Jacob, in the meanwhile, whose toilet did not take very long, and who rarely occupied himself in any work which did not especially belong to his own department, had been parleying with a young fellow, who, roused by the Captain’s gun, had pulled across in his boat from the opposite side, while the rest of the men were occupied in preparing the boats and re-arranging the articles that had been taken on shore the preceding evening.
They came up together to where the Parson was standing by the fire, busily engaged in exchanging his salmon casting-line for one better adapted for trout.
“The young man says that the river is dangy,” said he; for though he spoke English well enough, he has his own particular words, which it was necessary to make out.
“Dingy,” said the Parson, without any very clear comprehension of what was meant, but rather reverting in his mind to the azure transparency of the waters; which, in truth, he would gladly have seen a little stained by mud. “Well, that is a good job. But I fear he will find himself a little mistaken.”
Jacob evidently had not conveyed his meaning: he looked round for Tom or Torkel to assist him, but they were both in the boats, working busily under the Captain’s orders; so Jacob tried his hand again.
“The young man says that there is a great deal of water in the river from the snow. He says that boats are very often sunk at Oxea.”
“Humph!” said the Parson, who began to suspect something.
Here the young man himself broke in with a long story in Norske.
“He says,” interpreted Jacob, “only last week, one boat was upset, and two men were drowned.”
“Aye? aye?” said the Parson; “what! sober men?”