “What are we stopping for? Apparently the lady in there is studying entomology first-hand from her undershirt.”

“No no no! Surely she is sewing on it, she is mending her garment.”

“One should hold honest poverty in respect,” says the postmaster quietly.

“Look, she’s seen us,” his wife observes.

“Yes,” replies the druggist. “But she seems in no hurry to crawl back into her clothes. I must say, I didn’t know folks were so completely out of the world in this section. If I had—”

“If you had? What are you mumbling about? See, there come the children.”

“Well well, and even they look just like human beings—even they.”

“How can you talk so cynically?” Fru Hagen asks. “You who have kept open hotel for hungry children?”

“What’s that—!”

“Oh, I’ve heard all about it.”

“What the devil did I have to do with that!” snapped the druggist. “It was at the hotel, the proprietor—”

“Go in and see if we are welcome!” she replies.

They were welcome and she and the druggist stepped into the house. The postmaster, however, preferred to remain outside for a time.

He began walking across the open country. He had seen a man cleaning out a ditch—Karel, the man from Roten. He was barefoot in water and slime clear up to his knees.

“Bless the work!” said the postmaster in greeting.

“Thanks to you!” replied Karel, glancing up. He had a pleasant face and seemed ready to smile at the slightest thing. There was nothing about him to indicate that he had become serious-minded after his recent baptismal experience. “But I don’t know how blessed it is,” he said. “This drain gets bigger for me every year that goes by. And in autumn season there’s enough water here to turn mill-wheels.”

The postmaster turned his gaze up the slope in the direction of a certain pond, a regular little lake. “Can’t you drain off the water up there?” he asked.

“Ay, mercy! And if I ever can find the means to do it, you’ll see it as dry as the floor of a room.”

“How deep is it?”

“Now that it’s summer, it’s just about up to my knees in the deepest place. And fine fertile soil, too, on the bottom.”

“You must drain off that water, Karel.”

“Ay, well I must that!”

“That will make a splendid addition to this farm of yours.”

“Ay, it will so. But I’m none to afford it just now,” said Karel, a gentle smile on his face. “And I doubt me how long I can work out with the whole place here. That’s all to do with how soon the lawyer will be taking it away from me.”

“Lawyer Pettersen?”

“Ay. He’s the bank now, too, as it is.”

“Do you owe the bank money?”

“Ay, for so it seems. But not so much, when you come to it. Give me two, three fine years at Lofoten, so I’ll clear the place of the worst of it!” And Karel almost laughed as he said this.

The tones of a voice floated across the field to them from the cottage in the distance. Karel put his head on one side and listened. “She’s singing,” he said.

The postmaster explained that his wife and Druggist Holm from town had stopped in at the cottage to hear Gina’s voice. The druggist had brought along his guitar.

“He brought a guitar, say you?” asked Karel, his interest aroused at once. He climbed out of the ditch, wiped the slime from his feet on a tuft of grass and said: “That’s something for me to hear!” And the music-loving Karel i Roten, born and reared in the direst of poverty, but the ablest ballad-singer in South Parish, he left his work and hastened home simply to hear a man play the guitar. No, there was absolutely nothing about Karel to indicate that his second baptism had made a pious man of him.

Greetings all round in the cottage. “Aren’t you ashamed to show yourself barefoot like that!” said Gina. “Ay,” answered Karel quite absently. He stationed himself as near the guitar as he could, paid little or no heed to his guests, and when the druggist began to play, Karel was unable to take away his eyes.

“Come, Gina, you must sing now!” someone begged.

And Gina raised the roof from that humble cottage again and again with the glorious tones of her voice. Karel stood bent forward the entire time and, with a broad smile on his face, followed every movement of the druggist’s fingers. When invited to try the guitar, he accepted it without hesitation and immediately began thrumming the strings. He smiled and thrummed, smiled and thrummed; and in truth he was so thoroughly musical that, in spite of his many mistakes, he was able to produce not a few chords which would have done credit to one who had studied the instrument.

The druggist left the guitar in Karel’s hands when the party departed for home.

* * * * *

Along the way they encountered August. He was standing outside the blacksmith shop and was again having trouble with the smith who seemed unable to perform the simplest task. This time it was a number of garage appliances, the steel so brittle it could stand no weight at all. The fellow had roasted his metal. August was fussing and fuming.

In passing, the druggist asked: “Did you call on Fru Lund?”

August nodded curtly.

“And have you also been to the magistrate’s office?”

August, grief-stricken and indisposed, merely looked at him.

“After your money, I mean to say. After that million of yours. Would it pay me, I mean, to assault you and go through your pockets?”

August shook his head....

No, he had received no million. The magistrate had no money to hand him. That “important declaration” had been nought save a letter from Paulina in Polden in which she declared that she would not turn over a certain bankbook—that for August! In the first place, he had nothing to do with this money, as he had made over to her, Paulina, everything he had left behind in Polden, including whatever he might win in a lottery. She had a document signed by two witnesses to show for it. In the second place, August could come to Polden and get the money himself; what guarantee did she have that he was the man he made himself out to be?

That devil of a Paulina, as like herself today as ever, capable, keen as a whip, honest to a fault. He could see her in his mind’s eye—old now, but still with a white ribbon about her throat, a pearl ring on her finger.

The magistrate was most desirous of helping August; that he was, for he was really a kind-hearted fellow. But there was some hitch in regard to that money in Polden. Had the title to it been assigned to another?

“Ay,” August answered. But that had been anything but the right thing to say; he knew Paulina, knew that she would not wish to retain a single øre of any money which might be his—that had been only something she had said.

Would August care then to go north after the money himself?

No. In addition to everything else, it would be impossible for him to drop the many undertakings he was engaged in on behalf of the Consul—the construction of the road, in particular. He had many men working for him.

But could he then identify himself by means of certain papers so that the lady, Paulina, could feel herself amply protected?

That would be worse.

What, no papers?

No.

But wasn’t it true that Doctor Lund and his wife had recognized August as an old Poldener?

To be sure! He could certainly hope that they had! Many a glass of grog had he drunk with them there in their house. And when the doctor and his wife had it in mind to invite someone in for the evening, who should be the first one they thought of if not August? And he could easily have gone to the doctor and his wife and right then and there secured from them a sworn statement that he was the man he said he was. But the doctor, he was away now, had gone down to Trondhjem, and no one knew when he was coming back.

August had again been pitifully unlucky. Again he would have to wait, wait, wait....

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

No, Segelfoss was surely not flourishing. Something must have been standing in the way. Possibly the town was unfavourably located, possibly there was too little farming enterprise there, the earth too lean, or at least too poorly cultivated. It must have been something like that. Nothing seemed to thrive and grow fat and bloated there—not a single human being whose eyes were all but grown together with fat, not a single farm creature which appeared as something of a monstrosity because of overfeeding. No. The cattle were let out to pasture every morning and at eventide they would return with their bellies not even half-filled; each tuft of grass and the verdancy of each brookside had already been nibbled clean by the sheep, and the cows were compelled to seek a diet of heather and leaves, the result being the poorest of milk. These were obvious conditions. But a good five or six miles back in the mountains behind South Parish lay vast stretches of lush moorland, a green paradise for sheep and goats. There was a legend to the effect that Willatz Holmsen had once kept flocks at graze there in summer.

And the home fishing, what did this do for the parish round about? Folk living fair at the edge of the sea might occasionally bring home a string of haddock and coalfish, enough for a single boiling, but with none left over for the following day. Ay, such was the home fishing. And fishermen from town might get together a party and row the long distance to a certain bay off North Parish where they could spear flounders against the white sandy bottom. True. But this would prevent them from slumbering peacefully through the long light night and this would require that they have a meal of dried meat and coffee at two o’clock, so how could the spearing of flounder be considered in any way profitable? And wouldn’t they have to make up their lost sleep by resting throughout the entire following day?

No, Segelfoss was without all reasonable means of making a living.

But Gordon Tidemand, he wriggled and lived on and prospered—he was a great man and even a consul. He did mad things because of his urgent thirst for activity, such as building that country home of his and that road which went up the mountain. And he did other things out of sheer adolescent foolishness, such as investing in that shining motor boat in which to dash out to meet incoming steamers—what need had he for that trim little craft when in a few moments that very steamer would be lying alongside his own pier? There lay the motor boat now, a toy of brass and mahogany, a thing of useless beauty.

All this. But Gordon Tidemand was in any event wide awake and, amongst other things, he conducted a highly profitable salmon-packing industry. More, he had taken this enterprise seriously and had sent one of his able store clerks south through Helgeland as his traveling representative. Naturally, he had equipped the fellow regally, first of all with a handsome new suit of clothes, a watch and a gold chain, next with the most modern of sample cases, brass corners and all. All this had cost a pretty penny, to be sure, but the lad was already justifying the outlay by the orders he was sending back—he was apparently a born traveling salesman.

But otherwise Segelfoss was utterly dead, a centre of sheer stupidity.

Some folk had already begun to scowl at the Consul’s road leading up the mountain side. This work of the hand of man was certainly a creditable embellishment to the landscape, but it had already become the subject of much muttering and shaking of heads. Who could have thought such a thing possible? Naturally, the talk had started up in North Parish where folk were most backward in knowledge and the will to progress, and where superstition and a primitive fear of the Lord took the place of science and culture. This new attitude found its original expression in the words of aged men and women and this in turn might have been inspired by certain dark words uttered by Aase. “There’s no peace for mouse or sparrow,” Aase had said. “They are digging and blasting away a mountain the Lord created.”—“Ay, isn’t it true what you say!” nodded the old ones up in North Parish.

And so they all undertook to discuss this thing, and time flashed back and forth in those old grey heads, with no order to the passing years: the Franco-Prussian War; the night of the bloody aurora; the fate of Doctor Paul Føyn; the prophet Jeremiah’s prediction of the comet which lost its tail on an island in the sea and caused an earthquake—and everything eventually led back to those words of Aase’s concerning the Consul’s new road and how it was disturbing all nature.

For there were folk who dwelt in the mountains, underworld folk, supernatural beings who had their own farms and cattle, rich and peaceful gnomes who would harm no earthly creature if they themselves were left in peace. And this bedlam of pounding and shouting and blasting and yelling which had begun last spring and which had kept up ever since, what had it been but a plague and a nuisance for the underworld folk, so great that they had probably been obliged to move on to some other mountain. And this would be of no profit to the ones who lived on the earth; the aged of North Parish could still recall what their parents had told them of the creatures of the underworld when the first telegraph lines had been set up with no end of confusion of horses and men. Ay, and on the very ship which had arrived with all the telegraph wire, an iron block had fallen from the rigging and killed a sailor on deck. He had even been buried in Hamarøy churchyard. But that wasn’t all; never before in all the world had there been such thunder and lightning and storms of wind and rain throughout Nordland as there had been that year, and Willumsen ‘pun Lian had had the roof of his barn blown off—maybe they couldn’t remember that year! And his new roof had to be chained down with two heavy iron chains as anyone could see today—just go and look! And is there anyone who has forgotten how lean the fishing was at Lofoten that winter, so that it couldn’t even be likened to an average year, but was really perfectly awful. And then with spring, it was ten times worse—ankle deep snow on Midsummer’s Eve and the grain unable to ripen. And that was the very summer when the underworld folk had been disturbed in the south and had moved here to the mountains of Segelfoss. For here it was so fine with deep ravines all over, so that it was easy for them to get in and they didn’t have to crawl right into the very heart of the mountain, which is a hardship even for them. Folk here had stumbled upon them when they were arriving with all their horses and their vast herds of cattle, and they had marvelled to see so many cows, sleek and fat as any shoal of herring. This one and that one of the parents of these old folk had met them—Aron of Staurholla had met them and he had told more than once of the great event. To be sure, when he lay on his death-bed and had had the pastor to visit him, he had said he had never seen them at all and that the whole thing had been nought but a lie, but that had been because he was so near death then that he had taken leave of most of his senses. Another who had met them that same day had been Ingeborg of Utleia. She was knitting a pair of red and grey stockings and was just about finished with the second stocking when an underworld woman came to her and asked her for the stocking. “Ay, and may you live to wear it long!” said Ingeborg. “And won’t you have the other stocking, too?” Ay, and that she would, said the underworld woman. And good luck had followed Ingeborg to the end of her days because of it, for she rose to grand heights of wealth and position in Vesteraalen, married a man, and then his brother, and inherited what they both left when they died.

“Ay, so it may go,” said an old man of North Parish. “So it may go when the underworld folk are treated with a wee mite of kindness and charity— they pay back a hundred-fold! But now as it is, when our people are pounding and shooting worse than wildmen and savages up in the mountains belonging to others, and close up one ravine after another with walls and ways for a road, ay, only the Lord in Heaven can say what we who live on the earth have in store for us in the way of punishment. Now if I was as young as today I am old, I don’t know what I would do. For it’s leaving these mountains they are, remember it as I say, and if only someone might be lucky enough to stand in their way and hold out some little gift to them, never would he want for good luck and help in this world from that day on. And it wouldn’t have to be such a grand gift to be giving them either, for the underworld folk, they have the power to see into a man’s heart. And it wouldn’t have to be a coin no matter how bright it might be, for the underworld folk, they have their own money and they have no use for ours. How was it, wasn’t a strange coin found in the till at the store in Segelfoss? And that was on the very same day that a man from the other world had been to the store to buy a bit of tobacco of the same kind that we here on the earth find to use—”

A youth comes out with the explanation that this purchaser of tobacco had not been an underworld man but a man from Germany—one of the German musicians who had played in the town.

“Where do you get your knowledge from?” asks the old man with a touch of annoyance. “I have mine from that Martin who is himself a clerk in the store.”

“Ay, but that Martin, he went in to the Consul with the coin and asked him about it. And the Consul, he took one look at it and said it was money from Germany.”

“Ay ay, there you have it! But it is so that we others in our own wretched lives, we too have learned a few things. It’s you young lads that study in books and newspapers who know it all and won’t believe plain talk. It was my own grandfather as came home with a load of wood from the forest one night when there was a moon and stars. He unhitched his horse and propped the shafts of his sledge straight up in the air. Then he went in. In the house there were two strangers sitting there. They were astronomers and they were going up in the Segelfoss mountains the next day to look for a star they had lost track of. ‘Tonight we’ll be having a snowfall!’ said my grandfather. ‘What makes you think so?’ asked the two astronomers, just like doubting Thomas in the Scripture, and they pointed out through the window at the moonlight. ‘I know it by that horse of mine,’ said my grandfather. ‘For he shook himself twice in the shafts before I could get him unhooked!’ And excuse me, if it didn’t turn out even better than he said, and in the morning he was mighty glad as he had turned up the shafts of his sledge, for it was buried under the snow and otherwise he might never have found it!”

“He’d have found it in the spring, at any rate,” a young lad whispered.

“Go on, tell us more!” said another.

The old man, this time downright annoyed: “No, what should I go on and tell you for? You know everything so much better than I do. You’re just like those two astronomers—they knew everything there was to know about heaven and earth.”

“Well, but couldn’t they go up the mountain on account of the snow, those astronomers?”

“Ho, maybe they went up the mountain! No, but they found the lost star just the same.”

“How did they find it?”

“Ay, they looked in the almanac more carefully and there it was all the time, there along with the rest of the stars!”

A grand sensation there in the room. “Well, that beats all!”—“Why, mercy sakes alive!”

The old man, encouraged by the appreciation his tale had called forth, became mild again and continued: “The Consul should perhaps have looked more carefully at that piece of money,” he said to clinch his point.

“Maybe so. Ay, that he should. Tell us more!”

“No. There’s no reason why I should go on talking and telling you things. But there’s one thing sure: if I had my youth back, I should certainly be out looking after my interests when the underworld folk are moving!”

The question arises as to what might be the most appropriate gifts to offer them.

“Almost anything. It wouldn’t make any difference what it was so long as it was either some kind of shining ornament or a collar or even a couple of tallow candles. And I would hold it out to them in both hands, like this, and not be afraid. But ’tis also true that I would go to the altar first so they couldn’t use any of their power on me.”

When the old man fell silent, the young people began gossiping amongst themselves.

“That Benjamin, he says he has seen them.”

“Seen underworld folk? Where?”

“Just this autumn, it was—one evening when he was walking home from South Parish. All at once he saw a woman standing in the road in front of him. I said it must have been that Cornelia, but he said he was just coming from Cornelia’s place.”

“What became of the woman?”

“She fluttered off into the woods.”

“Well, then it was that Cornelia. I’d be willing to bet on it. For Benjamin, he’s anyway a bit afraid of the dark.”

“Well, I wish as I was that Benjamin! He’s had steady work there at the Consul’s, could earn his bread week after week for two weeks. And there was money in that, even if the job is over now.”

* * * * *

True, Benjamin’s job was now over; the garage was finished and the car itself had arrived; both the chief and August had taken their driving tests with an official from the south and had earned their certificates with no small amount of glory to themselves. As Benjamin was no longer needed, August went up to him and told him he was through. And they parted company without the slightest sign of friendliness on August’s part; no, it seemed more as though the lad had been given the chuck.

It had in truth been decidedly pleasant work for August whilst creating this home for the car, this motor boudoir with its walls panelled off in steel and cement, and he had received the ablest type of assistance from Benjamin, this clever little lad from North Parish, this sweetheart of Cornelia’s before whom he could strut and put on airs. But it was natural that he should dislike the young man and, though Cornelia was as inaccessible to him as the stars of heaven, August was forever pouncing upon Benjamin with sarcasm born of his jealousy.

“You have a farm, haven’t you? Then why don’t you go to work and get married?” August asked with all the spite that was in him.

“The farm isn’t mine,” answered Benjamin. “The farm, it belongs to my father.”

“A filthy little dungheap of a farm, too, I’ve been told. Like all the rest of the farms in these parts!”

“No, it’s a good farm, I can tell you.”

“Hm, I suppose you grow oranges on it?”

“And a pretty farm,” says Benjamin, ignoring the remark. “You must come out and see it some time.”

“As though I had nothing better to do!” snorted August.

“We have four cows and a horse. There aren’t many who have more.”

August delivered himself of a further snort. “Say, I’ve been on farms in South America where they had three million head of cattle like yours.”

“Ay, I’d never think of doubting you!”

“But the point is,” said August, “you ought to get married to some girl up in that North Parish of yours—get married and have it over with.”

Benjamin: “She isn’t from North Parish, she is from South Parish.”

August, slowly: “Hm—that’s nothing to me!”

“What’s that?”

“I said you’re through working for me. You don’t need to come back tomorrow.”

“Oh, so we’re all through here?”

“Ay, do you hear!”

“All right,” said Benjamin. “There’s nothing to be said about that. But if you have anything else for me to do later on, you can send for me.”

August: “I’ll have nothing else for you to do, count on that! What was I going to say? No, I can’t understand what you’re waiting for. You’re old enough. When I was your age I was a widow-man for the second time. Ay, and here you stand. I don’t suppose you’ve even got a girl.”

“Oh yes, I have, you can be sure. I’ve a girl I’m in love with and who is in love with me, as well. It’s the girl they call Cornelia.”

“Well, what’s that got to do with me!”

“What did you say?”

“I said are you ever together with her? Do you dance with her? When you go to a Christmas dance, does she sit on your knee?”

“You act so grouchy with me,” says Benjamin.

“And I suppose you drink coffee out of the same cup, you two?”

Benjamin smiling: “We might, sometimes. Why do you ask me that?”

“These Christmas dances, they’re the work of the devil himself. You never see me at one!”

“But in your younger days, I suppose you used to go?”

“No,” said August. “I used to think myself too good for such goings-on. My younger days—! Say, I’m not so old right now, so get that into your head! You think that just because you’re young! But you should see me in one of those enormous dance halls abroad. I was at a grand ball just before I came here. And I was such a wonderful dancer, no one else dared to step out on the floor. Tell that to that Cornelia of yours with my compliments!”

“Do you know her?”

“Say, what are you standing around here wasting my time for! Didn’t I tell you to go?”

Benjamin: “All right. But you say such grouchy things to me. No, that I should get me a girl there in North Parish, when I already have a girl down in South Parish!”

“I’ll think about it,” said August.

Ho, so many ways of wasting a man’s time! A mere youth from the country district, a mere stripling for all his full beard, he thought he was privileged to stand around talking over his love affairs with his boss! Unheard of in countries abroad....

August was called into conference by his chief. They were to go out on a road inspection tour. A main road ran through the centre of town, a road connecting parish with parish. In spite of the usual ruts it was passable, but it was the Consul’s thought to discover how far north and how far south he could drive that car of his for the purpose of astounding the natives.

The Consul sits at the wheel. He is a skillful driver, no mistake; just another of the sciences he has mastered abroad. Folk scamper out of the way in such utter confusion that the occupants of the machine are indeed amused. Oh that Consul!

The road passes over the river in the vicinity of the falls by means of a stone bridge, ancient and solidly built—two arches and an iron railing. This must be the place where they come and baptise each other! August muses as they are crossing the bridge, and possibly he groans inwardly at the thought of all the swinishness committed in the name of the Holy Ghost. When they have emerged from the droning roar of the falls, he turns to the Consul and says: “It’s a pity about that big mill standing there unused!”

“It didn’t pay,” the chief replies.

“Maybe it would pay as a factory.”

“I don’t know. What kind of a factory?”

“Oh—a packing house and tannery. And maybe a woollen mill besides. Three in one.”

The chief halts the car, thinks for a moment and says: “But there aren’t enough sheep here to do anything with.”

“You could have as many sheep here as there are stars in the sky.”

“You think so?”

“Ay,” continues August. “As many sheep as there are sands on the seashore.”

“But they would have to eat.”

August points to the summits and replies: “Up there lie mile upon mile of grazing lands. Thousands of creatures could live up there. And here’s a good thing to consider: no wolves, no bears, no lynxes or anything else you can mention. A single shepherd would be all you’d need.”

The Consul is silent for a long time, then speaks. “The mill is certainly falling to pieces,” he remarks. “I haven’t been up there since childhood.” Then suddenly the Consul consults his watch, as though it had suddenly occurred to him to make for the mill at once. But no, he again starts up the car.

There was an excellent road as far as the church and for quite some distance beyond, but at length it became more and more narrow and at length broke up into a number of forks leading off to divers farms and cottages. They were obliged to drive slowly and carefully and at length to stop entirely in order to make way for a load of hay—the horses stood up on their hind legs and the lad on the load had all he could do to control them.

But August continued to brood over a certain plan; a scheme involving a factory of one type or another. To begin with it had been but a sudden notion, a wild fancy which on the spur of the moment had popped into that active brain of his, a notion he had hastily cloaked with three-fold possibility. Quite off-hand, he inquired: “Does the Herr Consul know who owns the grazing lands at the top?”

“No. The Province perhaps. Possibly the title is in the Crown.”

“Then it’s easy! They’re as good as yours already!”

“Mine? No,” says the Consul, shaking his head. “I have no use for them. However, I’ve heard it said that one of the old owners of Segelfoss once maintained a large flock on the mountain. But I simply can not understand what he did to feed them during the winter months.”

“He probably had roving flocks.”

“Possibly. But even outlers must have food.”

August was silent for a time. He realized that the question of a factory was still somewhat vague in the Consul’s mind: he therefore decided to establish himself as a man of reputation now as on previous occasion—for this had he been given that nimble brain of his.

The chief remarked: “You are a man with ideas, Altmulig. And it is clear that we ought to start up something here in Segelfoss. But I’m afraid I lack the capacity.”

But to the same degree the Consul’s cooled, August’s enthusiasm kindled. “Why, all we’d have to do would be to turn the flocks loose up there!” he objected.

“Yes, for the summer,” said the chief.

August now took refuge in his manifold worldly experience. “I’ve seen myself how sheep can pull through winter and bad weather both in Africa and Australia. Why, that’s nothing at all for a sheep. No, it’s the summer dry spell that kills them off like flies.”

“But we should have snow to contend with here. Don’t you see that?”

“Oh, I’ve seen it done here in Norway, too.”

The chief remained silent.

And now it is possible that August went a bit too far. “Ay,” he said, “maybe the Herr Consul doesn’t believe me, but as true as I’m sitting here, I once had the whole of the Hardanger moorland covered with my flocks.”

The chief brought the car to a standstill. “What’s that?” he asked. “I’ve been around a good bit both at home and abroad and I’ve never either heard or read of that!”

“I could have bought the entire moor, but I leased it instead.”

“You had flocks there?”

“A few thousand. Only ten thousand.”

The Consul tried his best to comprehend, did all he could to accompany August on this wild flight of his. “But I don’t see how,” he said,—“when the autumn—the winter feeding—”

“Oh, in the fall I slaughtered them off. Shipped meat all over the world. Perhaps the Herr Consul didn’t read about that, either?”

“No. And how—well, after you had slaughtered off your flock, you had no sheep to begin the next year with, did you?”

“No, Herr Consul—you see I had to leave just then. I couldn’t keep on with it, for I had been called to South America to take charge of an important piece of work.”

The Consul was silent. Absent-mindedly, he started the car.

August was likewise silent. He realized that his yarn had not been believed, but this fact was of no great concern to him—he had never in his life cared a fig whether folk believed what he told them or not. Nor did he regret his exaggeration; he refused to take back a word. It was his mission in life to father all forms of progress and development, and he had left behind him desolation in one form or another wherever he had gone. He was ignorant and therefore innocent; a warrior in the cause for human emancipation even were the result to prove meaningless and destructive in the end. Were we not to keep up with the times? Were we to be the laughing stock of the entire world? The times, the spirit of modernity had its eye on him and found in him a man it could use. Yes, the modern age had good use for him; he was a voyager, a man who had sailed the seven seas and who was rags both inside and out, a man whose mind found no room for skepticism—or conscience—but a man who was keen of head and able of hand. The age had made of him its missionary. He had heard the call and he was on fire with the will to modernize and develop, even at the expense of destroying all semblance of order. He was as abnormally mendacious as the new age itself, but as he was ignorant, he was innocent. And now he was old. But he still had breath in his body. The Lord had allowed him to live.

“I’m looking for a place to turn round,” said the Consul. “This is as far as we can get.”

The people of the countryside had turned out in great numbers to witness the return trip of the car; the rumour must have spread from farm to farm, from cottage to cottage. Ay, here now was a spectacle—not a comet, to be sure, but a carriage that went of itself. Oh that Consul! The only pity was that he could not whizz along the road as motorists did abroad. On this rural lane in Norway his speed was such that not even a hen took fright.

As they were crossing the bridge for the second time, August suddenly remarked: “That mill could even be used as an iodine factory.”

“What’s that—?”

“Ay, as an iodine factory.”

The devil and all lay in that old Altmulig and those factories of his; there, he had got another flash of inspiration through his brain!

“Yes,” said the Consul. “Iodine is certainly an excellent product. Something they use in medicine.”

“And here we have no end of raw stuff to make it out of—whole heaps of seaweed right outside our very doors—God’s gift simply going to waste.”

“That’s true. We use a bit of seaweed as fertilizer for our soil, but otherwise I don’t suppose we make all the use of it we might.”

“All we need is a few machines,” said August.

The Consul asked: “Have you worked in that field, as well?”

“Some!” August now felt urged to make amends for his earlier exaggerations. “I wasn’t a foreman or anything like that. I was simply an ordinary day labourer.”

“While I think of it,” said the Consul. “We must fence off those two dangerous steeps at the side of that mountain road of ours.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Doctor Lund and his son had returned home. They were both entirely well now. That is, the boy was still obliged to use a cane for a time, and the doctor had a glass eye.

That devil’s own Aase! It had been impossible to save the eye. Her filthy fingers had created an infection and this had ruined the eye completely.

It wasn’t so bad, though. The glass eye was just as lovely as the good one. The only trouble with it was, it could not roll about like a real eye and, of course, it was somewhat lacking in fire. No one else could observe any change in the doctor’s appearance, though he himself felt poorer and somewhat despoiled. That finicky man, he could not get it out of his mind; it had worked on his nerves, so he came right out with it to his wife, as though to make light of his misfortune. “Well, I don’t suppose you will want me any longer now!” he said. And when she laughed to hear such talk, he carried the conversation a bit further; it must be extremely disgusting to feel oneself attached to a man with so terrific a blemish and, beautiful as she was, she would certainly have no difficulty at all in finding herself another man!

“Here, here! Have you taken clean leave of your mind!” she howled joyfully. “I’d have you if you were blind!”

So ’tis an ill wind which blows no one some good! As the result of his misfortune Doctor Lund became an entirely changed man, fonder of his wife than ever before, truly in love now, as jealous as a youth of twenty. What difference did it make now if she were from Polden, from the poorest of homes, from the simplest of parents? A new life had begun for this pair: affectionate embraces, mad nights as bride and groom, laughter ringing through the house. And Fru Esther never again found it necessary to steal up to her corner in the attic to weep. That blessed creature, Aase!

August called on them.

“See here, August!” said the doctor. “Step over to the light and stick your finger in this damaged eye of mine!”

August went to the light, examined the two eyes carefully and was tactful enough to stick his finger in the good eye.

Nor was the doctor the least bit annoyed by this good-hearted mistake; he cried out, laughing: “You old rascal, you’re in league with Esther here! I ought to show you both the door!”

August pardoned himself on the grounds that he had been without his glasses, and this sounded reasonable enough. But the doctor was, nevertheless, naïvely pleased over the affair; if his blemish could not be detected without spectacles and a magnifying glass, it could not be such a terrific blemish, after all, could it?

“And see here now, August; I’ve been given to understand that you would like us to testify to the fact that you’re the man you say you are! Well well, that I shall be more than happy to do. Sit down a moment, have another cup of coffee!” The doctor began to write. “Come, Esther, you must sign this, too!”

After this, they sat down and had a long and friendly chat. The doctor’s son entered the room with his cane. “Yes, here’s the other cripple,” said the doctor. “But he’s all right now, too.”

“And who’s the first?” asked August, innocently.

“You know, that’s me!”

“You’re not to talk like that, do you hear!” cried his wife, clapping her hand over his mouth.

The doctor: “Can you ever understand women, August? Now look at Esther— she’s never before been as nice to me as she is now. No talk of slapping and scratching each other now!”

Moonshine, fiddle-faddle, but domestic happiness, full mutual accord, peace in the breast....

When August was leaving, Esther stepped outside with him. “What do you think, August, just what do you think, I ask you!” she breathed, enraptured. “Have you ever seen such a change? I can’t feel my feet on the ground any more. It seems so good for me to be alive now!”

“You deserve all the good things anyone can think of!” said August.

“He’s been entirely different ever since he came back,” she continued. “I haven’t thought of Polden even once—I’ve no need to any more!”

“Ugh, Polden!” groaned August, attempting to blot out all thought of that vile place....

* * * * *

Oh, but August was originally from Polden himself, and it would seem that he was not to be entirely quit of his native heath. He was expecting a sum of money from there. The identification signed by the doctor and his wife was despatched and Paulina was prompt to reply. And firm she was, that Paulina: the least August could do would be to come himself. There was an old and detailed account to present to him; out of the original lottery prize of twenty thousand German marks, she had paid off August’s debts, but more than half of the original amount had been left over and this residue, in the course of time, had more than doubled itself. She demanded that August should come to Polden so that he might receive an accurate accounting. If not, he could forget about the entire matter—just as he liked!

“In truth I am not surprised at the woman,” said the judge. “She seems to me to be decidedly salt of the earth.”

“Salt!” exclaimed August. “Say, you couldn’t find a straighter, honester, more religious lump of salt on this side of the Atlantic. I’ll say that much for her, I will!”

The magistrate was still anxious to help him and said: “What if you were to write her a letter yourself and explain that you have so much work to do down here that you simply can’t get away? That’s an idea worth trying.”

Ay, perhaps it was an idea worth trying, but one day after another slipped by and August put off writing the letter. No, he simply could not bring himself to do it. In the first place, how was such a singular letter to be put together? It wasn’t like a business letter—date, at hand and contents noted, in regard to, beg to advise, yours very truly—no, it was in truth a begging letter, a humble request for a sum of money he had given away with a mere flourish of his arm. The long and short of it was, he wrote no letter at all. All right then, you can keep the money, Paulina! He could live his remaining time on earth without it, as he had before, and farewell forever. Yours truly, August.... But no, it was a crying shame to be losing so large a sum of money just at this time when he could certainly put it to good use in one way or another. Didn’t that Paulina have any feeling left in her breast for her old friend and childhood companion? Hm....

Well, perhaps he might send her a wire. An old vanity he had preserved from the days of his youth. Who could be bothered writing a long and tedious letter when the whole thing could be said in a telegram?

He seats himself in the telegraph office, fills in a blank, scratches out what he has written, writes something else, scratches that out. But he would not have sat there so complacently had he anticipated the interview which was about to follow: the chief telegraphist stepped from the instrument room to the outer office and approached him with a ponderous tome under his arm—the Russian Bible.

“I saw you sitting here,” he said, “and I had something I wanted to ask you.”

The fact of the matter was the chief telegraphist, the local bookworm, had suddenly gained the impression that this Russian Bible of his was really no Bible at all, though he had had no convenient way of settling his doubts on the point. Why should a Russian Bible have such an odd appearance? It might very well be some other manner of book. On the other hand, why should a Russian Bible not look exactly like this? What if it did look very much like some kind of a catalogue? There, you see! The whole problem was decidedly perplexing and the chief telegraphist had just about come to the conclusion that the book was anyway, as it were, Satan’s own Scripture, for he had been unable to sleep nights of late because of it.

“Can you read this book here?” he asked.

August smiled. “Blueberries for me!” he smiled.

“Well, what does this word mean?”

“That one there? That means in Norwegian something similar to Pontius Pilate.”

“And this one?”

“That means ‘with regard to.’ Ay, ‘with regard to.’ That’s what that means.”

“I wish I knew if you’re serious,” said the chief telegraphist. Suddenly he asked pointedly: “See here, man, do you know Russian?”

August smiled again.

The telegraphist: “I’m not sure what you know, but I can tell you one thing—you’re holding the book upside down. I can tell by the Greek characters.”

August started. “Dear me,” he said. “I can just as well turn the book the other way, if you like. But it’s all one to me. I can read it either way.”

The telegraphist: “How certain are you that this thing here is a Bible?”

August, exasperated: “Say, if you doubt that this is the Holy Bible, the Law and the Word of God Almighty, I can just as well take it back again for the five kroner you paid for it!”

This was the least he could do about it and right was only right. Of course such would mean a wicked expenditure on his part, the Bible was utterly useless to him, he couldn’t exactly rent it out. No, but he must save his reputation.

The telegraphist points to a certain page: “What’s this verse to do with?”

“That verse? Baptism, as I read it. The baptism of Jesus.”

“What!” shrieks the telegraphist at the top of his voice. “There? So far forward in the book? In the Old Testament?”

August reached for his five kroner; he would do his best to get himself out of this tight place without injury to his reputation. “I don’t see so well with these glasses. Never did see so well with them, but they were the only glasses I could get at the time. I bought them at a fair in Revel which is the capital of a country they call Esthonia. There were all kinds of other things I could have bought, but when I saw a man selling glasses I went right over to him and bought these. He was dressed in a homespun robe, like, with a rope around his middle and a glossy silk hat on his head, but other than that he was bare-footed. You never saw such a funny-looking merchant—”

The telegraphist’s excitement mounted steadily as he waited for August to finish. At length he pointed to the page again and let out a brutal roar! “Is it true that this particular verse has to do with baptism? With the baptism of Jesus?”

“Well, now, I won’t insist on it,” August answered. “It might, of course, have to do with something else. I was bright enough in my school days and I used to know all sorts of things, but what can you expect of a man of my age? Now I’ll just take and polish up these glasses of mine—hhhhhhhah— nice and bright and have a real good look. But you know when a man hasn’t the proper glasses—”

“Wait a minute!” commanded the chief telegraphist and hurried off to his instrument which was frantically signalling.

No, August did not wait.

* * * * *

He was finished with his various jobs on the place and was free to return to the road construction. The last thing he had to do was to show Editor Davidsen the new motor car and explain the mechanism to him. This was to be the subject of an article in the Segelfoss News.

There were others, too, who came to him for expert advice. Two men from the motion picture theatre called to ask him if he would lay a cement floor for them. He could do this evenings and during other free periods, they suggested.

August merely shook his head; he was the Consul’s man and would be unable to take on “private jobs,” in the district round about. “No no, my good friends,” he said. “I’ve altogether too much to take care of here!”

“That’s a shame,” the men said. “We’re in a tight place. Our old floor has rotted away.”

August, our busy friend, nevertheless found time to make a little jaunt down into South Parish. It was Saturday evening, the end of a bright summer day, and August had polished his shoes till they gleamed, had dressed himself up in a light linen suit purchased at the Segelfoss Store and had tied a red befringed kerchief about his waist for a sash. Thoroughly exotic he appeared and it was part of the program that he should. In his trousers pocket he jingled eight keys on a ring. Now what could those keys betoken? Possibly they had something to do with eight treasure chests he was somewhere said to possess.

No sign of festivity in the home of Tobias now; the world and the goods of this world had been rooted from the family consciousness, for the Anabaptist had returned to resume his pious doings. Who could have believed such a thing of Tobias and his household! He had always been such a steadfast and diligent chap, and even if he hadn’t burned down his own house last spring, he had been as pleased as punch when the insurance company paid out the money. But the preacher, that itinerant spiritual laundry, had had some effect upon him. Tobias had begun to feel some qualms; this business about the Holy Ghost was surely intricate and the end of it was that not only he himself, but his wife and Cornelia as well, were obliged to visit the river below the falls and go in for some holy scrubbing. Now who could have believed that of him!

Bustle and vociferation throughout the entire district; the Anabaptist reached about him with long arms and even succeeded in hauling in some of the present summer’s crop of confirmands—school children whom he got to kneel down and shout out their sins during his testimonial meetings. And the duckings continued, even though there were already slight signs of autumn in the air and the temperature of Jordan’s flood was only forty degrees.

But then something happened: another preacher came to town, another herald of the Lord, a competitor. The new man was holding forth up in North Parish and who should it be but Nilsen, an ordinary evangelist, with nothing to do with baptism, with little or no hocus-pocus involved in his gospel. Instead, he had brought with him a number of good sound written testimonials addressed to Pastor Ole Landsen by other legitimate ministers.

He proved to be a faithful servant of God, no great preacher, but kind of face and sincere in all he said. He did not fail to create an impression and those who had taken the trouble to hear both preachers and were connoisseurs of prayer meetings held Nilsen to be a hair’s breadth more liberal than the other. He was a simple man, wore not even a necktie, but in its place a plain yellow neckerchief, no black coat hanging clear to his knees, and his hands could not be called white. But Nilsen was not to be disesteemed for that.

It was, of course, quite unavoidable that he should talk against the Anabaptist and his activities in the south end of the parish. Not even one of God’s angels in Heaven could have avoided that. And it was here that Nilsen proved himself to be unexpectedly clever; that devil of a Nilsen, if he didn’t have something of a tongue in his head: “They are at their baptising again down there in South Parish,” said he. “And there they are jeering at and making mock of the Holy Ghost. But, my friends, it shows decidedly bad breeding to sneer and mock—when the one you refer to is absent!” he concluded pointedly.

By means of such simple, cosy peasant talk Nilsen was able to hold his listeners, but in the long run he could not last out against the preacher in South Parish who employed such hocus-pocus as kneeling down and popping up and treating folk to cold baths in running wafer. And the result was a general split, hatred and unrest there in Ole Landsen’s spiritual domain, and when at length it began to happen that folk went for each other on public thoroughfares, the Segelfoss News again asked Pastor Landsen if he didn’t feel that now he had grounds to interfere. “No,” replied the local minister. “It doesn’t amount to anything. Just give it time. By winter it will all be over with!”

The battle for the Holy Ghost raged on without signs of abating. Never before in history had this obscure God in God come in for such glowing publicity—the Anabaptist preached an entire sermon on the subject of this element of the Trinity and made Him far better known in the Segelfoss district than He was elsewhere in the whole of Norway. It was unbelievable how minutely the preacher could define Him—it was almost as though the Holy Ghost had sat to him for a portrait. “And what’s more, I can tell you his name in Latin!” he bellowed. “His name is Spiritus Sanctus. Go ahead, ask anybody you like if that’s not right!”

August, with but slight theological training, suddenly found himself in the very midst of this spiritual frenzy. Tobias no longer mentioned the horse he had received as a gift, made no mention of the frivolous red sash August was wearing about his waist, thought only of the sermon to be preached on the morrow—followed by further wallowings in the waters of Jordan.

Oh, kiss your grandmother! August probably thought to himself and didn’t even stop to cross himself. “Let me have a word with you, Cornelia!” he said.

Cornelia rose unwillingly and followed him out of doors. In a field at the side grazed the mare; as usual, she raised her head to glare in their direction. And as usual, a youth was to be seen rambling down the road from the neighbouring farm.

“Well, how are you getting along with the mare these days?” asked August, determined that the creature should receive at least some mention.

“Oh, the mare—” said Cornelia. “Ay well, she’s a devil to get into the harness, but otherwise she’s all right.”

“Well now, that’s fine!”

“But father, he’s begun to complain about it,” said Cornelia. “He wonders if he isn’t committing a sin to keep her.”

“A sin? Against me?” cried August, the millionaire. “You mean he thinks I couldn’t afford it?”

“No—no, that isn’t what he meant—”

“Well, let’s hope not, at least! A mere horse? Hahaha!” And August took out his bunch of keys and glanced at them, full of ownership.

“No, he was wondering if he wasn’t sinning against the man who sold the horse.”

August, a bit long in the face: “The man got what he asked, didn’t he? I didn’t beat him down on the price, that I know of!”

“No,” said Cornelia. “But, you see, there he was, a poor man, who was forced to sell. And now he must pack home firewood and hay on his back. A poor fellow who hasn’t even a horse in this world.”

August thought for a time, then said in utter desperation: “Well, I can easily take back the horse!”

The youth from the neighbouring farm draws near—Hendrik, Cornelia’s other sweetheart. He steps up to them and without a word of greeting asks: “What are you talking about, you two?”

“He wants to take back the horse,” says Cornelia.

“What’s that—the horse he gave you as a gift?”

August gives him fair warning: “Keep that nasty little snout of yours shut when I’m talking!”

No effect. No, Hendrik’s soul has become likewise awakened; he is pious now, God loves him and will watch over him. What can the world do to him now!

Cornelia began to weep.

“Don’t cry, Cornelia!” said Hendrik. “He isn’t thinking of taking the horse away. That’s impossible.”

“Listen here, you!” August warns him for the second time. “Get out of here!” And, at the same time, August makes a little flick of his hand in the direction of his hip pocket.

No effect here, either. Hendrik paled, as was to be expected, but he refused to budge. And Cornelia wept and clutched his arm and said: “No, you’re to stay right here!”

This staggered August somewhat. “Oh, so that’s how it stands, is it!” he said.

“Ay, we are one now,” explained Cornelia. “Hendrik is just like us others and tomorrow he will also be baptised. Then we’ll be together in that, too.”

August suddenly realized that he was losing the game and again fell to thinking to himself. When he spoke again, he said: “Look, Cornelia, I only came out here to tell you that I have had that Benjamin working for me for a time—that sweetheart of yours, you know, the one who holds you on his lap at Christmas dances—”

“Let him go on talking!” said Hendrik.

“He’s made good money working for me,” continued August. “And he’s a fine lad and a bright lad, too. You’d never go wrong on him, Cornelia.”

“I like your nerve!” said Cornelia. “He’s nothing to me any more. He goes to hear Nilsen—he’s not one of our kind!”

“There’s something so nice about that Benjamin,” said August. “And honest, too. I’ve given him my keys and put him in charge of everything I own and I’ve never missed so much as a pin from that day to this.”

“It’s nothing to me what you say!”

“And you’d never imagine all the things he’s learned from me! I’ll give him a fine letter of recommendation any day he likes and that you can believe! I’ll let you read the letter yourself.”

Cornelia was becoming more and more annoyed; at length she went far enough to say: “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Benjamin, that sweetheart of yours. Oh, you know who I mean, all right— he’s kissed you more than once and kissed you good and proper, too—”

Hendrik undertook to exclaim: “I don’t see why we should go on listening to this man! He is not one of our kind. He’s full of the impurity of this world.”

“You filthy little snot!” cried August. “I’d do well to pick you up and wipe up the ground with you! What kind of clown is this you’re grabbing by the arm, Cornelia! He hasn’t got so much as a knife and spoon to his name and he couldn’t even buy himself a pair of shoes to keep from going barefoot this winter! But that sweetheart of yours—that Benjamin—it’s me that’s looking out for him, and I’ll teach him all kinds of trades and ways to make good money, too. Don’t you worry about that!”

And Cornelia burst into tears; ay, that she did. But she refused to give in, so thoroughly baptised and religious had she become. “Gold and worldly goods we may never have much of,” she said. “But our daily bread will be enough for us.”

“Ay,” said Hendrik, and agreed with her thoroughly.

“All right. It’s all the same to me,” said August. “And I’m all through trying to talk to you. But you needn’t think you can make a fool of that Benjamin. No. For there isn’t a girl in the whole of North Parish he can’t have if he likes. But best of all, he can even have one of the housemaids at the Manor if he likes. She’s crazy about him. Anyone could see as much with one eye shut.”

Cornelia flared up at this. “Ho, so maybe he’ll take her?”

“I wouldn’t say a word as to that!” August answered....

He tramped back to town, fretful and annoyed. His jaunt had proved unfortunate—he had completely neglected his personal interests where Cornelia was concerned and had struggled on another’s behalf. But even in this miserable direction he had failed to accomplish his ends.

He called at the motion picture theatre and sent to North Parish after Benjamin to come and lay a cement floor. The present job would involve no small amount of work, as the ground beneath would first have to be dried out and a draining system installed. Benjamin would have enough to keep him busy until haying time at home.

What would Cornelia have to say about that? Oh, those stupid womenfolk!

But Cornelia, after all, was certainly no worse in affairs of the heart than others of her sex—all women were alike. He spat. Maybe he didn’t know them! What prevented them from indulging in the vilest of folly? What had he not experienced of an evening upon returning home? Who could control them when they took it into their heads to fly loose?

He felt disconsolate indeed as he went strolling home to the Manor. He was completely out of sorts and at length stopped in at the gardener Steffen’s room to see if he couldn’t get up a card game for that same evening. But Steffen was engaged, Steffen had his sweetheart in from the country to visit him in his room and there he now sat entertaining her with a bag of cookies, as hard as rocks, he had bought for her at the store.

“Come in Altmulig,” said Steffen. “This is only my girl and me.”

“Ay, but we’re not making love!” said his sweetheart, tauntingly.

Steffen, with self-justification: “I just got these cookies here from the store, so you wouldn’t have to go home hungry.”

“They’re not to be got down,” she said.

Steffen sat there making a heroic job of munching and chewing, but the lady seemed unwilling to risk her teeth. At length she resolutely took them out of her mouth and set them down on the table. False teeth in a plate of red India rubber and slimy into the bargain. Steffen gave them an ugly scowl. The lady now began gummily to suck on a petrified cookie.

“You’re a pig!” said Steffen.

“And you, with those horse teeth of yours?”

“Take that thing away!” he bellowed in desperation.

“So so,” she replied, and sucked her plate back into her mouth.

“I’ve puked at less than that,” said Steffen.

“You brute!” replied his sweetheart.

“Ay, but it looked like some part of your insides!”

“I won’t so much as answer such filthy talk!”

Their words grew more and more harsh and bitter. At length tears and poundings on the table.

“I’ll go right off and leave you,” the lady howled. “You’re nothing to me!”

“Go ahead and leave! See if I care!” Steffen shot back. “Happy journey to you!”

They played through the entire scene....

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The road workers were relieved when their regular foreman, August, returned to the job. He had been absent so much of late, had appeared only occasionally to deal with some specific problem, and otherwise had left Adolf, as it were, in charge of operations. But the men were loath to obey Adolf’s commands; after all, he was no better than they themselves and they made a fool of him and consulted him on various silly points where no advice was needed. The Trønder Francis was particularly objectionable in this respect; he might load up his wheelbarrow and suddenly go over to Adolf and ask if he were supposed to trundle it away.

Their opposition to Adolf had its basic origin in their feelings of jealousy. Marna, the Consul’s sister, was not an infrequent visitor along the line of construction. She made the most of her life of indolent ease and seldom neglected to seek out Adolf with whom she would stop for a chat. Adolf was robust and handsome, he removed his cap when he greeted her, his speech was courteous, and now and then he would blush. Nothing escaped the eyes of his fellows, and they were after him the very moment the lady had disappeared.

They were now at work in several places blasting away a bit more of the cliff at the right for the purpose of widening the road; otherwise the shoulders were complete along the entire line—a bit more work on the surface and the road would be ready for traffic. Nevertheless, to slice off but a foot or two of solid cliff for a distance of no more than three or four yards would take time and necessitate no end of blasting.

But August was no longer the old boss he had been before, and his workmen took note of the change. He was no longer racing up and down the line, he lacked his former certainty of decision, he no longer harped continually on the subject of order and discipline. He confessed that his sight and hearing were beginning to fail, though his health in other respects was as good as ever, he said. But the workmen agreed amongst themselves that it must really be his mind which had begun to fail. No, he was not the man he had been before.

Naturally he had never written that letter to Paulina in Polden and, as a consequence, his money had failed to arrive. Such a condition, it is obvious, is likely to turn a man’s mind.

Along about this time he happened one evening upon Aase and it was his thought at once to hear what she might have to say in regard to that money of his: would he get it, or could he kiss it goodbye? He halted her and asked her advice in a matter of great importance to him. She stared him hard in the eyes, then without uttering a word, she drew him to one side, spread her legs wide apart and lifted up her clothes, so that she stood there nude to the navel. Meanwhile she continued to stare into his eyes.

“Hey—! Well I never!” August managed to stammer.

“I just wanted to see!” she said and let her clothes drop back into place.

Now it may be that August’s face had momentarily beamed at what his eyes had witnessed and it is likewise possible that he had gone further and moistened his lips.

“You old swine!” said Aase. “That’s why you go there all the time. You want her!”

Hell and damnation! This was not what he had hoped to hear from Aase, though he knew she had spoken the truth—unfortunately, the words were all too true—night and day the girl had haunted his dreams.

August laid his head on one side and said: “Tell me something about that!”

Aase tossed her head contemptuously.

“Ho, isn’t there anything you can tell me about that?” he asked.

Aase scowled darkly at him, strode past him and was on her way.

So he was just as near....

Fate appeared dead set against him and that money of his. It even tried to tempt him into complaining against the Lord. As though he could ever do that! He was both sorry for himself and resentful, but even so, he was no godless man. No, he looked up to God. He had learned from the various tight squeezes in which he had found himself during the course of his roving career that God was a splendid force to feel at one’s back—during a shipwreck, for example, during periods of the utmost poverty, for example, or at moments when he was in possible danger of receiving a revolver shot or a knife thrust. From each crisis, he had emerged safe and sound. Ay, God was a friend worth having!... Well, what if he were to turn downright religious now and rely entirely upon a life of simple piety? It would do him no harm, at least—and, possibly it might help him the better to get along without his money.

The road crews now learned to their astonishment that they were no longer to swear at a stone which had injured a toe or a finger.

August was putting in a good bit of time at the blacksmith shop these days. He was helping to produce the divers parts of ironwork for the fencing he would install at the two danger points along the new road. A splendid variation in his tasks and a welcome one. At the same time he could keep an eye on Benjamin’s work in the theatre.

“I wonder if you’ve prayed the Lord to help you on with this job,” he said to Benjamin.

Benjamin had heard strange words from August’s lips before, so he essayed no elaborate reply. He pointed to the work he had already performed and indicated what he would have to do to complete the job—oh yes, he knew what he was doing all right!

“You should thank God for that!” said August.

Adolf comes to him and complains of his comrades’ disobedience and open defiance, and begs August to come back on the job. The men were wasting their time wrangling among themselves; sometimes they would get drunk during rest periods; they were lagging behind in their work. August promised to come up and look into the matter.

He understood very well what the matter was; he knew his men. For months chained to this construction work and deprived of all traffic with women, they were now heartily sick of each other’s company and would fly into a rage on the slightest provocation. Furthermore, they were half-mad with jealousy and Adolf was hardly safe from attack.

This feeling flared up anew on the day when Frøken Marna appeared in the company of Druggist Holm. The men envied even the druggist his walk with this beautiful girl—to be sure, for how could they help it!—but the truth of the matter was, they could in a way endure this fellow, whereas they could not in the least endure Adolf. And this must have come mainly of the fact that Marna was so thoroughly scornful of the attentions of her present swain. She appeared to detest his very presence. It was indeed a pitiful sight when the druggist’s sweetest and most charming speeches would evoke from the lady’s lips nought save a scornful grimace. The men on the road undertook to snicker at this—Hi, lads, she’s no use for him even if he does have a flower in his buttonhole and tries to look like a swell!—His bouttonière, a carnation, had been fresh some days before and it had clung bravely to its fragrant blush, having reposed each night in a tumbler of water, but at last this day the hand of death was upon it.

Holm: “Here I stand talking away to myself and not knowing what I may do to interest you.”

“Keep still! That will interest me!” grated Frøken Marna.

“Are you really as cruel as that? Ah, so I am merely spoiling my every chance with you.”

“You have absolutely no chance whatever with me!”

“No, so I observe. Well, here I go with a house plant stuck in my lapel and a part in my hair, yet all seems to escape your attention.”

Marna appeared unwilling to hear another word out of him and the workers snickered further and poked each other in the ribs. No, lads, he’ll never get anywhere with her, that’s one thing sure! Why, she’s too good for an old rooster like him!

“Where are you keeping Adolf today?” the lady inquires of the men.

No one answers.

Marna walks slowly up the new road, apparently of the opinion that she will find him somewhere above. The druggist accompanies her.

The Trønder Francis is the first to express himself. “Now I don’t know as you could exactly call the druggist an old rooster,” he says. “He’s better than that Adolf, he is.”

The druggist? they all shout. A remarkable fellow! Isn’t he decent enough to hand out a bottle now and then in that drugstore of his? Why, Boldemand, he had even got two bottles the time he had cried and said he was bound for a funeral. Isn’t that right, Boldemand?

“I could have got four!” boasted Boldemand. “That’s the kind of man he is!”

“Where are you keeping our Adolf today?” one of the men mocks scornfully. “Hehehe, come on out with Adolf now! I really must know where Adolf is! Hahaha!”

No, the druggist is a horse of a different colour, they all agree. A husky fellow, too. Broad shoulders on him. You ought to see him row a boat! Ay, you must have observed that there is a man who is something. But Adolf—

The next time Marna arrived, she was seated on a horse, the druggist accompanying her on foot. You see, after her brother, Gordon Tidemand, had got him that car of his, he had turned his carriage horse over to Marna who had forthwith taken up riding. She sat heavily in the saddle, though she rode with a certain air. The horse was well-rested and lively; now and then it would toss its head and sidestep. The druggist continued to shower his sweet nothings upon the lady of his dreams and his verbal courtship showed little short of virtuosity. Yet Marna seldom troubled so much as to acknowledge his compliments; no, she made straight for Adolf to show the latter how beautiful she appeared on horseback and to demonstrate her marvelous equestrian talent by jumping over a wheelbarrow which stood there in the road.

“It is charming to observe with what finesse you manage that Arab of yours,” said the druggist.

“Have you noticed what beautiful eyes Adolf has?” she replied dotingly.

“But I, too, have beautiful eyes,” said Druggist Holm. “That is, when I turn them upon you.”

“Have you?” she replied. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen your eyes. You’re always hiding them.”

The druggist bowed his head. “That comes of my humility.” he said. “I bow my head. I dare only glance at the hem of your garment.”

On the way home, as it was down-grade, she galloped off and left him.... From that day on, she and the druggist never again visited the road in each other’s company.

But Druggist Holm was by no means left without resources; in a few days he was seen strolling up the new road with Mama’s mother—with none other than Gammelmoderen. He was dashingly attired in a handsome suit of clothes, a brand-new hat worn at a rakish angle, the corner of a white silk handkerchief peeping from his breast pocket. Exactly why he had chosen Gammelmoderen to accompany him on this walk—whether it had been his thought to come at Marna via her mother, or whether it had been a sheer desire on his part to go sightseeing—no one was able to determine. But, at least, the druggist was not without resourcefulness. And the pair seemed to enjoy each other’s company thoroughly; Holm was indeed entertaining and his lady laughed with the spontaneity of youth at the fancifulness of his remarks. Their conversation was lively and scintillant.

But now the situation up on the road became truly critical. Marna was visiting the construction more frequently than ever and, as the druggist no longer accompanied her, Adolf was now left without a rival. This led to open insurrection in the ranks of the workmen and Adolf was obliged to go to August in the smithy and resign his job as foreman. August objected and reminded Adolf that he would thus lose the added pay he had coming to him, but all right, let it go at that, Adolf said.

August considered the situation: he might perhaps put Boldemand in charge of the crew for the days still needed to put up the iron fencing, but Boldemand, it seemed, was a fiend for the bottle. And how would it aid matters, even were Adolf to be removed as foreman? Marna could find him aloft with the gang, and then, as he would again be simply a common labourer, his comrades would at last be free to murder him. Such was by no means unthinkable.

The point was, Marna would have to be restrained from visiting the new road. She was the root of the entire difficulty. The men had become like gunpowder, and their thoughts were hardly upon God.

August called at the Consul’s office, dropped his cap to the floor and bowed.

The Consul descended from his high stool and said in a friendly voice: “Glad to see you, Altmulig. I was going to ask you when you imagine the new road will be completed.”

“You ask me and I ask you.”

“Hm.”

“Ay, for we’ve trouble in one way or another. If only the men can be left to work in peace—”

“How’s that—are they being disturbed?”

August reviewed conditions as they existed at present on the road: the men were out of control—they couldn’t stand the sight of young and beautiful womenfolk come there to watch them work—their thoughts were not upon God.

The Consul looked uncertainly at his old altmuligmand. What, was it God he had mentioned?

August continued: bright summer days and mountain air and the food they ate did not satisfy them—pardon now, but they had become a good bit wrought up and felt a hunger for anyone they might happen to see—ay, even for that Aase, he had been told.

“What rot!” said the Consul.

“Ay. And now I’ve come to warn you against letting any of your own ladies—to tell you she shouldn’t visit the road any more.”

“Marna? She can give that up, I suppose.”

“For it might be dangerous for her. And besides, the lads don’t do a stroke of work so long as she is there; they just stand around and look at her. She makes them feel restless. Pardon, but they’re all in love with her, they’re very fond of her, and when she goes talking with that Adolf—”

“Very well, very well!” said the Consul, annoyed. “Marna will go there no more. Today marks the end of that. And now, Altmulig, when do you think you can finish the road?”

August brightened at this. “If we can be left in peace, we can be finished up there in three weeks’ time. That is, if we are left in peace. But, after all, everything rests in the hand of God,” he added thoughtfully.

“Of course, there is no especial hurry about it,” said the Consul. “But I am expecting a friend from England to visit me during the hunting season. I’ll need the road by that time. But, as you say, you’ll be finished long before then. By the way, have you seen anything in the way of game up the mountain this summer?”

“I should think I have! Nothing very big, though, as I should say. But one covey of ptarmigan after another. And no end of rabbits.”

“Are you a hunter yourself, Altmulig?”

“In my younger days. I should say as I was a hunter then! One winter I shot and trapped a whole eight-oar load of the finest of furs and sailed them down the coast to the fair at Stokmarknes.”

“Furs? What kind?”

“Otter and fox, a few ermine, a bit of sealskin. Ay, those were the days! And later on, up in the Andes and out in Java and different other places—”

The Consul interrupted him: “The Englishman I am expecting to visit me this autumn is a gentleman of decidedly high quality—he is a nobleman, the owner of vast estates. We were together in school. I’ve been entertained in his home and now I should like to do a little something for him in return. If you can think of anything out of the ordinary, Altmulig, I wish you’d mention it to me.”

“Everything rests in the hand of God,” said August.

The Consul started at this, but nodded his head and said: “Yes.”

“If we live that long,” said August. “That’s what I meant.”

“Yes,” the Consul repeated. But old Altmulig was not himself this day; something must have happened to him of late. The Consul inquired after his health. It was excellent. Had anything gone wrong with him, then? Of course not! On the contrary, he had a large sum of money on deposit somewhere, but dashed if he was able to get hold of it, and now God was helping him to get along without it, so in truth there was nought save joy and music in his breast....

When the Consul returned home that night, his first words to his wife were: “Of all things, Altmulig has gone religious! I am really at a loss to comprehend it.”

“Altmulig? So. Yes, I’ve seen him cross himself a few times,” said Fru Juliet.

“Yes, but it’s even worse than that now. And I must request you to refrain from profanity and frivolous conversation the next time you happen to meet him.”

“Hahaha!” laughed Fru Juliet.

From this he turned to the present situation up on the new road. As the whole matter appealed to them in terms of the wildest comedy, they laughed and joked and had no end of fun over it. Gordon Tidemand who was either too weak and evasive or else too delicate and refined, put the matter of speaking to Marna off onto his wife. “You must have a talk with Marna,” he said. “You could manage it so much more discreetly than I. Tell her that all the road men are crazy about her, hahaha, that they cannot live without her, but that there is one Adolf in particular who craves her hand and who really has the most honourable intentions! But that on account of this, he is in danger of being beaten to death by the others! Hahaha!”

Fru Juliet managed to laugh with him, but it appeared that she was likewise able to view the situation from Marna’s point of view. “It is possible that she herself is in love with this Adolf,” she said.

“Then she is out of her head!” said Gordon Tidemand. “And we’ll simply ship her back to Helgeland where she came from. She is not to set foot upon that new road again, tell her that! Who ever heard of such a thing! And you must be straight up and down with her, Juliet, just as though you felt you were I!”

“Yes,” said Fru Juliet.

Gordon Tidemand always shrank from all forms of personal friction and he was decidedly relieved at the thought of avoiding a possible scene with his sister. His tone was at once jocular again: “And here’s another thing, Juliet—I don’t ever want to hear of you showing yourself up there on the road, either, do you understand? If I ever find you up there, I’ll shoot you!”

“Haha!”

“For I know of no one worse than you are when it comes to getting us wretched menfolks excited to the point of losing what little common sense we have.”

“Haha. That’s enough, Gordon! Will you return me the favour and speak to those maids of ours?” she asked. “They’ve gone a bit daft themselves. They are attending revival meetings held by a certain Anabaptist down in South Parish and, along with this, they’ve taken so to bathing and scrubbing themselves that they are in the bath twice a day now, and the rest of us hardly get so much as a chance at it!”

“Such impudence!” says Gordon Tidemand.

“I have asked them the meaning of all this sudden cleanliness, and the answer they give me is that they do not wish to appear filthy on the day when they must take off their chemises for baptism in the river below the falls.”

“Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing! Which of the girls are they?”

“The parlour maids. I hope you will deal with them properly.”

“I? Juliet, don’t you think it would be best—”

“And you must be straight up and down with them, Gordon, just exactly as though you were I!” says Fru Juliet.

“No, I—?” replies the Consul, Gordon Tidemand. “I really feel that lies in your province, my dear. Seriously speaking, the maids—no, they are in your department, quite! You would not wish them to do as they please in your house, would you? If I were mistress here, they would change their song and dance right quickly, or else—Why, who ever heard of such a thing! But here’s another point—now that general wickedness seems to be the order of the day, what if you and I were to go for another automobile ride this afternoon? What do you say to that, eh?”

“That might not be such a bad idea,” said Fru Juliet.

“The weather is so fine, we can take the children with us. The baby, too.”

* * * * *

Peace along the new road. Marna comes no more.

The fact that the druggist and Gammelmoderen still visited their project was nothing to the workmen—nothing to bother about there! Adolf toiled faithfully and steadily with his own crew, Boldemand who had no eye for the opposite sex was in charge and the work was progressing with a dash. August had good reason to be satisfied.

But many were those whom August was to assist by word and deed. It was the consensus of opinion that he was splendid to confide in and that he could always think of many ways out of a difficulty. Now, for example, there was Gammelmoderen. “If you please, may I have a few words with you, Altmulig?” she had asked modestly.

“Who’s to prevent it!” August had replied.

Gammelmoderen was at a crisis; ay, she was, as it were, in a bad way and during the past two weeks her head had been plagued by many thoughts. You see, it would never do for Alexander and her to lock themselves up in the smokehouse together. That was one solution to the problem, but in the long run it wouldn’t do. The couple could not very well avoid at one time or another unlocking the door to allow one of them to slip outside, but it was a simple matter for some interloper to rush up and detect the presence of the one remaining inside. It was the parlour-maids who had made the discovery, Blonda and Stina, two sisters whom Gammelmoderen had had in her service since the days of her youth and who were of an age with herself. The sisters had not wished their old mistress to come to any harm; they had gone religious and it was their desire to save her.

But that had been the end of their locking themselves up in the smokehouse.

And not enough with that, Gammelmoderen had been certain that from then on an eye would be kept on her window, in order that no tall man should come slipping into her room.

So the final way out had also been closed to her....

And then one day whilst walking along the street in town Gammelmoderen had encountered Druggist Holm who had greeted her in his characteristically jovial manner. And he had at once assumed a jaunty air and invited her to stop in at the hotel with him. “A glass of wine?” he had asked. An amusing interlude, a quiet little revel in broad daylight, right there where people could see, an innocent affair and amusing. No, a large and charming hotel dining room was nothing to be mentioned in the same breath with the storage bin off the smokehouse back home. One did not whisper here, one spoke in a natural tone of voice.... Later they had strolled up the new road together—if you please, let everyone see!

That was the first time.

“We must repeat this some time,” Holm had said. “It was a most pleasant walk for me. I was able to avoid going home where only my patience cards awaited me.”

Gammelmoderen had been no less pleased with her afternoon; she had again got a taste of open air and of daylight, it had been loads of fun and she had laughed heartily for the first time in many moons. And she had talked intelligently, too. Oh, Gammelmoderen, she was good for anything!

And they had repeated their walk together, had taken the same immense pleasure in each other’s company and a new type of joy had begun to dawn in Gammelmoderen’s heart. It had been so long, and it seemed so good! She could have blessed her two parlour maids who had stood in the way of a less wholesome solution to her life’s problem. She had misjudged Blonda and Stina, for they had been but tools in the creation of a greater happiness for her. In the sweetest manner possible, she would relieve them from further guarding of her window.

One Sunday Blonda had announced her intention of attending an Anabaptist prayer meeting in South Parish. “Ay ay, here I am going off and leaving you,” she said. “But if anything should happen, just ring the bell real loud. Ring it real hard—”

“Nothing will happen,” said Gammelmoderen.

“—for I was thinking—in case Stina should go to bed—”

“Stina is not going to bed.”

Blonda started. “Have you asked her to remain up, then?”

“No, but you may speak to her before you leave.”

They looked at each other.

“But,” said Gammelmoderen, “you two are simply not to stay up nights watching my window any more. No one is going to try to get in!”

Blonda had gone all to pieces: “Well—no no—all right—ay—” she had stammered.

“Good-night, Blonda!”...

And now it is that Gammelmoderen comes to August humbly to beg a few words with him. She is at a crisis, her mind is plagued with a thousand thoughts, it is so difficult to settle her problem, to extricate herself— Altmulig must now advise her.

“Pray to God!” says August.

Gammelmoderen arches her brows and stares at him in amazement. “No, really—I’m not joking,” she says.

“Neither am I,” he replies.

“Well, but you see, Altmulig—it is so with me now that I can’t have things going on in this manner. He simply must leave me in peace. I can not smoke salmon with him any longer. But then I don’t know what Gordon is going to do. I suppose he might send him away. That would be the best thing. But who can he get in his place, then?”

August’s brain immediately flashes a thought of Benjamin, but he refuses to yield to such mundane temptation—he will not be so quick to seek triumph at another’s expense—Benjamin could look to the lilies of the field—

Gammelmoderen continued, pained with the thought of the innumerable difficulties she herself had brought about: the time was not far distant when it would be closed season for salmon fishing—the exact date she had forgotten and she would have to ask him—what’s that? She certainly would not ask him—she would ask her own son about that! Why, the very idea! But, in any event, the date would soon be at hand, and what if Gordon should decide to discontinue immediately? What did Altmulig think about that? But, said that capable woman who was the widow of none other than Theodore paa Bua, it would be a grand pity to discontinue at once, for the fishing was still excellent here, and, with the approach of the closed season, salmon prices were mounting. So she couldn’t understand at all what to do. And neither could she talk with Gordon about this matter— no, how could she do that? How could she tell him that she was through smoking salmon and all that? Surely Altmulig could see at a glance how utterly impossible that would be. But now he must find a way out of her dilemma....

And yes, August already had his advice on the tip of his tongue; Gammelmoderen’s difficulties were nothing to speak of, he could solve them all with a half-dozen words at the most, if he might be so mundane. “Don’t you worry about that!” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Let him smoke salmon alone!”

Gammelmoderen: “I’ve thought of that, too, but—Oh yes, I’ve given that no end of thought. But then the point will come up—then the whole thing will come up—that I’ve never at any time been indispensable there in the smokehouse.”

August became more and more mundane; inside that keen old head of his he was positively blazing with light. “Why, you were indispensable only so long as he didn’t know how to do things himself, weren’t you? Just let me ask you that! But now you’ve taught him the trick and that makes quite a difference, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s true.”

Both continued to think. Gammelmoderen shook her head. “If only he will stand for it!” she said.

“Who? Let him try to start something! Besides, it’s no kind of a profession for one like you to be standing there in that hole smoking salmon. The Consul’s own mother—”

“If only I can make the change without getting into trouble!”

“Haha, that makes me laugh! Pardon me—! The first time you are sick. Ay, the first couple of times you are sick. After that, the thing will go of itself!”

Gammelmoderen exclaims: “That’s it, Altmulig, God bless you! I never thought of that. That way nothing will come up. I knew I should get help from you. It was just as though someone had whispered it into my ear. And you’re so kind—dear Altmulig—”

* * * * *

The first time there was salmon to be smoked, Gammelmoderen was ill, confined to her room. Alexander sent a message in to her saying that now she must come. It was August who brought him his answer out in the smokehouse. “What’s the matter with you, you jackass? Don’t you know that Gammelmoderen is sick abed?” he said to open the conversation. “Even so, I’ll be switched if I can see why a fellow like you is in need of a skirt to help him smoke his salmon. How many months have you been at it now? You must be an eternally stupid clown never to learn how to do things for yourself! You don’t know the difference between a smoked salmon and a calf! If I was the pastor of your parish, you bet I’d never confirm you, and if I was the Consul I’d kick you out as useless before another day went by! Yes sir! Now what are you jabbering after female help for? Is it maybe a rag you want tied on your finger? Come on now, let me hear what it is about this business of smoking salmon you’re too stupid to know for yourself, and I’ll tell you all about it, just to save a poor—”

Alexander surely must have considered himself anything but deserving of this stream of abuse, for his face went pale and his breath came in short gasps. Nevertheless, all must agree that his reply was really mild and sweet under the circumstances: “Hold that jaw of yours, you sour-bellied old puke, you!” he said. “I’d be doing right to wring the dung out of you and make you eat it again, do you get that!” This was as far as Alexander permitted himself to proceed in this vein; he bit his lip and immediately fell to defending his knowledge: “Maybe you think I don’t know how to smoke salmon?” he said. “Have I done much of anything else either the first time I was here in Segelfoss or this time? Don’t try to tell me anything else, you musty old spook, you! I know all about the colour, the smell, the taste and anything else you can mention—now get that into your head!”

“That’s what I thought,” said August. “It would be a disgrace to you if you didn’t!”

Alexander went further to boast: “And as far as I stand, I don’t need anybody to help me smoke salmon. Ho, that’s a fine thing to hear! Now go on and get out of here so I can find room to spit! Did I ask you to come around here to teach me so much as can be stuck on a hair? Now dry up and get out of that door there!”

“You’re a fool to go and get mad like that, you filthy ragamuffin, you!” said August. “You ought to thank God for having at last succeeded in prying a little something into that head of yours. But I don’t suppose you ever trouble yourself very much about God—”

...The second time there was salmon to be smoked Gammelmoderen made the fatal mistake of not being ill. On the contrary, she appeared in the best of health and she was likewise stupid enough to go down into town and, in broad daylight, to meet Holm, that new swain of hers for the purpose of going for another jaunt up the new road. Such incredible insouciance right in the middle of the afternoon! And was her aim simply to bait the entire town? It seemed so; the courtship of this pair seemed marked with urgency. The road crew took note of the fact that they now both deported themselves in a somewhat quieter manner than before—no more laughter and idle chatter—in a word, a bond of sincere tenderness now seemed to exist between them. What did Holm mean by helping the lady past stones and wheelbarrows over which she could have leapt as lightly as Mama’s Arab? Had he gone a bit foolish in the head?

They strolled up the road all the way to the “hunting lodge,” where they sat gazing across the waters of a mountain lake. There was no moonlight— no, but there was rich sunshine. They were both fresh and charmingly flushed after their climb and they smiled frequently, no sign of foolishness from either side. Holm was careful of the crease in his trousers and must have been striving to create something of an impression, what with that fresh carnation in his button-hole and all; and Gammelmoderen, for her part, removed her hat from the lush extravagance of her hair and sat there like the very girl she once had been.

They were a pair, in many respects alike—both straightforward by nature, both with a sense of humour, both with a healthy lust after life. Nor was there any great disparity of age to keep them apart; Gammelmoderen was possibly a bit older than Holm but she was sound of body and decidedly attractive, not a wrinkle in her face, and her hands were remarkably beautiful.

They spoke of the lake and the summits rising about its shores, they asked each other’s impressions and yes, both found the scene lovely indeed. What a splendid idea of Gordon Tidemand’s to arrange for this pleasant spot where they might sit and commune with nature!

“Hunting lodge,” Holm mused. “Yes, there is a house there, isn’t there? Well, I suppose we might live up here—”

“Yes,” she replied and laughed to show she hadn’t taken him seriously.

“House and outhouse, a highway leading to our very door—all the conveniences.”

“Yes. Hahaha!”

He offered her his carnation, but she declined, explaining that it would look more fetching where it was. He lighted up his pipe and was careful to blow the smoke as far as possible away from her.

Suddenly she rose and went to peer around the corner of the house; when she returned and sat down, her face was paler than before. “I thought I heard someone rustling back there and went to see if it were Gordon.”

“Fine, then I suppose he could unlock this hunting-lodge of his and invite us in, eh?”

“He surely would, if it were he. Gordon loves so to be host. But I’m not sure whether anything has been put in the cellar here yet.”

“I’ve never yet forgotten,” said Hohn, “that charming dinner you all gave us last spring.”

“When you were so impolite at the table and pinched me so that I screamed!”

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Holm. “I had, you see, stopped in to pay a visit to my old friend Vendt of the hotel.”

“Oh, that was nothing,” Gammelmoderen said to reassure him. “I was giddy myself from all that wine and I was glad to know that life hadn’t left me behind. My, but it was fun!”

“But what did your son say?”

“Gordon? He never says anything about such matters. He’s a good boy.”

“And Fru Juliet is so sweet.”

“Yes, isn’t she! Where is her equal to be found? We are all so fond of her!”

“Ah yes, take it all in all, everything seems good!” said Holm, picking a straw from her dress.

“Magnificent! Good Lord, how beautiful the world seems! I shall never leave it if I can do anything to prevent it!”

August appeared walking slowly and thoughtfully up the road. Observing the pair, he greeted them and sat down for a moment beside them. In his hand he had a measuring tape which he kept pulling out and springing back on the spool.

“We came out to inspect your road, Altmulig,” said Gammelmoderen. “I simply couldn’t stay indoors today.”

“Ay, the weather’s too fine to stay in the house,” he said apologetically.

“And such a fine road as you have built!”

“With God’s help!” August said.

The druggist laughed aloud at this remark; he had taken it for a joke— poor fellow, he knew no better. Pointing to the measuring tape, he said flippantly: “That’s no kind of thing to hang yourself with, Altmulig, if that’s what you have in mind.”

August: “Don’t use such sinful talk!”

The druggist, attempting to make up for his remark: “Well, did you get that million of yours from the judge yet?”

“Million?” said August. “It wasn’t a million exactly, but it was quite a sum of money, all the same. I haven’t got it yet and I suppose I never will. But I know that the Lord will help me now as He has always done in the past.”

“No doubt He will. What’s He for, if not to help His children?”

“Well, I have my work to do. I didn’t come here to sit down,” said August, rising.

“What are you up to now, Altmulig?” asked Gammelmoderen, if only to say something.

“Just a bit of measuring. The Consul wants a fence put up here at the edge of the steep.”

“Ugh, how frightfully far down it goes! I don’t even dare look down. Well, good-bye, Altmulig. See you later.”

The couple departed, leaving August to his work of measuring. A sound suddenly caused him to glance up: the Gypsy Alexander was standing at the corner of the hunting-lodge.

August forgot himself and swore: “What the devil are you doing up here?”

“I just got here,” Alexander replied. “I was back in the mountains.”

“What are you doing here?”

“What do you want to know for? Is that any business of yours?”

“Isn’t this supposed to be your day for smoking salmon?”

“I’m all finished with that. And if there’s anything else you’d like to know, ask me and I’ll tell you!”

“You’d better clear out of here,” said August, turning back to his measuring.

Alexander stood still. He glared more and more angrily at the other’s back. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he said. “Say, what are you doing up here yourself?”

August turned and stared at him. “What’s that? Me?”

“For you got here just in time to prevent me from heaving a certain druggist down into the valley below.”

“Say, I’ll have you put behind bars!” said August.

The Gypsy showed his white teeth in a wild laugh. “You’d better keep a civil tongue in your head,” he grated. “For I can just as well heave you over the edge instead.”

“One move out of you and I’ll drop you dead as a stone,” warned August, aiming his revolver.

The Gypsy began walking down the road in the direction of home, shrugging his shoulders, jabbering to himself and wildly waving his arms.

August returned the revolver to his pocket, completed his measurements and noted down a few figures. As cool as a cucumber. He could have despatched the poor Gypsy man in the wink of an eye.

He stared out across the wide mountain lake. The bay here looked like the harbour entrance to some sea port or other, and, by a wild stretch of the imagination, it reminded him of Rio. A fish leaped out there in the water. Wonder how fish could have found their way clear up here?... Now and then a splash and a circle of ripples marring the glassy surface of the lake....

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A neighbour lad came to see Benjamin in the movie theatre and it developed that they were in league in some secret matter; they huddled together, whispered and came to some sort of agreement....

The time was at hand, according to the old folk up in North Parish; it was the right quarter of the moon and the weather was fine and it wouldn’t interfere with the mowing. They had originally planned a party of three, but now there would be only two of them in order not to split the good luck too many ways. Besides, nothing could be worse than that there should be too many in the party, for that would frighten the underworld folk away, according to the aged ones up in North Parish....

On Sunday they visited the altar and afterward they neither touched tobacco nor had anything to do with a girl—they walked in paths of righteousness. At eight o’clock they ate their supper, each at home, and met at the appointed place. With that, they set out on their mission.

They chose neither path nor road, but went stealing in through the forest as long as there were trees, later clambering up over rough country where there were heaped boulders and deep fissures carved out by rock-slides and where progress was difficult indeed. After a time they sat down to rest.

“I don’t suppose we’re committing a sin by doing this?” inquired Benjamin who was of an innocent turn of mind.

No, his comrade was unafraid. They were following the wisdom of the old folk, weren’t they? And they had made no mistake in carrying out directions: they were wearing their shirts wrong-side-out, they carried no blade of any description, and each had three juniper berries carefully tucked in his pocket.

They got out the gifts they had brought along for the fairy creature they would meet and inspected them: brand-new articles which had never seen use by Christian man or woman, articles they had bought at the store in Segelfoss where everything in the world was for sale. Having earned good wages this summer Benjamin had bought a silver heart on a chain, and his companion, not to be outdone, had provided himself with a silver ring. Ay, they were well-equipped for the encounter.

They rose and resumed their journey, continued their rugged climb. Thy were not to arrive at the steep at any particular hour; they were simply to take their time and to take pains to be not out of breath when they reached their destination, lest they forget what they were about. They had until twelve o’clock. There were a great many details to remember.

Coming to the steep, they hunted about until they found a likely looking fissure in the face of the mountain through which it would be easy for the underworld people to slip in and out, and there they sat down to wait. Silently they sat for an hour. The night was light, the sun was still shining against the tallest summits, but with the passage of another hour, time began to drag heavily for them. They looked about, but the sun had disappeared entirely and the light had begun to fail.

“If only we haven’t made any mistakes,” said Benjamin.

“Unless we have some kind of steel on us,” hinted his friend. “And you’re sure you’ve no holes in your pocket?”

They both felt in their pockets, and there were the three juniper berries intact and the only steel they had on them was in the cleats they wore on the heels of their shoes, but these were permitted.

When twelve o’clock had passed without anything having happened they got up and went home. Benjamin had a few days’ work left to do in the theatre and it would be necessary for him to be up at six o’clock.

This was only the first night’s test. They would have to come back tomorrow night and the next without tobacco or girls until they had achieved their aim.

Benjamin’s fellow-neophyte nodded and said that, for himself, he was sure they would meet the fairy. It was her way when moving from mountain to mountain to come up out of the ground, he had heard. “And that’s when we are supposed to hold out our hands to her,” he added.

“Ay,” said Benjamin.

Night after night they continued their faithful vigil and on Saturday they had but two nights left to go—the rules of the game required that their test should include two Sunday nights. Benjamin was beginning to show the effects of this business of nightly vigil lasting from supper to midnight, for it was necessary for him to rise early from bed each morning. Nevertheless he was sustained by the hopes held out by his friend. On Saturday Cornelia came to visit him in the movie house; she cried out her joy at finding him again, for she had been to his home to look for him, had inquired after him there in town, had made inquiries along the street—and how awful folk had acted—they had winked one eye at her and laughed.

“What do you want of me?” asked Benjamin curtly, for it was forbidden him to have anything to do with a girl.

“Ho, what do I want of you!” Cornelia replied quite meekly. “I was just passing and stopped in here to see you.”

“Well, go on home again!” he commanded her.

Cornelia stood there for a moment, speechless. Then she began to cry, paced back and forth and at length came out with a question. “Is it because of that Hendrik you’re mad at me?” she asked.

Benjamin did not reply.

Cornelia: “Oh, so then it’s true that you’re to have one of the housemaids up at the Manor?”

Benjamin let slip an exclamation. “What!” he cried.

“Do you think I don’t know all about it? It’s all over the parish just what kind of a fellow you are, that you have both her and me!”

Benjamin hopped up and down in his tracks; it was forbidden him to defend himself and there stood Cornelia with her head full of piffle, spoiling his chances utterly. From sheer exasperation he threw down his trowel and scrambled out of the building. And when he came out onto the street, he ran....

Saturday night passed as had the others; they sat by the steep and waited, but nothing happened. They were unable to comprehend it; they had kept close watch of the fissure which scored the mountain wall, but it had not opened wider and no one had issued forth from the bowels of the earth.

Benjamin was chagrined over the episode with Cornelia and at length he was urged to confess. He had said nothing, had merely asked her to go, but Cornelia herself had come out with the usual piffle. Could that have caused things to go wrong?

His comrade was in doubt, but no, so long as it had not been Benjamin’s own fault and as he had not kissed her and chucked her under the chin....

“Ay, but that’s what she wanted,” Benjamin confessed. “And that’s what I wanted myself. Do you suppose that could have been wrong?”

His comrade, assailed by fresh doubts: “I wonder!”

When they had arrived back home, Benjamin whispered that now he was through looking for the fairy. His comrade, however, managed to talk him into changing his mind; they had but one night left to go, the second Sunday night; no one knew what might happen—they had surely been faithful and it was possible that the underworld folk could see inside one’s heart. It was worth trying....

And so the lads went out to the steep this last night as well, and it is more than probable that their hopes ran higher than ever, as this was the second Sunday night. And there they sat gazing up at the sheer mountain wall with such concentration that they both developed stiff necks. Occasionally, to break the monotony, they would point and say in a spirit of good-natured fun: “Look there, it seems to me I see—”

But nothing seemed to help.

Well, but something happened, after all....

As it was a difficult route home by way of rocky slope and forest, they agreed, now that their trial was over, to climb up to that new road of the Consul’s and follow that as far as the main road through the parish. A splendid saving of time, as it took them only a half-hour to scale the precipitous face of the mountain!

Suddenly, upon reaching the top, they heard a cry. It had come from a point some hundred yards distant, had risen for a moment, then died away, as though sucked down into the earth.

“What was that?” the lads whispered to each other and possibly a quick thought of the underworld flashed through their minds. They were foolhardy enough to stand still listening as though hoping to hear the cry again; worse, they sat right down to listen. At length Benjamin’s friend recklessly advanced and he had barely reached the point whence the cry had issued before he waved frantically for Benjamin to come and see.

It was now an hour past midnight, light in the sky and warm. Benjamin took his place by the side of his comrade and looked.

And together they saw....

Benjamin immediately recognized the lady. He had seen her during the time he was working for Altmulig down in the garage; she had stopped in to watch him at work—it was the Consul’s sister, the one named Marna. The man was unknown to them; but, even so, his face was so scratched and bloody he looked like nothing at all. If the couple had had a battle, it was anyway over now—both parties were standing back to back arranging their clothes.

The two lads remained standing where they were: they didn’t even have sense enough to be on their way. The man picked his cap from the ground, turned and seemed anxious to say something, but, the very moment he discovered two strangers watching him, he bowed and ran away. The lady, on the other hand, had no look of being forsaken—she took plenty of time to arrange both her clothes and her hair, brushed dirt and bits of dry stubble from her skirt, stared the two young spectators straight in the eye, and, when she felt she was ready, walked straight past them as though they had been less than the dust beneath her feet.

* * * * *

An endless round of duties for August. No one seemed careful to spare him, though he was in dire need of free time in which to manage his personal affairs. At length he was through at the blacksmith shop and had resumed his duties as foreman of the road gang. Meanwhile, however, as he had been assailed by many worries and had sought relief in a life of simple piety, he no longer relished bossing men about as he had formerly.

“Look here now, lads,” he said on Monday morning. “In just two weeks this road must be finished and ready for the Consul’s car—I’ve given my word on this, and you all know what we have left to do. There’s no sense whatever in coming to work Monday morning all played out after spending the entire weekend dancing and sinning in other ways. And besides that, you don’t get here on time,” he added with a glance at his watch.

Boldemand, no longer foreman, came late to work, his face bearing signs of dissipation and August was quick to reprimand him. But the worst offender of all was Adolf—he turned up a full half-hour late. “What in God’s name have you been up to!” asked August. “How did you get your face all scratched up like that?”

“I fell down and skinned it,” replied Adolf, turning his face to one side.

“One thing after another!” muttered his boss. “You get yourself all dressed up fine on Sundays, I’ve been told, and make the rest of us look like tramps. I didn’t think it of you, Adolf—the idea of fighting on the Holy Sabbath. You look as though somebody had been over your face with a harrow. I certainly thought that the spring planting would be over by this time.”

The other workmen laughed at this, and Adolf looked like a whipped dog. He picked up his drill and sledge hammer and went to his work.

During the forenoon conditions improved up there on the road; backs became more supple, arms began to swing more lustily and the good spirits of the men returned. But Adolf dallied along and wasn’t half himself.

“What ails you?” asked his working mate who was handling the hammer. “You aren’t holding the drill steady. You even forget to turn it.”

Adolf uttered no reply.

After drilling four holes, they were ready to blast. August walked up the road, measured, figured things out, estimated the extent of the danger zone. “Blaa-aa-st—ho!” he shouted. The workmen round about sought sheltered spots. Four charges were to be fired simultaneously. “Light up!” cried August.

When Adolf had fired the last fuse he stood still for a moment to make sure that it was smoking. Why didn’t he run away? The workmen peered at him from their shelters, noted his behaviour with amazement, and promptly began shouting at him. Suddenly Adolf hoists himself atop the ledge, the very one about to be shattered. He sits astride the charge, the fuse smoking between his legs. Now what in Heaven’s name—! The men round about yell at him, no longer give a thought to their own safety, but step out into the open, jump up and down, wave their arms wildly, shout, fume, and curse. It is a matter of seconds. The first charge goes off with a boom, the second follows immediately. Adolf remains seated on the ledge. A shower of granite chips rises in the air and falls all about his ears; he bends forward a bit and raises his hands to his face, but continues to occupy his seat. The third charge goes off and Adolf is no longer unscathed. Nevertheless, he continues to sit there. At the last minute, like a streak, a man rushes out to him, grabs him with both hands and hauls him from the ledge—it is the Trønder Francis. Just at that moment the fourth charge goes off.

The men stream out of hiding and find them lying in a welter of gravel and broken rock—naturally, they had not got far enough away and the final explosion had laid them low. Nevertheless, the worst had apparently not taken place—it had been the air pressure more than anything else which had fetched them. Francis, at least, was able to raise himself up on one elbow. After spitting the gravel from his mouth, he managed to growl: “Say, if there’s any life left in Adolf there, give him a good wallop for me!” Whereupon Francis fell back prostrate again.

Neither man was good for much after his experience. Adolf had to be carried down to the bunk-house in an empty tool-chest and it took two men to hold him up before Francis was able to walk, but both were dull in the head and thoroughly done out.—Both had received broken bones; they groaned but they did not talk. By way of damage, Adolf had two wounds in his head and a fractured shoulder, whereas Francis had had several ribs broken when he had been thrown to the ground by the charge—his head was whole, however.

Both were sent to the hospital in Bodø.

The accident was the subject of no end of discussion in town and the Segelfoss News carried a special article about it. It was a question whether Adolf, after his release from the hospital, might not be obliged to spend some time in an asylum, as his singular conduct during the explosion of the four blasting charges had been indicative of a temporary mental disorder. His fellow-worker, Francis, had behaved like a hero and was deserving of the greatest of praise.

At length things settled down again, but two of the ablest members of the road-crew had been laid up. Resolutely, August took on both Benjamin and the latter’s comrade in nocturnal adventure. They could take no part in the blasting operations, but they were able lads and could help at graveling the surface.

* * * * *

Again Gammelmoderen comes to consult the oracle, August. She is at a fresh crisis and—dear Altmulig, this time the situation is more dire than ever....

August, who surely had worries enough of his own, opened the interview by asking: “Have you done what I told you to do last time? Have you prayed to God?”

No, Gammelmoderen admitted. But, at all events, last evening a tall dark man had made an attempt to slip in by way of her window, even though the window was closed. There he had stood outside, though it was a second-storey window and all that, so he must have climbed up the outside of the house! Who ever heard of such a thing! And then he had knocked on the glass, and her mistake had been that she had opened the window to talk some sense into the fellow, whereupon he had grabbed her. They had grappled there in the window, yes, and in the end he had been compelled to drop to the ground.... Oh, but then he had stood there below and drawn out his knife and shown it to her and threatened her most horribly—and look there, just see what he had done to her! Marks on her face, and her arms and breast were all black and blue, so that now she couldn’t show herself in public but would have to sit in her room and brood over her terrible misfortune, and now—dear Altmulig—what was she to do?

August gave the matter some thought and at length he said: “It would be a good thing to ask help of the Lord.”

Gammelmoderen answered hesitantly: “Yes. To be sure. But tell me one thing, Altmulig, was that any way to act? Is he a human being or is he a beast?”

August: “He must have been drunk.”

“And now you must go and get hold of him for me.”

August shook his head and doubted that this would do any good.

“Won’t it do any good? But something must be done, mustn’t it? Am I not to be able to stay here at all? I shall give him a little warning, that’s what I’ll do!” Gammelmoderen threatened. “For it’s my desire to be like other decent people,” she said, half sobbing over the helplessness of her position.

This was more than August could stand. He thought for a long time, as though loath to consider the most obvious solution to the problem. “I see no other way but for me to shoot him,” he said at length.

“What? No, you can’t do that.”

“Can’t? Such would be the very least of my tricks,” said August....

But the man in question was not to be shot; by a lucky stroke, he was able to demonstrate his exceeding talent as a veterinarian and, in the space of a few minutes, his star had risen to eclipse even that of August himself.

It so happened that one of the horses fell ill, Marna’s saddle horse. It had developed colic from eating too much green grass and there it stood in the yard, its belly distended like that of a drum. Marna was not at home— no, Marna had gone away—but all the other people of the Manor had gathered about the mare—the Consul and Fru Juliet, Gammelmoderen, the housekeeper and her maids, as well as those of the children who had learned to walk. The gardener Steffen was at his wit’s end; he had “stirred up” the horse, he had “rolled” the horse, but at length it had refused to move a step. There it stood, its legs spread stiffly apart, its eyes dull and listless—now and then it would make a feeble attempt to kick its own belly.

From the door of the smokehouse the Gypsy Alexander must have noted this cluster of people standing about in the yard, for he had come at once to find out what was up. No one made anything of his arrival and when he asked a question or two, the gardener Steffen merely mumbled one thing or another to get rid of him.

“Here, hold the horse tight by the bit!” he commanded Steffen. His black eyes bored into the suffering animal; he stroked her here and there, pinched up the skin, felt for the ribs and counted these till he came to the one in the middle. Then he began from the other end and counted back until he had fixed upon a definite point....

What, was that a knife he had hidden in that right sleeve of his? Before the spectators were able to catch a quick breath, the Gypsy had thrust the knife up to the hilt into the side of the suffering mare. “No, but—” panted someone in the crowd. It was Gammelmoderen. The others stood there speechless.

Alexander made no move to withdraw the blade; no, he pressed it hard to one side in the wound and forced an opening. Very little blood appeared, but there was a steady rush of escaping gas.

The mare stood stock still; she had hardly winced at the stab she had received. After a few moments the swelling had delicately subsided. Alexander now found it necessary to press the blade against the opposite side of the wound where he held it for a few minutes. With that he withdrew the knife, wiped it off on the grass, walked around, looked the mare in the eyes and nodded.

The gardener Steffen let slip an oath. “The devil and all!” he said.

The mare now began to move about and no longer cared to be held. She lowered her head and began snorting at the ground.

Alexander gave Steffen further orders. “Put her in a box stall for a few hours and don’t let her have anything to eat.”

“And about that wound?”

“That’s nothing to bother her. Smear a little raw tar on it if you want.”

Fru Juliet asked in amazement: “What, is she quite well again?”

“Ay,” Alexander replied.

The mare was patted and stroked by children and grown-folk and when she was led back into the stable, the old animation had returned to her eyes. The children followed her in to the stall.

“Thank you, Alexander!” said the Consul.

“Yes, wasn’t it clever of him though!” Fru Juliet enthused. “Alexander certainly knows how to do a thing or two!”

Suddenly Gammelmoderen thrusts in a pointed remark: “Sometimes he knows how to do a thing too many. Climbing the walls of houses, for example.”

“What’s that he can do?”

“Climb right up the outside of a house. As far as the second storey.”

“Well, I never!”

“And if certain little boys I know should see him do it and try to do it themselves, they’d fall and break their necks.”

“No, that will never do, Alexander!” said Fru Juliet.

“All right,” he replied and stalked off.

All had heard this brief exchange; Blonda and Stina had stood there and pricked up their ears. Yes, Gammelmoderen had seized her opportunity and had struck a blow for her own peace. She felt relieved in her mind, she was pleased with herself and she said lightly: “Well, what are we standing here for now? The patient has left and the doctor has left!” Turning to Fru Juliet, she said: “Now, Juliet, you must write Marna all about this.”

“Must Marna be written about this?” asked Gordon Tidemand. “Where was she off to, leaving in such haste?”

Gammelmoderen: “She’s gone to Helgeland, I suppose?”

“Yes, I shall write her,” said Fru Juliet. “She’s in Bodø!”

* * * * *

When August came to hear of Alexander’s miraculous act of horse surgery, he let it be known that he himself had become too religious to take on such jobs at present and that he was glad some one had been found to perform the work for him. Furthermore, he was out of practice; it had been so long since he had operated on a horse for colic—the last time had been in Sumatra in 1903! But before that he had cured horses suffering from colic both in the north and in the south.

It was easily possible that this old handy man about the place had dabbled a bit in veterinary arts as well, for such would surely be like him. But Alexander had acquired his knowledge from his ancient wandering tribe and had developed his technique to a truly marvelous degree. He had not learned such tricks from books.

“Ay,” said August. “But the fellow who taught me how to stab a horse like that was a full-blooded man in his country. He drove the Lord High President’s coach-and-four and otherwise had fifty horses to look after. He used to cure colic with a knife every time.”

Alexander determined at once to cross-examine this crazy braggart: Where had he stabbed? How far forward and how far back? How high up and how low down? In other words, name the exact point!

August crumpled. He didn’t remember, it had been so long ago. But no less wide-awake and inquiring than he had been all his life was he now—he countered by asking Alexander to name him the point.

“Hohoho!” laughed Alexander. “So you can go ahead and ruin certain horses, eh? You imagine that it’s simply a question of stabbing in a particular spot! But have you ever looked inside a horse and seen the place to let out the wind? And do you know how far in to stick the knife? Go on, shut up, you bald-headed old fossil!”

But this marvelous Gypsy art must have appealed strongly to August’s mind, for he ignored the other’s insult and said eagerly: “I’ll pay you to tell me!”

“Ho, you? What have you got to pay with?” asked Alexander.

“I’m expecting some money.”

“Don’t talk rot!”...

But August’s prestige was restored in quite another quarter, and by the chief himself.

Now Gordon Tidemand was a learned man and a consul; he had attended school in many foreign lands and he was educated in both language and accountancy, but he was nevertheless compelled to seek frequent counsel with that able mother of his. And on this very day he comes to her with a telegram in his hand—splendid herring at Værø, shoals running strong. “We must send our own seiners out at once,” he said. “We’ve need for haste—”

Gammelmoderen, startled: “What! Herring at this time of year?”

“That’s what it says here.”

“Yes, but—Who is this Ellingsen?”

“My agent,” said Gordon Tidemand. “I have my agents out, you know.”

His mother: “I think you’d better go see Altmulig about this, that’s what I think you’d better do.”

Gordon Tidemand went at once to August. But his conversation with his mother had rendered him cautious. “Is this telegram anything to bother about?” he asked casually.

August adjusted his pince-nez and glanced at the despatch. “I can’t make it out,” he said.

“Eh?”

“Herring now? And at Værø?”

Gordon Tidemand took back the telegram and thrust it carelessly into his pocket.

“It doesn’t sound reasonable,” continued August, thoughtfully. “If it had said ... pardon, Herr Consul, can I see it again!”

August read the telegram over once more, nodded and said in that emphatic manner of his: “This is a mistake in copying, that’s all. It should read ‘pollack’ in place of ‘herring’.”²

² Sild = herring. Sei = pollack (pollachius carbonarius), a fish belonging to the cod family. Also known as “coalfish.”—Translator.

“Is that possible?”

“Ay, Herr Consul, that’s right. It’s pollack that’s meant. That makes both the season of the year and Værø come out right. But I don’t suppose you’ve any use for pollack?”

“Not that I know of. What do you think?”

“Not as I can see. And besides, pollack—ay, from pollack you get stockfish and liver—otherwise there isn’t much sense in pollack. None at all. But Heaven forgive my sinful words, how I talk! The pollack is also one of God’s gifts to us, the grace and mercy of the Lord—”

“All right. Thanks, Altmulig. I know where to come when I’m in need of expert advice.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

August’s money had not arrived. He had received no word from Polden; no, for he had written no letter in the first place.

Was there no possible way, then, for him to lay hands on this money? One day he had tried to consult Aase on the matter, but she had tendered him no advice. That obscure hocus-pocus of hers, that of lifting up her clothes and staring into his eyes, had been merely a trick on her part to substantiate her knowledge of his fondness for a certain young lady of South Parish. And his shock had been such that he had stood rooted to the spot.

Aase, that tall dark woman in Lappish garb, wandering about from house to house listening to folk’s words and seeing into their minds—it was not strange that she should have known much and that she had cast a truth in August’s teeth. Was he himself unaware of the truth, then? Perhaps so and perhaps not. From the depths of his own mendacity, it was likewise possible that he might have lied to himself. He was so like an imaginary being, intangible as smoke in the air. But in private, he might have turned to the wall and whispered something to himself.

Nevertheless, his delirium notwithstanding, August had both feet on the ground. He had discovered trout in the remote and neglected mountain lake up by the hunting lodge. It was a mystery how they had ever found their way up into its waters, for no trout could have possibly negotiated the falls below. But there they were, and August now had it in mind to interest the Consul in hauling a small boat up to the lake as soon as the road should e finished. Then there would be sport fishing to offer the English lord on his visit. Oh yes, August had a brain in his head.

Then might not it also be possible for the old rascal to find some special way of achieving his personal ambition? With money in his pocket, his word would have been law, he would have been in a position to shine, to reach about him and change conditions. And what if he were actually to win the girl? Without money, he would be obliged to seek other remedies for the present situation.... On many scores August had begun to lay great store by a religious life. By degrees he had come to consider the possible effects of baptism in the river below the falls. That old horse-trader, possibly he had something special in mind with all this piety of his—such would not be beneath him! But wasn’t it fate itself which was against him? Who had ever seen anything to equal it! He was sick at heart, he had lost all courage and enterprise, for Cornelia had been in town a day or two ago and, passing the blacksmith shop, had pretended not to see him inside. To such a stage had things progressed! Many a man has taken to religion with less grounds! Nor had he been entirely lacking in religious spirit before; the devil and all if he had! But now that he was in love, there was more to religion that simply making the sign of the cross.

He inquired of the small dealer who had succumbed to the urge for second baptism if he felt himself a better and happier man as the result of his experience.

Oh yes, the merchant had observed quite a change.

Relief from the anguish of worrying over moneys owed him which he was unable to collect?

Oh yes, one thing with another.

“What I wanted to ask,” continued August, “is it true that such a baptism will help out a man in love? Will it help him so much as a hair?”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not asking for myself; I’m asking for that Benjamin up in North Parish. He’s afraid he’s losing his girl and that makes him feel sick and discouraged. He’s working for me and I was wondering if it would help him to get himself baptised? If the Lord would step in and let him have the girl?”

“Hm! Ay, that’s possible,” said the merchant. “But anyway, it’s good for a great many things. Take me, for instance. Tobias from South Parish has begun to do business with me.”

“I saw that Cornelia in town a few days ago. Did she buy something from you?”

“I believe so.”

August’s final question was whether the newly baptised were supposed to kiss each other at the conclusion of the ceremony—did they give each other a kiss of brotherhood, or whatever it was they called it?

“Ay,” said the merchant. “Of course, I’m a married man and all that, but I’ve heard that they kiss each other.”

“Shame on them!” said August....

He became more and more religious, more and more concerned with this question of baptism. He was in earnest about it, developed the habit of carrying cold food from the table to eat in the seclusion of his own room; once inside, with the door closed, he would scrape the richest portions to one side in order to enjoy these last and then, at the final moment, deprive himself of these tidbits—instead of eating them himself, he would throw them to the birds. And did the birds make the most of their banquet? Ay, that they did—those little birds of Heaven! An act of kindness, of charity, and God could see into one’s heart.

With God’s help he found it possible to renounce that money of his, to renounce this entire world of Mammon. And the days passed the same as ever, and he lacked for neither food nor clothes, and he gave no thought to the day when the mountain road would be finished with the possibility that his job on the place would be over.

However, it was more difficult for him to strike a balance in the problem of love—in that quarter piety was no more helpful than spit. A fine state of affairs! It had never occurred to him for a moment that, as a lover, he was something of anachronism, so youthful he was at heart. He could support a wife and children in splendid style, provided his job were to continue. And he would make a good husband; he was no niggard by nature and he would deny his wife nothing within reason. That miserable disparity of age, the thing which was standing between him and his Cornelia—why, in this particular case, with a bit of good will, it could easily be disregarded. Had such things never happened before? Hadn’t the newspapers he had read and the many experiences he had had in this world taught him that far worse conditions existed? What about the innocent young girls who married rich old men on their death beds for the mere purpose of inheriting their fortunes? August groaned to contemplate anything quite so repulsive. Think of it—marrying a man on his death bed!

Aase was right, he did want this girl. And it would take little or nothing to arouse his jealousy and make him play the fool. One day, coming upon Benjamin carving his initials, along with Cornelia’s, in the bark of a birch tree beside the new road, August stepped up and, under threat of losing his job, gave him orders to scrape out what he had carved there. Though Benjamin was reluctant to do so and said, “It almost looks as if things were over between us!” he obeyed the order. Later he smiled happily as he told his boss about a certain silver heart on a chain he was going to give Cornelia that evening.

August flared at once: “Haven’t I told you that you should marry one of your own girls up in North Parish?”

And yes, Benjamin recalled the advice, but such would be impossible, as Cornelia was the maid of his choice.

“Then let me tell you this,” said August, “if you give Cornelia that silver heart, a day won’t go by before she’s given it to that Hendrik.”

But August was unconvincing. “I don’t believe it,” said Benjamin.

If it had not been that Benjamin was indispensable on the road just then, it is certain that August would have fired him.

This lad from North Parish filled August with dark resentment simply because he was stubborn enough to hold fast to his sweetheart. A lad August had provided with work and good wages—where was his sense of gratitude! Why, August was nourishing a viper! This fellow who carved initials in trees, no doubt he had also in some similar way dedicated the new cement floor of the movie house? And when the cement set, the writing would remain there as long as the floor! It was a good thing for him he hadn’t tried a trick like that to begin with! It was another matter that August had himself, by means of certain hieroglyphics inscribed in soft cement, made the floor of the Consul’s garage something of a monument to his own tender sentiments. He had hidden his efforts in the corner where he himself had been working and they constituted no more than a friendly greeting, but Benjamin had probably sniffed them out, none the less. The devil’s own nose on that lad!

It irritated August to find himself wasting so much time upon Benjamin, to find himself compelled to regard him as a rival. Such made him feel mundane and such disturbed his dream life and he would have to find some way of patching up this damage to his soul. On Sunday he went to the schoolhouse in South Parish to attend a prayer meeting held by the reverend Baptist gentleman. The moment was embarrassing for him, and, taking a seat as far back as possible, August endeavoured to avoid all people he knew. But the room was literally filled with them. Cornelia was there, but she did not see him; Hendrik was there; Gina i Roten was there and sang. August found nothing to his choice in the sermon; the text was taken from the Scripture and had mostly to do with: Come, come, while the gracious arms of the Lord are still open to receive you!... “Take note of this, good people,” the preacher went on to say, “the solstice has long passed and we can no longer expect fine weather and sun. My advice to all of you who up until now have merely harboured the thought: come this very day and get yourselves baptised. It is now twelve o’clock—in an hour we shall meet by the river—”

This was too short notice and August got up and went home.

But whilst crossing the bridge, he suffered a change of heart. Possibly it was inadvisable to postpone the matter further and thus lose out on the entire deal. He therefore turned back.

He fell in with some others who were going his way, among them Blonda and Stina, the two parlour-maids up at the Manor. August did not relish being seen by them, but he was in any event glad that the road workers were keeping to themselves. And there came both Cornelia and Hendrik who, although they were already baptised, had nevertheless come to view again the sacred ceremony.

“What’s this I see!” said Cornelia, “Are you too to be baptised?”

“I’m giving it a bit of a thought,” answered August.

Oh no, he had nothing against so holy a thing as baptism. Who could tell, maybe there was something in it, after all! Cornelia and many others had gone religious and yielded to second baptism, so why should he hold back?

Said briefly, he followed the herd.

Several stood there ahead of him, among these, Blonda and Stina, so there couldn’t be a very complicated ceremony where the individual was concerned. Furthermore, the two old girls had been here before and had learned what to do to get ready; with no further ado, they took off their shoes and stockings and rolled up their skirts. Their last move was to remove their chemises.

Damp spray and a bitter wind swept down from the waterfall above and, though the sun was shining, here were weather conditions calling rather for oilskins and a sou’wester. August began to vacillate in his mind. But, glancing up, he saw Cornelia with her eyes riveted upon him.

When his turn arrived, the baptist said: “Take your shoes off!”

Too late now for August to withdraw, so he pulled off his shoes and socks and rolled his trousers up above his knees.

“Take off your coat, take off your vest and take off your shirt!” said the baptist in a voice pompous and ceremonious. August obeyed. With that the two men stepped out into the water and August’s soul was saved. Three times he was ducked—in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Amen.

The water was horribly cold.

He dried himself as well as he could and got back into his clothes. And yes, Cornelia had had her eyes fastened on him the entire time; she had gazed skeptically at him, but now she was forced to believe in him. She came over to him, a kindly look on her face and was ready to leave the place in his company.

August was embarrassed. “Ay, and what do you think of me now?” he asked.

What did she think of him—?

Ay, taken all in all. “That was one experience I never went through before, in spite of all the places I’ve been,” he said.

Yes, she supposed it was.

But the water was frightfully cold, he said. It would have been better if he had got himself baptised in Tahiti, he said.

His teeth were chattering.

He would get over it, right enough, she thought. Just as the others had.

“But the others are so much younger,” he said. “I’m just old junk, you know.”

No, she reckoned he was nothing of the kind.

“What’s that? Don’t you think so, Cornelia?”

She preferred not to go into the matter, but she was kind in her manner to him the whole time and thought that he had done the right thing in having himself baptised.

“No, I’m really not so broken down as you think,” he asserted, straightening up and attempting to prove himself free of decrepitude. “I’m high and low and all over on that new road of ours,” he boasted, “and I’ve yet to see the man who can give me one under the ear without my shooting him down like a dog.”

Hendrik stood in the offing, his face as sour as swill, for here was one day he was not to have Cornelia. He appeared displeased over the fact that August had now been baptised and could thus appear on equal terms with him. “I say, Cornelia, hadn’t we better be getting home?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I’m going home the way I came. Just you go on alone, Hendrik!” Frank words, a clear dismissal. But with that, she turned to August and inquired after Benjamin.

Benjamin? Oh, he was at work.

Where? For yesterday she had been in town and she had learned he was through in the theatre.

“What do you want of him?” asked August, disagreeably. “He isn’t baptised like we are.”

No, what did she want of him exactly—

She was simply not to disturb him right now, said August. He was busy with an important piece of work which demanded his entire attention.

Where?

No matter. But he was earning good money. Naturally it was August who had to show him everything and tell him what to do, for he was far from being a wizard when it came to brains.

He was? That Benjamin?

Yes. He was a sheep. And he could hardly be called good-looking, either. But August had promised to help him and he would keep his promise.

Cornelia was silent for a few moments, then asked if August might be good enough to carry her greetings to Benjamin?

Greetings? No, what for? He hadn’t been baptised or anything. August would most likely forget to take him her greetings. He had so much to carry about in his head. He was the Consul’s right-hand man in all his undertakings. What he had meant to say was, she could now give him a nice sisterly kiss after the baptism, couldn’t she? Cornelia paled and said no.

“After the baptism, I meant. Now that we are both baptised. I’m just like you and yours now,” he said.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to be getting on home,” she said and turned on her heel.

Long nose....

He could have followed her, couldn’t he? Ho, he? August? As though he didn’t know how to deal with a young and timid girl! But he really didn’t feel up to it; no, in truth, he wasn’t even as well as he might be. The cold waters of Jordan and the draught of wind from the waterfall had chilled him to the bone. He began running to warm his blood, but he was soon tired and out of breath and forced to return to a walk. Damned if he didn’t feel pretty miserable—heaven forgive that tongue of his!

In the field outside their sleeping quarters a goodly number of the road crew had gathered in a crowd. August, returning from his baptism and decidedly ill, hurried past in order to get home and to bed. As usual, they had been to a dance the night before, he had heard, and it was apparent that they were carrying their merrymaking over into Sunday. Possibly there was also strong drink in the crowd, for the men were rushing around shouting in each other’s faces. Certain females were likewise in evidence—girls from the town. Valborg from Øira and her husband were there, as well. Someone was playing the accordion over by the new road.

August piled all his blankets on the bed and crawled under them fully dressed.

* * * * *

He could not fall asleep and he did not grow warm; he lay dozing and thinking over the various happenings of the day. No doubt he could have kissed Blonda and Stina without much trouble, but that would not be the same thing, and the thought of doing so merely for the purpose of piquing Cornelia would never have entered his mind, for he was not that sort....

Suddenly he hears a couple of sharp yells. They had originated somewhere outside. What was going on? Yells from the field where the road gangs had gathered. August raises himself up on one elbow and listens. He hears sounds of commotion, springs out of bed and rushes over to the window. Right he had been—a gang-fight! These howls and angry yells had struck a familiar chord in his memory—thus in the old days had bandits and other marauding folk howled—unforgettable sounds beneath a southern sky....

He leaps out-of-doors and hastens to the scene of battle.

Two rival gangs of workers are at each other’s throats; women are fluttering about here and there making futile attempts to stop the fighting, children are watching from a safe distance, but the doctor’s two sons are perilously close to the danger zone.

Hm, an honest-to-goodness brawl or mere monkey-shines? August wondered to himself, wrinkling his brow and joining the spectators. Nothing much to it, he decided. They fling their arms and legs about, but nobody seems to get hurt. Hey, there Boldemand landed one, but he’s too drunk to accomplish much. Ho, there he landed another! Not bad, after all!... Ugh, such a way to fight—are they hitting each other in the chest? No, not even that, they are using their feet—kicking! Are they crazy? Why don’t they knock out each other’s teeth? And isn’t there a single one among them who knows how to wade in with both fists?

August pulls himself together and debates whether to join the mêlée or remain on the sidelines, an interested spectator. He makes pugnacious gestures in the air with his arms to show them the way, leans to one side and peers, laughs aloud when a blow lands home, mutters to himself when an attack falls flat. Shameful, shameful, to go at it like that! It should have been me that had that grip on him! Look at that tall giant, Petter— he’s no good! Away with you, Petter! You’re spoiling the whole fight by pretending you’re really bleeding. Do you think that’s real blood? That’s only blood from your nose—nose blood mixed with tears! Why, if he isn’t actually bawling....

Jørn Mathildesen walks over to August and says something. “You look a mite blue in the face. What’s the matter, don’t you feel well?” He takes a full bottle of hard liquor from his pocket and hands it over to August. Cognac. But August is absorbed in watching the battle’s progress, absorbed and absent-minded. Yes, he accepts the bottle and takes a long pull on it, but quite absently, his eyes riveted the whole time upon the raging fight.

“This isn’t my bottle,” says Jørn Mathildesen, “I was only supposed to hold it. It belongs to that Boldemand.... No, did you ever see such crazy fellows to be fighting like this? Just look there how they’re bleeding! It’s that Valborg they are after, but Valborg, she won’t have anything to do with them—”

August drank again, absently, as though he didn’t know what he was doing; however, the art of draining a bottle did not exactly appear alien to him. He continued without interruption to follow the progress of the brawl and, from time to time, he would deliver himself of disparaging remarks relative to the conduct of the contestants: “Look there at that Gustav— there’s a man I’ve had working for me for months now, and he can’t even land a punch. To hell with him!” said August, spitting viciously. Absently, he tugged on the bottle again and forgot to hand it back. “Now what in Satan’s name—there’s a fellow using his cap to slap with! He’s slapping faces! Good God, they’re just a bunch of babies, nasty little brats. Dear, dear—Faugh!” This was too much for August, he drew his head down between his shoulders and made himself short to express his disgust. Then suddenly he straightened up and let out a howl. One of the warriors has slipped off his shoe and begins flailing about with this weapon. The shoe is wrenched from his grasp, brought down across his nose and hurriedly thrown away. “What kind of a trick was that!” August was again compelled to express his disgust, was compelled to dance up and down to show how sorely he was annoyed by this pitiful scene. “All he did was lose a shoe, ugh!”

Absently he drank again, got a bit of colour back in his face, a bit of new life, and continued to follow the battle. The whole thing was shallow nonsense. There came the doctor’s two sons carrying the lost shoe on the end of a stick, yes, and August was obliged to stand and witness this miserable imitation of a gang-fight! He watched two of the frantic little fighting-cocks make from the scene with a girl between them; they immediately came to a disagreement over her and fell to fighting between themselves. This private encounter proved to be slightly more satisfactory according to August’s standards—these lads were truly in a rage and, though one had his ear all but twisted off, he kept on fighting doggedly. But others came up and the affair degenerated into no more than a general mix-up of crazy workmen who knew nothing about fighting. Valborg was playing a game of her own; she had not vanished from the scene. Oh no! On special occasion she would strike a blow herself; otherwise she acted as referee, sometimes screaming encouragement, other times threatening to go away and leave them. She still appeared fresh and charming after the all-night revel and her green and red dress was still as tidy as ever.

They now began striking with keys and stories in their hands, and these proved slightly more effective. What’s that, more blood? One man drew a bottle from his pocket. “Well, I’ll be ——!” jabbered August. “If he isn’t standing there squirting whiskey in the eyes of the others instead of lamming out with the bottle.... Hey you, knock him silly! Oh ...” he wailed. Nothing had happened, he couldn’t stand to see more.... Such an utter fiasco!

A confused yell arose. “Look. Now they’ve got out their knives!” explains Jørn Mathildesen.—“Where—who—?” demanded August, running forward a few steps, stooping to peer into the thickest of the battle, leaping up again and crying: “Hurrah!... What—what’s he standing still with a great big knife like that for?”—“That’s Olsen from Namdal.”—“Well, what’s he standing still for? Where did he get that sweet friendly look on his face from? Isn’t he going to use that knife of his? Then what’s he got it out for?... Look, he just missed a fine chance! Ho, stick it into him and finish him up quick, that’s the way to do!” August is desperate in his contempt for the Namdaler who has so kindly a disposition that he refuses to use a knife on anyone. Yielding to an uncontrollable urge, August pulls his revolver from his pocket and discharges two shots in the air, just to take some part in the combat, to encourage them, to show them....

But the shots produce quite the wrong effect: the battle comes to an abrupt halt. August utters a long and lusty yell, but no one is encouraged by that. Some of the men look up, recognize their boss and take the shots as a warning to cease fighting. There is only one who refuses to give in— Boldemand. He even has a hateful scowl on his face as he releases a final kick. His attack but partially succeeds; his kick is aimed too high, it catches his opponent in the belly rather than in the crotch and he himself loses his balance and falls. Fat Boldemand, he is too drunk!

Silence falls over the field.

August is hurt to the quick; never before in all his travels has he stood witness to such namby-pamby child’s play. “It should have been me!” he keeps repeating to himself. “But now I’m too old!”

He took several more powerful gulps from the bottle, let out his breath and said: “Now they stand around thinking what bold brave lads they have been. They have fought so hard, they have tried to kill each other. Oh well. But there isn’t a single one of them left lying out there on the field, is there! Yes sir, it should have been me!” He held up the bottle to see how much there was left in it, and observing that there was very little—the bottle was hardly quarter-full—he absently put it back to his lips and, his thoughts far away, began swallowing. When the bottle was empty, he held it out in his hand.

He has begun shivering again and his lips are once more blue. He is on the point of taking another drink from the bottle when he suddenly realizes what he is doing and holds it out to be rid of it. Jørn Mathildesen repeats that it is not his bottle, that he had merely been asked to hold it, that it was really that Boldemand’s bottle. August continues to hold it out to him, shakes his head and grins foolishly at Jørn’s remark. It is as though he is simply refusing to drink another drop. And all the while his thoughts are on other matters; he continues to chatter about the recent fray, abuses his workers with the most sarcastic of language, suddenly becomes touched by something, half-sobs with self-pity and, utterly crushed, says: “No, I’m too old, too old!” At length he merely mumbles incoherently, almost like a man who is drunk.

And then he sank to the ground....

But possibly it was just because he had drunk that bottle of cognac and was carried home to bed that he had been saved from serious illness. His two Baptist sisters, Blonda and Stina, put him to bed with a hot-water bottle, covered him over with heavy wool blankets and nursed him through the entire night. He lay drenched with sweat and slept for fifteen hours.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Druggist Holm stepped into Fru Hagen’s house one day, bowed and said: “Thank you, I’m well indeed. And you?”

The lady glanced at him laughingly and said: “You monkey, you!”

Holm: “Granted! I said that merely to turn aside your anger with me because it has been so long since I have been here. Nor did I utter a lie when I said I was well. And you?”

Fru Hagen scrutinized him. “Well well, I see you’ve been calling on Vendt of the hotel again.”

“Not to any great extent, hardly a trace of that! No, but I’ve been into so many things. For example, I simply can not be rid of that accursed widow of Solmund’s.”

“Widow Solmund?” Fru Hagen reflects and shakes her head.

“The lady I turned over to the welfare agency for the reason that I could not go on feeding her and her children.”

“Well, what about her?”

“It’s like this: I am on a leisurely and innocent walk in North Parish. Suddenly I see the widow approaching. But she has seen me first—she is wringing her hands and wiping the tears from her eyes. Wasn’t it possible for me to help her? If only I knew how in need she was! Now from that day to this, I have simply not set foot in North Parish. There is something unsavoury about that section of town. Don’t you think so yourself? There is something so depressing about it. How much more charming and cosy it is to find oneself in South Parish, for instance. Eh, what? Nor is it so dark and gloomy there, either.”

“But then, I suppose you also go for an occasional walk up the Consul’s new road?” asks Fru Hagen.

Holm sits there breathing for a few moments. “But I believe we were speaking of South Parish. Of the two sections of town, I really much prefer South Parish. I am left to walk in peace in South Parish. No signs of a widow Solmund down there, and on my way home in the evening I hear Gina i Roten singing that superb cow-call of hers from the knoll.”

“I never got to hear that cow-call of hers.”

“And today, heaven help me if the widow Solmund didn’t come to see me at the drugstore!” Holm continued. “At the drugstore! And that’s the reason I am now here. She was in a most wretched condition and she didn’t know what to do, and it was the welfare people’s fault that she was so poor and had so little in life. However there seems nothing to distinguish her brand of poverty from that of many others—it really seems like a quite ordinary case; that is, she and the children have a bit of what food there is to eat, a little coffee, too, a little syrup and a little thyme. More than that, she is occasionally able to beg her way into the movies without paying for a ticket. The true difficulty seems to lie in the matter of clothes; no shoes, no underwear, and her bed clothes are in a most sorry condition. She lifted up her skirt to show me that she had nothing to wear underneath and merely a thin calico dress outside. She even asked me to go home with her to have a personal look at the bed clothes, though it was really a pity to ask it of me, she said. Yes, no, I knew nothing of such matters. But oh yes, I did, and in any event I would have to go with her to the welfare agency, she said! Yes, and so I did. And in truth, the woman’s teeth did chatter when she got outside, for it is a cold day to be wearing no more than a calico dress. But our visit proved in vain. Clothes? Bedding? Out of the question! And, on the whole, the widow’s poverty was so far from being hair-raising that the welfare woman merely shook her head and had nothing to offer.”

Holm paused and looked at Fru Hagen.

“Well?”

“Yes, but there is one thing more you must hear,” said Holm. “This morning the widow Solmund called on me in the drugstore with her bed clothes under her arm!”

“No, now really—”

“She wished to show them to me.”

“Well, but just where do you figure in the situation?” asked Fru Hagen.

“Nowhere, unless it’s possible she got my drugstore confused with the Department of Health or something like that.”

“The whole thing seems incredible.”

“Doesn’t it though! She had told me she was going to bring me all she had to put under and over herself and her children, just to show me. Well, the whole business made a bundle she could carry under her arm.”

“It is a matter one might either laugh or cry over,” said Fru Hagen.

“Well, I did neither,” said Holm. “But I admit that I am bewildered. The first thing I did was to drink a whiskey and soda with Vendt of the hotel, but as that did not help me a bit, I employed a remedy of which I had heard—I made it two whiskeys and soda. And then I came here.”

“So, and what do you want here?” asked the lady.

Holm: “Is that any question to ask of a man standing on the scaffold! ‘What do you want here?’ you ask him!”

“Haha! Can’t you turn the widow over to your apprentice and yourself decline the bed clothes?”

“I might have done that. But you see I have my apprentice at work on a game of patience which won’t come out for me. It may take him the entire day.”

“You must all of you be drunk there in your drugstore,” said Fru Hagen.

“Not the pharmacist. And, as a matter of fact, no one. But when a stubborn game of patience refuses to come out, it is necessary to lay the cards out time after time. It is a perfectly shocking punishment to work out such a game—two, three, four o’clock in the morning and there you sit. On the whole, I believe, the present year is a terrible year for patience.”

“Patience!” said Fru Hagen, contemptuously.

“Yes, but now my cat has gone and left me, too.”

“Cat? Oh, fudge!”

“No, really you mustn’t say that, Fru Hagen. That cat has lived with me for many years now. I hardly think, either, that it could be said that she has had such a bad home with me.”

“Simpleton! But speaking of that widow of yours, so she brought you her bed clothes this morning, eh?”

“No, that she did not, fortunately,” replied Holm. “No, that business about the bed clothes was only something I thought up to make myself interesting. So you’re not to believe a word of it. But the widow Solmund does cling to me and she has, of course, visited me in the drugstore. It seems as though I shall never be rid of her because of the wretched condition of her own and the children’s clothes. That much is the truth.”

“So that’s why you came to me?” asked Fru Hagen. “I haven’t much more in the way of clothes than these you see on my back.”

Holm: “Nor I, either. No, but I have an idea—as you might say, a notion from on high. The widow Solmund and her children are unquestionably too poorly clad in mere calico now that it is autumn with winter bearing down. What would you say to our getting up some manner of evening entertainment, the proceeds to go to her?”

“Possibly,” said Fru Hagen.

Holm continued to expound his idea: the postmaster’s wife would play, he himself could strum the guitar, Gina i Roten could sing and Karel yodel a few numbers to the accompaniment of some master of the accordion. But the performance itself did not constitute the chief problem, he thought. The main thing was the audience, and this he was sure he would be able to assemble. The place must be the largest and finest in town—the cinema theatre....

They discussed the plan together. Holm would take care of all the details. As for the audience? First of all the Consul and the people of his household and business—then the entire families of the doctor, the pastor, the sheriff, the district judge, the postmaster, Lawyer Buttonhead, the telegraph superintendent, the school teachers—how many did that make? Then there were the merchants in town, the workers on the road, Skipper Olsen and family, the entire hotel—servants and possible guests—yes, and then all the people of the parish round about! The Segelfoss News would print a glowing publicity article in both this and next week’s issues—placards printed in red and gold to tack up about the town and place in store windows—tickets one krone, net profit—how many did that make?

“Fifty persons,” Fru Hagen reckoned.

Holm: “No, hundreds! A thousand!” He begins to count them up himself: “Buttonhead and his wife make two—”

Fru Hagen, imploringly: “No, please—”

Pause.

They changed the subject, shifted over to personal matters, and frequently it was difficult to detect whether they were jesting or speaking seriously. They were jointly guilty of creating this conversational web of subtle nonsense, flirtatiousness and verbal hide-and-seek. Singular that they could play thus dangerously with fire without once causing a conflagration. No, possibly it was not even necessary for them to take proper precautions, possibly the whole affair was in the nature of a training course—no danger of fire, for there was nothing there to burn. Possibly....

Holm: “You said something about the Consul’s new road?”

“Will you have a glass of port?” she asked.

“No, thanks! But you are anxious then that I shall utter a few confessions, I take it.”

“Yes, I have heard that you have taken to neglecting your business during the day of late.”

“Not really? I don’t see that I have been neglecting my business. But since everything is over between you and me—”

“Is everything over?” asked Fru Hagen.

“Yes, and I am sorry for you!”

“Well, how did it go with Marna, then?” she asked.

“Marna?” said Holm pausing to think for a moment. “Oh, her! No, I never stood a chance with her.”

“Then possibly you declined to put yourself out for her?”

“Oh, indeed! I even put a part in my hair.”

“Just to think you did that!”

“Tragic!” said Holm. “And now that very same lady has made a trip to Bodø for the purpose of nursing an injured workman lying there in the hospital.”

“Christian love, no doubt?”

“No, the opposite, I have heard.”

“What is the opposite of Christian love?”

“Fleshly, isn’t it? The type of fleshly love I felt for you up until the time everything was over between us.”

Fru Hagen: “But if it is, as you say, over, it might be possible to repair the damage, don’t you think? You have reached a conclusion without consulting me, Herr Druggist!”

“The devil, that’s too bad!” said Holm. “Ought I to have made more definite advances, do you suppose?”

“I hardly know,” replied Fru Hagen.

“But you once announced to me that you would rather have your husband than me.”

“Heavens, yes, and so I should.”

“There, you see! And furthermore, what could we find to live on?”

“Why, what about your drugstore?”

“No,” said Holm, shaking his head.

“What are you living on, yourself?”

Holm withdrew a check from his vest pocket, held it aloft in his hand and replied: “What do I live on now? On a fair number of negotiable instruments such as this one! Family contributions.”

“Which will cease when you marry?”

“Now, now, my dear! Of course they will not cease, they might even increase. Though I admit it is a mite contemptible of me to accept them. Don’t you think so yourself?”

“Yes, but what will you live on then—I mean in the event of your marriage to—?”

“Ah, but with her it is quite a different matter. We have spoken of that. She is a wizard at management. She was born with the ability and she has had plenty of experience in that line. A superb creature, let me tell you!”

“Are you in love?”

“More, I love her. And besides, it is only right that I, too, should marry some day, isn’t it?”

“Can you win her?”

“Of course.”

After a pause, Fru Hagen remarks tactfully: “But, in any event, have you thought over the entire situation? I may tell you straight out that I believe you are going astray.”

“What do you mean by ‘the entire situation,’ Fru Hagen?”

“If you will not be angry with me, I’ll tell you—I mean, her own situation. You know what I mean, all right.”

Holm brushes the thought aside with the flat of his hand. “I am no bourgeois, if that’s what you’re driving at.”

“I am not driving at anything!” replies Fru Hagen. “I wouldn’t have you if I could get you. But your present predicament is surely a puzzle to me. After all, how did you ever fall in with her?”

“Fate,” said Holm.

“But isn’t she somewhat—I mean—”

“No,” answered Holm. “We are of the same age.”

“How young does she claim she is?”

“Seventy. But the mere question of years is nothing to her—she is unlike those women who always desire to appear as young as possible.”

“Thanks.”

“It is her absolute naturalness and humanness, within as well as without— health, capacity for joy and tenderness—which she makes no effort to conceal. I have never encountered her equal. Have you seen her?”

“Occasionally.”

“Well, I have seen her,” said Holm. “Nose, just a mite turned up— greenish eyes which dance and close to narrow slits when she laughs—large mouth, but perfectly bowed—charming!—lips red and full—a mouthful.”

“I told you that I have seen her occasionally!”

“High breast, full lips—”

“What, again!”

“An avid mouth—her hair, such glory squandered upon a mere human being— but her mouth—”

“All right, all right!” says Fru Hagen. And then in tones of forced animation: “Listen, I have something to tell you. Karel i Roten has become downright clever on that guitar of yours.”

Holm is caught with this remark, at least. “So? Karel i Roten? Well well! The entire house of Roten is musical. You offered me a glass of port, Fru Hagen?”

“Yes, but you really must forgive me, I was not in earnest. No, we can’t afford to keep wine in the house. Did you think we could?”

“No, possibly not. Your pardon! But then it was a good thing I left my guitar with him, wasn’t it? With Karel, I mean. But how do you know he can play it now?”

“My husband and I have been out to Roten.”

“Without me!” says Holm.

“Yes, but it wasn’t to be mean. My husband went on an errand. You see, he has been helping Karel to get public funds for the purpose of draining a certain pond on his property.”

“Your husband?”

“Yes. And Karel was so happy over it, he laid off work and played for us.”

“That husband of yours must be a devil of a fellow to be able to get hold of public funds merely on his say-so.”

“Well, he certainly went no higher up than the local committee on agriculture. And it is true that my husband is both capable and intelligent. Have you ever doubted the fact?”

Holm, smiling: “Were things as they used to be between us, I should have replied that I too am capable and intelligent.”

Fru Hagen, likewise with a smile: “And were things as they used to be between us, I should, for fear of losing you, have answered yes.”

“But now?”

“No, now I am unfortunately obliged to say that you are merely a man who is clever at turning out words.”

“The devil you say!” exclaimed Holm. “Turning out words?”

“Yes, with a poor shallow mind like my own. We are both so empty. Two empty vessels.”

Holm: “After this I have nothing left to do—”

Fru Hagen interrupts him: “Heavens, let me off this time! If it’s just more talk on your part.”

“Shall I hold my tongue then? Tell me!”

“You might hang your head and tell me that you are at last able to comprehend fully why I should rather have my husband than you.”

Holm regarded her scrutinizingly: “I trust there’s no shade of jealousy in that remark?”

“I don’t know,” said Fru Hagen.

Holm rose to leave. “Let us be just a wee bit charitable toward ourselves, Fru Hagen. No one can be anything other than that which he is. Druggist Holm is nothing, but whatever he is, he is quite unlike Postmaster Hagen. And for this he is willing to forgive himself. We have spoken of you and another lady—turned out words, as you put it. You and she are nothing alike, but you are both something—”

Fru Hagen sprang up. “I do not wish to be compared with her!”

Holm paled, his eyes grew hard and he replied: “I said we must be charitable toward ourselves, Fru Hagen. We must forgive ourselves for not being as great as others.”

* * * * *

Druggist Holm walked down to the bank with his check. Inside stood the Consul in conference with Lawyer-Banker Pettersen. They were talking earnestly, and now and then the sum sixty thousand was mentioned. At first the Consul seemed to take the entire matter for a joke, though he declined to laugh at its dubious humour. On the contrary, by wrinkling his brow, he showed Herr Buttonhead his place. One was simply not to indulge in levity during a conversation with the Consul—a fetish one was bound to respect.

Sixty thousand.

There was some mistake about that, some frightful mistake, and the Consul said: “I beg your pardon, but neither you nor I can afford the time to indulge in such tomfoolery!”

“This is not tomfoolery,” said Pettersen.

Consul Gordon Tidemand had learned that an English gentleman must not proceed too rapidly, that he must give his opponent a chance. Hence he remained silent for a brief time, though he tightly compressed his lips and stared with eyes of ice.

“But what does that amount to for one such as you, Herr Consul!” said Pettersen. “You must have considerably more than that outstanding and I should be pleased indeed if you would allow me to do something to collect it for you—”

“Pardon me,” interrupted the Consul, “but aren’t you getting slightly beside the point?”

“And to say nothing of all your other resources,” continued Pettersen. “I wish I were as well off as you!” Patronizingly, he stretched forth his hand to receive the druggist’s check for the purpose of passing it for payment.

But this was more than the Consul was willing to endure; his eyes were needles and he said: “Pardon, you will first finish with me!”

“Very well,” replied Pettersen, now the lawyer. “But is there more to be said?” he asked.

“A little. A mere detail—I should like my account balanced to date.”

“Yes,” said Pettersen. “Yes. But you can see it right here in the books.”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure. But I desire a regular bank statement. When may I have it?”

“I’ll ask the cashier to hurry with it.”

“Thank you. For all the years since my father’s death.”

“What!” asked the lawyer with a shock.

“From the date I took over the business.”

“That means a terrific amount of work. And I don’t even know that the present bank staff need be expected—”

“Do you prefer that the account shall be audited by order of the court?”

“By order of the court?” The lawyer smiled. “That involves rather complicated proceedings.”

“Hardly pleasant for me to mention.”

“But you’ve received your bank statement year by year, haven’t you! And now at this late date you detect a mistake! The best thing would be to call in the directors.”

“I have no objection to that.”

The lawyer smiled again. “And even if you did object to it, Herr Consul!”

Gordon Tidemand asked: “Is that the tone you choose to adopt?”

“Yes, that’s the tone I now choose to adopt! You are so high and mighty! Here you come to an old attorney and mention possible court proceedings.”

“Your pardon, if I find myself compelled to mention them further!”

“Go ahead and talk!” said the lawyer in an ugly voice. “You have had your statements year by year. The accounts have been audited year by year.”

The Consul nodded. “Yes. I understand that, before you became head of the bank here, you had something to do with auditing the accounts. But did you have expert assistance in those years?”

“I’m something of an expert myself, I believe.”

“I sincerely trust so. But here you suddenly come out with a hitherto unnoticed claim against my father, an enormous claim which your audits have up until now failed to reveal.”

“Yes, it may be that I went over the account with too little understanding at first, for which no court in the land could possibly criticise me. I was not alone in conducting the audit and I may have relied somewhat blindly upon my assistant.”

Gordon Tidemand shrugged his shoulders. “Nevertheless you now point conclusively to that audit? Are you aware of the fact, Herr Lawyer, that you are in a tight corner?”

“I? Well now, I never—”

“I fear so,” said the Consul.

Brief silence. The lawyer was thinking, blinking his eyes behind his glasses and thinking. Apparently he was subsiding for he said: “Why make so much of the situation? If we are in any way in error, obviously we shall correct the mistake.”

The Consul, curtly: “Of course, you will correct it! I thought I saw the druggist here?”

“He left at once. I see him walking up and down, outside.”

The Consul went to the door, motioned to the druggist to come in and tendered his profuse apologies.

The druggist: “Oh my, no! What is there to be said! I merely called here on an insignificant matter of business. It hardly involves the elaborate sums of which I heard you gentlemen speaking!” He handed over his check for the executive’s okay.

“Right then, Herr Bank-President—you will send me a full statement of my account as soon as possible? Thank you.” The Consul made ready to depart.

“As soon as possible, we may say. But if it proves necessary to call in the directors, it may take time. However, you may have your statement for the current year tomorrow, if you like.”

“My account involves only a few items each year, and it ought not to take you long to prepare a statement of that. But my real interest lies in discovering the year in which you began carrying forward this fictitious sum of sixty thousand plus interest.”

“Well, that I can tell you right here and now,” replied the banker. “The sixty thousand were inserted into the account on the first of this year— naturally plus interest from the time the debt was incurred.”

“Thank you, then all I need—for the present!—is a statement covering the current year. And that I shall receive tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

Consul Gordon Tidemand wished both gentleman good-day and departed.

It occurred to Lawyer Pettersen too late that the druggist had been called in to serve as a witness.

“Ho, it looks now like you’re in for a blow!” said Holm.

“It’s he who is in for a blow,” replied the lawyer.

“I’ve always heard that if there’s one thing that man knows it’s accounting.”

“So do I.”

“Well, you’ll have need for all you know about it,” said Holm. He stepped over to the teller and received cash for his check. Returning to Pettersen, he said: “By the way, I understand you are at the head of the company that owns the cinema. Will you loan us the theatre for an amateur performance?”

“Certainly, any evening with the exception of Saturdays.”

“Good. We are planning a little entertainment to raise funds for a certain poor family.”

“Thirty kroner,“ said the lawyer. “What evening shall we say?” he asked, reaching for a calendar.

Holm: “Surely you misunderstand. This is a charitable undertaking—we shall be unable to pay anything.”

“Charity or no charity, it’s all the same. We have just been to great expense laying a cement floor in the theatre, and we must make this up wherever possible. Thirty kroner is reasonable at that. What evening would you like?”

“Sunday evening,” answered Holm. His face was white as he paid over the thirty kroner. “And now my receipt!” he demanded.

“Receipt? I’ve never given receipts for it before.”

“Just in case you were to be shot before the date arrives. I don’t want to be held up twice for the same obligation.”

Holm got his receipt and left the bank.

He next called at the office of the Segelfoss News and had a talk with Editor Davidsen regarding the placards—red and gold placards to tack up on telephone poles and place in store windows—fifteen or twenty of them. The copy was to run somewhat as follows: “Amateur Performance”—then the time and place—“Ticket and programme at the door.”

They discussed the individual entertainers, the artists who were to appear, and decided on an appropriate article to come out in the next issue of the News. All the details were arranged—the druggist’s apprentice would call for the placards as soon as they were dry and see that they were properly displayed about the town. He would also see about getting an accordion player. In order to save the cost of printing tickets, the regular roll of cinema tickets would be used on this occasion. The programme, Holm would make up later in the week in consultation with Vendt of the hotel.

“How much do I owe you?” asked Holm.

“No—I thought you said it was for charity,” said Davidsen.

Holm took out a fat roll of bills to prove how flush he was and again asked: “How much do I owe you?”

“Well, if I must take something,” said Davidsen, reluctantly, “let’s make it a couple of kroner.”

“Won’t cover even the cost of the paper,” said Holm and handed over a ten-spot.

Davidsen fumbled through all his pockets. “I don’t believe I can—I’m a bit short of small change—”

Holm hastened with long strides out to Roten, to Gina and Karel i Roten.