Dry Fish and Wet Part 3

He stands with head so meekly bowed, Withal a man of whom we're proud, We're proud of you, hurrah, hurroo, Hurrah, hurrip, hurray!

All honour to the grocery trade Whereby his fortune it was made, And a nice one too, hurrah, hurroo, Hurrah, hurrip, hurray!

It must have been a decent pile For his cellar's stocked in splendid style, Put it away, hurrah, hurray, Hurrah, hurrip, hurroo!

Though somebody must have made, we fear, a Sad mistake with that Madeira, Maderiah, hurray, hurrah, Hurrah, hurrip, hurroo!

But now he casts all care away And gladly joins our circle gay.

Our circle gay, hurrah, hurray, Hurrah, hurrip, hurroo!

The flowing bowl he brings us here, So drink his health with a hearty cheer, Hip, hip, hurrah, hurrip, Hurrah, hurrip, hurra-a-ay!"

Holm did not know whether to laugh or cry at this exhibition, but chose the former; after all, it might be worth while to see how far they would go. He made speech after speech, and the company shouted in delight. Graarud, the literary critic of the _People's Guardian_, declared that Knut Holm was a credit to the merchant citizens of his country, and as fine a specimen of the type as was to be found.

Listad, another literary man, who edited a paper himself, was making love to Marie, but with little apparent success. He was a cadaverous-looking personage, but an idealist, and earnest in the cause of universal peace.

The speeches grew more and more exalted in tone as the evening went on. Pettersen invited the company to drink to the "coming dawn of Art in the land--a dawn that would soon appear when once the daughter of the house raised her melodious voice to ring o'er hill and dale."

This was too much for Holm; he slipped into the hall and, putting on an overcoat, went out to get some fresh air.

It was a fine, starlight, frosty night, the river flowed broad and smooth and dark between the piers, the gas lamps on either side shedding long streaks of light across the silent water.

He swung round the corner, but--heavens, who was that sitting so quietly on the steps in front of the shop? He went up, and found a twelve-year-old boy leaning against the wall.

"Why, little man, what's the matter? What are you sitting out here for in the cold?"

The lad rose hurriedly to his feet and made as if to run away.

"No, here, wait a bit, son; there's nothing to be afraid of." Holm took the boy's hand, and looked into a pale childish face with deep dark eyes, and framed in a tangle of fair hair.

"I was only listening," he sobbed.... "The music upstairs there...."

"You're fond of music, then?"

"Yes; I always go out in the evening, when n.o.body can see, and sit outside where I know there's somebody that plays. And Holm's up there, they've got the loveliest piano."

"Would you like to learn to play yourself?"

The boy looked up at him in astonishment.

"Me?"

"Yes, you. If you're so fond of music, wouldn't you like to learn to play?"

"I've got to help mother at home, because father's dead. And when I'm big enough I'm going to be a sailor. Please, I must go home now."

"Mother getting anxious about you, eh?"

"No, she knows where I go of an evening; she doesn't mind."

"Well, what's your name, anyhow?"

"Hans Martinsen."

"Here you are, then, Hans, here's two s.h.i.+llings for you."

"Oh, er--that for me! I could go to heaps of concerts.... Thank you ever so much."

He clasped the outstretched hand in both his little fists, and looked up with beaming eyes.

"And now look here, little Hans. At eleven o'clock to-morrow morning you come round and ask for me. Here in the shop."

"But, are you--are you Mr. Holm, then?" He loosed the hand.

"Well, and what then? That's nothing to be afraid of, is it, little Hans? But now, listen to me. I want you to come round here to-morrow morning, as I said. And perhaps then we'll have some real nice music for you. And you can bring your mother too if you like."

"Music--to-morrow--oh, that will be lovely. And won't mother be pleased!"

"And now run along home, like a good boy, and get warm. You've been sitting here in the cold too long already. Good-night."

"Good-night, good-night!"

Holm watched the little figure hurrying with swift little legs across the bridge, till it disappeared into the dark on the farther side.

He stood for some time deep in thought. The dawn of Art--what was it Pettersen had said? What if he, Holm, the despised materialist, were to be the first to discover the dawn here! It was a strange coincidence, anyway. "And such strange, deep eyes the little fellow had; it went to my heart when his little hands took hold of mine....

Ay, little lad, you're one of G.o.d's flowers, I can see. And you shan't be left to perish of cold in this world as long as my name's Knut Holm."

III

BRAMSEN

On the morning after the party, Holm sent down for Paal Abrahamsen or "Bramsen" as he was generally called. Holm and Bramsen had known each other from childhood; they had gone to the same poor school, and had grown up together. After their confirmation, Bramsen had gone to sea, while Holm had got a place in a shop, and commenced his mercantile career. But he never forgot his old friend, and when in course of time he had established a business of his own, he made Bramsen his warehouseman and clerk on the quay, where he now held a position of trust as Holm's right-hand man. He was a short, bandy-legged man, with a humorous face set in a frame of s.h.a.ggy whiskers, and a remarkably mobile play of feature. Agile as a cat, he could walk on his hands as easily as others on their feet, and, despite his fifty-five years, he turned out regularly on Contrition Day to compete with the boys for prizes in the park; and he was a hard man to beat!

"Paal he can never be serious," complained Andrine, his wife, who was something of a melancholy character herself, and constantly endeavouring to drag him along to various meetings and a.s.semblies which Paal as regularly evaded on some pretext or other.

Holm's relations with his old comrade and subordinate were of a curious character. Down at the quay, when they were alone, they addressed each other in familiar terms, as equals; but in public, Bramsen was always the respectful employee, observing all formalities towards his master.

When the message came down from the office that Mr. Holm would be coming down to the waterside at 7.30 in the morning to see him, Bramsen turned thoughtful.

They had held a similar conference once, some years before, when the firm of Knut G. Holm looked like going to ruin--Heaven send it was not something of the same sort now!

Holm looked irritable and out of sorts. "Bramsen," he said, "I'm sick and tired of the whole blessed business."

Bramsen scratched his chin meditatively, and laid his head on one side. "H'm," he observed after a pause. "More trouble with that there guinea-pig up at the bank, fussing about bills and that sort?"