"Yes, the old windjammers are rather out of it now," Hansen agreed.
"Going to rack and ruin, as far as I can see. And what's the sense of all this hurry and skurry, when all's said and done. It's against nature, that's what I say. When I think how we used to get along in the old days. Why, I never heard but that the merchants over in England and Holland were pleased enough with the cargoes when they got there, whether we'd been a fortnight or a month on the way, and we made a decent living out of it and so did they. But now? As soon as a steamer comes along, it's all fuss and excitement and bother and complaint all round."
"You ought to see and get hold of a steamboat yourself, Soren; we mustn't be behindhand with everything, you know. Why, up in Drammen now, they've seven or eight of them already."
"Thank you for nothing. Let them buy steamers that cares to; it won't be Soren Braaten, though."
And Soren walked homeward, inwardly anathematising the inventor of steam, who might have found a better use for his time than causing all that trouble to his fellow-men.
Cilia was in the kitchen when he came in; the first thing she asked was whether he had got a charter for Birkebeineren.
The vessel had been lying in Christiania now for nearly a month; such a thing had never happened before.
Remittances? Alas, these had so dwindled of late as to be almost microscopic. Things were looking gloomy all round.
Cilia sat by the fire looking thoughtfully into the blaze. She dropped her knitting, and stuck the odd needle into her hair, that was fastened in a coil at the back of her head. The wool rolled to the floor, but when Soren stooped to pick it up, she ordered him sharply to leave it alone. There was something in her voice that startled Soren. Ever since the battle royal of a few years back, she had been quiet and sensible, and things had gone on between them as smoothly as could be wished.
Suddenly she rose to her feet, and stood with one hand on her hip, the other holding the bench.