The Captain had returned.

A big man, with a full beard, came out to us one day while we were at work, and said:

“I’m Captain Falkenberg. Well, lads, how goes it?”

We greeted him respectfully, and answered: “Well enough.”

Then there was some talk of what we had done and what remained to do. The Captain was pleased with our work — all clean cut and close to the root. Then he reckoned out how much we had got through per day, and said it came to a good average.

“Captain’s forgetting Sundays.” said I.

“That’s true,” said he. “Well, that makes it over the average. Had any trouble at all with the tools? Is the saw all right?”

“Quite all right.”

“And nobody hurt?”

“No.”

Pause.

“You ought by rights to provide your own food,” he said, “but if you would rather have it the other way, we can square it when we come to settle up.”

“We’ll be glad to have it as Captain thinks best.”

“Yes,” agreed Falkenberg as well.

The Captain took a turn up through the wood and came back again.

“Couldn’t have better weather,” he said. “No snow to shovel¹ away.”

“No, there’s no snow — that’s true; but a little more frost’d do no harm.”

“Why? Cooler to work in d’you mean?”

“That, too, perhaps; yes. But the saw cuts easier when timber’s frozen.”

“You’re an old hand at this work, then?”

“Yes.”

“And are you the one that sings?”

“No, more’s the pity. He is the one that sings.”

“Oh, so you are the singer, are you? We’re namesakes, I believe?”

“Why, yes, in a way,” said Falkenberg, a little awkwardly, “My name is Lars Falkenberg, and I’ve my certificate to show for that.”

“What part d’you come from?”

“From Tr?ndelagen.”

The Captain went home. He was friendly enough, but spoke² in a short, decisive way, with never a smile or a jesting word. A good face, something ordinary.

From that day onwards Falkenberg never sang but in the men’s quarters, or out in the open; no more singing in the kitchen now the Captain had come home. Falkenberg was

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