"Occupation?"
This was driving me into a corner with a vengeance. Occupation! what was my occupation? I thought first of turning myself into a tinker--but I dared not; firstly, I had given myself a name that was not common to every and any tinker--besides, I wore pince-nez. It suddenly entered my head to be foolhardy. I took a step forward and said firmly, almost solemnly:
"A journalist."
The guard gave a start before he wrote it down, whilst I stood as important as a homeless Cabinet Minister before the barrier. It roused no suspicions. The guard understood quite well why I hesitated a little before answering. What did it look like to see a journalist in the night guard-house without a roof over his head?
"On what paper, Herr Tangen?"
"Morgenbladet!" said I. "I have been out a little too late this evening, more's the shame!"
"Oh, we won't mention that," he interrupted, with a smile; "when young people are out ... we understand!"
Turning to a policeman, he said, as he rose and bowed politely to me, "Show this gentleman up to the reserved section. Good-night!"
I felt ice run down my back at my own boldness, and I clenched my hands to steady myself a bit. If I only hadn't dragged in the Morgenbladet. I knew Friele could show his teeth when he liked, and I was reminded of that by the grinding of the key turning in the lock.
"The gas will burn for ten minutes," remarked the policeman at the door.