In the woodshed, the spectators whistled through their fingers, shouted and screeched. After draping a black shawl over my head I again made my entrée in as dignified a manner as was possible through the hole.
Until the very moment I stepped forward on the stage, I was in the most horrible uncertainty as to what I should recite. It was impossible for me to decide whether it should be “Terje Vigen,” or “The Church Clock in Farum,” or “Little squirrel sat,” or what. The room was now still as death.
“Ahem! h’m!” I kept clearing my throat.
O dear me! Which poem should I choose?
But of all things in the world! There, at the woodshed door, stood Otto, the woodcutter, looking frightfully cross.
“What’s all this?” he called in a rough, angry voice.
I saw danger ahead, and spoke from the stage as mildly and soothingly as I could.
“This is a theater, Otto. We’re acting—having awfully good fun.” Almost before I had finished speaking, the spectators shouted in chorus:
“Theater, Otto! Theater!” and rushed at him, snatching at his jacket from behind, while Nils set up a blood-curdling Indian howl, such as only he can give; and everything was in a hullabaloo in no time.
Suddenly I saw Otto stride over to a heap of wood in the corner and grab a stick.