I never think of Trondhjem without recalling, also, an experience in a Norwegian barber-shop. I knew that it was tempting Providence to enter it, for shaving in Norway is still a kind of surgical operation. But for some time a coldness had existed between my razors and myself. The edge of our friendship had become dulled. Accordingly, I made the venture. Before me, as I entered, stood a man with a head of hair like Rubenstein's, and a mouth like a miniature fjord.
TOURING ON FOOT.
"Do you speak English?" I began.
"Nay."
"Sprechen sie Deutsch?"
"Nay."
"Parlez-vous Français?"
"Nay."