As evening fell, he saw a multitude of lights spread out on every side far ahead in the darkness. And next, with his little wooden chest on his shoulder, he was finding his way up through the streets by the quay to a lodging-house for country folk, which he knew from former visits, when he had come to the town with the Lofoten boats.
Next morning, clad in his country homespun, he marched up along River Street, over the bridge, and up the hill to the villa quarter, where he had to ask the way. At last he arrived outside a white-painted wooden house standing back in a garden. Here was the place—the place where his fate was to be decided. After the country fashion he walked in at the kitchen door.
A stout servant maid in a big white apron was rattling the rings of the kitchen range into place; there was a pleasing smell of coffee and good things to eat. Suddenly a door opened, and a figure in a dressing-gown appeared—a tall red-haired man with gold spectacles astride on a long red nose, his thick hair and scrubby little moustaches touched with grey. He gasped once or twice and then started sneezing—hoc-hoc-put-putsch!—wiped his nose with a large pocket-handkerchief, and grumbled out: “Ugh!—this wretched cold—can’t get rid of it. How about my socks, Bertha, my good girl; do you think they are quite dry now?”
“I’ve had them hung up ever since I lit the fire this morning,” said the girl, tossing her head.
“But who is this young gentleman, may I ask?” The gold spectacles were turned full on Peer, who rose and bowed.
“Said he wanted to speak to you, sir,” put in the maid.
“Ah. From the country, I see. Have you anything to sell, my lad?”
“No,” said Peer. He had had a letter. . . .
The red head seemed positively frightened at this—and the dressing-gown faltered backwards, as if to find support. He cast a hurried glance at the girl, and then beckoned with a long fore-finger to Peer. “Yes, yes, perfectly so. Be so good as to come this way, my lad.”
Peer found himself in a room with rows of books all round the walls, and a big writing-table in the centre. “Sit down, my boy.” The schoolmaster went and picked out a long pipe, and filled it, clearing his throat nervously, with an occasional glance at the boy. “H’m—so this is you. This is Peer—h’m.” He lit his pipe and puffed a little, found himself again obliged to sneeze—but at last settled down in a chair at the writing-table, stretched out his long legs, and puffed away again.