Taking leave of Molde one pleasant afternoon, we sailed across its beautiful fjord to explore the snow-capped mountains opposite. It was upon this voyage that I was taught the bitter lesson never to trust my baggage to a Norwegian, merely because he claims to be able to speak English. Upon the deck of our little steamer stood that day a man, upon whose hatband I read the legend that he was the proprietor of a hotel at Veblungsnäs, where we proposed to spend the night. Approaching him, therefore, I inquired:
"Can you speak English?"
He smiled upon me sweetly, and replied, "O, yes."
Innocent of the awful fact that this was the whole extent of his vocabulary, I continued:
"When we arrive, will you bring my valise ashore, while I go at once to the hotel to secure rooms?"
"O, yes."
MOLDE.
Ten minutes later we reached our landing pier. I left the boat, as I had said, and hurried on to the hotel. I presently beheld the old proprietor coming from the wharf, but without my satchel.