The youngster nearly lost heart completely, but he screwed himself up and inquired diffidently whether the factor knew that there were unusually good landing-facilities out on the Point.
It is much worse in your landing-place than it is in ours out there.
The factor had to smile at the gravity and spirit of the boy—he confessed that he had heard it spoken of.
Then little Snjolfur came to the heart of the—if he let out the use of the landing-place on the Point to the factor for the coming summer—how much would he be willing to pay to have his Faroese crews land their catches there?—Only for the coming summer, mind!
Wouldn't it be more straightforward if I bought the Point from you? asked the factor, doing his best to conceal his amusement.
Little Snjolfur stoutly rejected this suggestion—he didn't want that.—Then I have no home—if I sell the Point, I mean.
The factor tried to get him to see that he could not live there in any case, by himself, destitute, in the open.
They will not allow it, my boy.
The lad steadfastly refused to accept the notion that he would be in the open out there—he had already built himself a shelter where he could lie snug.
And as soon as spring comes, I shall build another cabin—it needn't be big and there's a good bit of wood out there. But, as I expect you know, I've lost Snjolfur—and the boat. I don't think there's any hope of putting the bits of her together again. Now that I've no boat, I thought I might let out the landing-place, if I could make something out of it. The Faroese would be sure to give me something for the pot if I gave them a hand with launching and unloading. They could row most ways from there—I'm not exaggerating—they had to stay at home time and time again last summer, when it was easy for Snjolfur and me to put off. There's a world of difference between a deep-water landing-place and a shallow-water one—that's what Snjolfur said many a time.