The packing house stood at the edge of the fjord, handy for unloading the fishing boats and for loading the ships that carried the kegs and cans and bales of fish to far-off ports.
Father was a little surprised to see them; and he was pleased, too, though he didn’t say so. Usually he had to make it very clear when he expected Arne to report for duty. And here the boy had come down himself and offered to help. Here was Gustav, too, who was on a vacation and not expected to do real work.
Gustav did have a very quick way of handling that lutfisk. He picked up several of the long stiff pieces of fish which Arne thought looked exactly like pieces of wood. These he arranged neatly in a bundle, bound it with wire, fastened and clipped it. As he worked, he sang some of the rollicking folk songs Besta had taught them long ago; and that made the job go even faster. Old Ole worked with them; he knew songs Arne had never heard. Before long Father joined the group; and by the time they stopped for supper, a good share of the work was out of the way.
“There, now,” said Father with satisfaction. “We are going to see to it that those poor folks in America do not starve for good Norwegian lutfisk. Time to stop for supper. I wonder what Mother will have for us to eat.”
“Hope it won’t be lutfisk,” said Arne fervently, and they all laughed.
When they entered the kitchen a few minutes later, they were pleased to see that Mother was cooking a large pan of meat balls.
Arne thought his mother was very pretty, with her coppery hair that shone like one of her own brightly-polished pots, her deep blue eyes and quick smile. And he knew very well she was the most comfortable person in the world to be around. There was a capable air about her that made one feel good inside.
His mouth watered as she filled a large platter with meat balls while Margret set big mugs of milk on the table and Besta brought a large bowl of steaming hot potatoes. It was a favorite meal of Arne’s, but for once he was the first to finish. He ran around the table to bow to his mother and father with the customary Norwegian, “Tak for mad,” which meant, “Thank you for the meal.” Then he said, “Now, let’s get back to that lutfisk.”
Father glanced at Mother, and his voice sounded as if he wanted to smile. But all he said was, “I’m afraid Arne is working himself out of a job.”
Mother had been talking to Besta, and now she answered soberly, though her eyes twinkled. “It may be he will have to go along on that saeter trip and help there, if he’s so eager to work.”