“They want me to sing to them this evening,” said Falkenberg, when they had gone.
Evening came.
I stood out in the courtyard, talking to the Captain. Three or four days more, and our work on the timber would be at an end.
“And where will you be going then?” asked the Captain.
“We were going to get work on the railway.”
“I might find you something—to do here,” said the Captain. “I want the drive down to the high road carried a different way; it's too steep as it is. Come and see what I mean.”
He took me round to the south side of the house, and pointed this way and that, though it was already dark.
“And by the time that's done, and one or two other little things, we shall be well on to the spring,” he said. “And then there'll be the water, as you said. And, besides, there's Petter laid up still; we can't get along like this. I must have another hand to help.”
Suddenly we heard Falkenberg singing. There was a light in the parlour; Falkenberg was in there, singing to an accompaniment on the piano. The music welled out toward us—the man had a remarkable voice—and made me quiver against my will.
The Captain started, and glanced up at the windows.