Frithiof, somewhat unwillingly, made his way to Museum Street, and was ushered into the stuffy little den where Herr Sivertsen sat smoking and writing serenely. He bowed stiffly, but was startled to see the sudden change which came over the face of the old Norwegian at sight of him.
“So! You have come back, then!” he exclaimed, shaking him warmly by the hand, just as though they had parted the best of friends. “I am glad of it. Why didn’t you tell me the real state of the case? Why didn’t you tell me you were one of the victims of the accursed thirst for gold? Why didn’t you tell me of the hardness and rapacity of the English firm? But you are all alike—all! Young men nowadays can’t put a decent sentence together; they clip their words as close as if they were worth a mint of money. A worthless generation! Sit down, now, sit down, and tell me what you can do.”
Frithiof, perceiving that what had first seemed like boorishness was really eccentricity, took the proffered chair, and tried to shake off the mantle of cold reserve which had of late fallen upon him.
“I could do translating,” he replied. “English, German, or Norwegian. I am willing to do copying; but there, I suppose, the typewriters would cut me out. Any way, I have four hours to spare in the evening, and I want them filled.”
“You have found some sort of work, then, already?”
“Yes, I have got work which will bring me in twenty-five shillings a week, but it leaves me free from eight o’clock, and I want evening employment.”
Herr Sivertsen gave a grunt which expressed encouragement and approval. He began shuffling about masses of foolscap and proofs which were strewn in wild confusion about the writing-table. “These are the revised proofs of Scanbury’s new book; take this page and let me see how you can render it into Norwegian. Here are pen and paper. Sit down and try your hand.”
Frithiof obeyed. Herr Sivertsen seemed satisfied with the result.
“Put the same page into German,” he said.
Frithiof worked away in silence, and the old author paced to and fro with his pipe, giving a furtive glance now and then at the down-bent head with its fair, obstinate hair brushed erect in Norwegian fashion, and the fine Grecian profile upon which the dark look of trouble sat strangely. In spite of the sarcasm and bitterness which disappointment had roused in Frithiof’s nature the old author saw that such traits were foreign to his real character—that they were but a thin veneer, and that beneath them lay the brave and noble nature of the hardy Norseman. The consul’s account of his young countryman’s story had moved him greatly, and he was determined now to do what he could for him. He rang the bell and ordered the Norwegian maid-servant to bring lunch for two, adding an emphatic “Strax!” (immediately), which made Frithiof look up from his writing.