Shallow Soil

nt rumble of trucks rolling into the streets from the country, large farm-wagons heavily loaded with supplies for the markets-with hay and meat an

astle; smoke is curling from the galleys. A skipper puts his head out of a companionway and s

th ropes and wheelbarrows are moving around, still half asleep, yawning openly with angular, bearded jaws. And barges are warped

e son is sitting at a desk, all alone; he is sorting mail. A young gentleman is strolling, tired and sleepy, toward the railway square; he comes from a

, Ojen?" asks th

say, I haven't b

" laughs the fir

ng man; his name had suddenly become famous two years ago when he published a lyric drama. His name is Irgens; everyb

he spring sun has browned their faces; they wear heavy mufflers around their necks, and their hands are sinewy and dirty. They are in such a hurry to sell

rom newspaper parcels. A man pushes an enormous load of bundles on a push-cart, he is delivering groceries; he strains like a horse and reads addresses from a note-book as he hurries along. A child is distributing morning papers; she is a little girl who has Saint Vitus'

rise skyward, meeting and blending above the large squares in a booming diapason, a deep-throated, throbbing roar that enwraps the entire city. Telegraph messengers dart hither and yon, scattering orders and quotations f

, is still busy at his desk. His eyes are large and blue, although his complexion is rather dark otherwise; a stray wisp of hair sags untidily over his forehead. The tall, somewhat

ning!" ca

looks up i

re you abroa

say, I haven't

at my desk since five; I have ca

ur trading! There is only one thing I want to discuss w

nriksen pulls a cork hurriedly; his father is expected any moment, and for this reas

an I take the bottle along

, and Irgens, who understands the hint, takes something from the drawer wh