At that moment someone stepped up to him and shook him by the shoulder. “Hallo, old chap,” said the man, “you are just the fellow I want! You are the party they call Fiddle-John?”
There was something brisk and aggressive about the stranger which almost frightened Fiddle-John. It was easy to see that he came from afar; for he had smartly-cut city-clothes, a tall shiny hat, and a huge watch-chain from which half a dozen seals and trinkets depended. Fiddle-John had never seen anything so magnificent; he was completely dazzled. He sat half-raised upon his elbow and stared at the stranger in mute wonder. “Well, Fiddle-John,” the latter went on glibly; “you don’t seem very cordial to an old friend. Or perhaps you don’t know me. Reckon I’ve changed some since you used to tell me stories about the Ashiepattle and the ogre who stowed his heart away for safe keeping inside of a duck in a goose-pond, some thousands of miles off. I have often thought of that story since. Fact is, that is just the kind of arrangement I am after. I’ve too much heart, Fiddle-John, too much heart. My heart is always getting me into trouble, and if I could make an arrangement to leave it behind here in Norway, while I myself return to America, I should like it first rate. You don’t happen to know of any party who would be willing to keep it for me during my absence, hey, Fiddle-John?”
The man here laughed uproariously and slapped Fiddle-John on the shoulder.
“You are the same rum old customer you used to be, Fiddle-John,” he said in a tone of cordial good-fellowship; “but you don’t seem as talkative as you used to be—don’t even tell me you are glad to see me. Now, that’s what I call hard, Fiddle-John. Don’t even know the name of your little friend James Forrest—or—beg your pardon—Jens Skoug, I mean to say, who used to climb on your back and listened in rapture to your wonderful voice and your marvellous fairy tales.”
A gleam of intelligence flitted across Fiddle-John’s features, as he heard the name Jens Skoug, and he arose with bashful hesitancy and extended his hand to the talkative stranger. He remembered well that Jens’ family had emigrated, some ten years ago, to the United States, and he remembered also vividly the uncouth little creature in skin-patched trousers and ragged jacket who had embarked, at that time, in the great steamer that came to take the emigrants off to Bergen. And now this little creature was a tall, dazzling man with a silk hat and showy jewellery, and an address which a prince might have envied. Thus reasoned Fiddle-John in his simplicity. Such a marvellous transformation he had never in all his life witnessed. The name James Forrest which Jens had dropped by a deliberate accident also impressed him strangely. It seemed to add greatly to Jens’ magnificence. A man who could afford to have such a foreign-sounding name must indeed be a person of enterprise and prominence. It surrounded Jens with a delightful foreign flavor which captivated his friend even more than his brilliant talk. “Jens,” he said, making an effort to conquer his diffidence, “you have grown to be a great man, indeed. How could you expect me to recognize you?”
“A great man!” exclaimed Jens, expanding agreeably under his friend’s sincere flattery; “no, Fiddle-John, I am not a great man—that is, not yet, Fiddle-John. But I mean to become a great man before I die. In America, where I live, every man can become great if he only chooses to. But I thought, being young yet, that I could afford to spend a couple of months in opening to my countrymen the same road to fortune which is open to myself, before I settled down to tackle life in earnest. Fact is, Fiddle-John, as I said before, I have too much heart. My conscience would leave me no peace, whenever I thought of my poor countrymen who were toiling here at home for twenty-five or forty cents a day, and scarcely could keep body and soul together, while I could earn five and ten dollars a day as readily as I could blow my nose. I positively cried, Fiddle-John, cried like a girl, when I thought of you and your small chaps and of all the other poor fellows here in the valley who had such a hard time of it, tearing off their caps and bowing and scraping before the parson and the judge and all the big guns, while in America we step up to the President himself, wring his hand and say, ‘How are you, old chap? I’ll drop in and take pot-luck with you to-morrow, if you don’t happen to have company.’ And he, likely as not, will say to me, ‘Right welcome shall you be, Jim; bring a couple of good fellows along with you. We don’t stand on ceremony around the White House. Perhaps I may be able to hunt up a consulship or a foreign mission for you, if you should happen to be out of office and pressed for cash.’ Now, that’s what I call good manners, Fiddle-John, and the chances are ten to one that, if you call upon him with a note from me, he may set you up in a right fat office, where you may cock your head at parsons and judges and feel yourself as big as the very biggest.”
Fiddle-John listened with eager ears and open mouth to this alluring narrative. It did not occur to him to question the truth of what Jens said, for did not his appearance and his independent and dazzling demeanor plainly show that he was a great and prosperous man? And, moreover, how could he have undergone such a startling transformation in a few years, if it had not been true, as he said, that the President of the United States or some other mighty personage took an interest in him. Fiddle-John had often heard it said that in America all things were possible; and he had himself read letters from persons who here at home had been poor tenants or even day laborers, and who over there had become colonels, and merchants, and legislators. Therefore, he was not in the least surprised at the good luck which had overtaken his former friend. He was only surprised that the thought of going to America had never occurred to him before, and he made up his mind on the spot to sell his cow, his pig, and his three sheep, and take the first ship for New York. He could scarcely stop to bid Jens Skoug good-by, so eager was he to rush home and communicate his resolution to his wife and children. He foresaw that he would meet with opposition from Ingeborg; but he steeled his heart against all her entreaties and vowed to himself that this time he would have his own way. Was it not enough that she had once nearly ruined his life? Should he permit her again to snatch the chance of greatness away from him?
He was flushed and breathless when he reached his little cottage up under the mountain-wall. It had never looked so mean and miserable to him as it did at this moment. The walls were propped up on the north and west sides with long beams, and dry, brownish grass from last year grew in tufts along the roof-tree and drooped down over the eaves. His two sons, Alf and Truls, were playing bear with their little sister Karen, who was seven years old. But they rose hurriedly when they saw their father, and brushed the sand from the knees of their trousers. There was something in his bearing and in the expression of his face which vaguely alarmed them. He stooped no more in walking, but strode along proudly with uplifted head.
“Boys,” he cried, joyously, “run in and tell your mother, to-morrow we are going to America!” Ingeborg, who was just coming across the yard with a new-born lamb in her arms, paused in consternation, and gazed with a frightened expression at her husband.