which the clerks entered as boys and where they remained all their
lives. Mr. Barth, the cashier, had occupied his present desk
for twenty-one years, and had spent nine years more in inferior
positions. He was now a stout little man of fifty, with close
cropped, highly-respectable side-whiskers and thin gray hair, which
was made to cover his crown by the aid of a small comb. This comb,
which was fixed above his right ear and held the straggling locks
together, was a source of great amusement to the clerks, who made
no end of witticisms about it. But Mr. Barth troubled himself very
little about their poor puns, and sat serenely poring over his
books and packages of bank-bills from morning till night. He prided
himself above all on his regularity, and it was said that he had
never been one minute too late or too early during the thirty years
he had been in Mr. Lyng’s bank; accordingly, he had little patience
with the shortcomings of his subordinates, and fined and punished
them in various ways, if they were but a moment tardy; for the most
atrocious of all crimes, in Mr. Barth’s opinion, was tardiness.
The man who suffered most from his severity was Mr. Dreyer, the
assistant book-keeper. Mr. Dreyer was a good-looking young man,
and very fond of society; and it happened sometimes that, on the
morning after a ball, he would sleep rather late. He had long
rebelled in silence against Mr. Barth’s tyranny, and when he found
that his dissatisfaction was shared by many of the other clerks,
he conceived a plan to revenge himself on his persecutor. To this
end a conspiracy was formed among the younger clerks, and it was
determined to make Mikkel the agent of their vengeance.
It was well known by the clerks that Mr. Barth was superstitious
and afraid in the dark; and it was generally agreed that it
would be capital fun to give him a little fright. Accordingly the
following plan was adopted: A bottle of the oil of phosphorus was
procured and Mikkel’s fur was thoroughly rubbed with it, so that in
the dark the whole animal would be luminous. At five minutes before
five, someone should go down in the cellar and turn off the gas,
just as the cashier was about to enter the back office to lock up
the safe. Then, when the illuminated Mikkel glared out on him from
a dark corner, he would probably shout or faint or cry out, and
then all the clerks should rush sympathetically to him and render
him every assistance.
Thus the plan was laid, and there was a breathless, excited
stillness in the bank when the hour of five approached. It had
been dark for two hours, and the clerks sat on their high stools,
bending silently over their desks, scribbling away for dear life.
Promptly at seven minutes before five, up rose Mr. Barth and gave
the signal to have the books closed; then, to the unutterable
astonishment of the conspirators, he handed the key of the safe to
Mr. Dreyer (who knew the combination), and told him to lock the
safe and return the key. At that very instant, out went the gas;
and Mr. Dreyer, although he was well prepared, could himself hardly
master his fright at Mikkel’s terrible appearance. He struck a
match, lighted a wax taper (which was used for sealing letters),
and tremblingly locked the safe; then, abashed and discomfited, he
advanced to the cashier’s desk and handed him the key.
“Perhaps you would have the kindness, Mr. Dreyer,” said Mr. Barth,
calmly, “to write a letter of complaint to the gas-company before
you go home. It will never do in the world to have such things
happen. I suppose there must be water in the pipes.”
The old man buttoned his overcoat up to his chin and marched out;
whereupon a shout of laughter burst forth, in which Mr. Dreyer did
not join. He could not see what they found to laugh at, he said.
It took him a long while to compose his letter of complaint to the
gas-company.
Mikkel in the meanwhile was feeling very uncomfortable. He could
not help marvelling at his extraordinary appearance. He rubbed
himself against chairs and tables, and found to his astonishment
that he made everything luminous that he touched. He had never
known any respectable fox which possessed this accomplishment,
and he felt sure that in some way something was wrong with him.
He could not sleep, but walked restlessly about on the desks and
counters, bristled with anger at the slightest sound, and was
miserable and excited. He could not tell how far the night had
advanced, when he heard a noise in the back office (which fronted
upon the court-yard) as if a window was being opened. His curiosity
was aroused and he walked sedately across the floor; then he
stopped for a moment to compose himself, for he was well aware that
what he saw was something extraordinary. A man with a dark-lantern
in his hand was kneeling before the safe with a key in his hand.
Mikkel advanced a little farther and paused in a threatening
attitude on the threshold of the door. With his luminous face and
body, and a halo of phosphorescent light round about him, he was
terrible to behold. He gave a little snort, at which the man turned
quickly about. But no sooner had he caught sight of the illuminated
Mikkel than he flung himself on his knees before the little animal,
and with clasped hands and a countenance wild with fear exclaimed:
“Oh, I know who thou art! Pardon me, pardon me! Thou art my
father’s spectral fox! I know thee, I know thee!”
Mikkel had never suspected that he was anything so terrible; but,
as he saw that the man was bent on mischief, he did not think
it worth while to contradict him. He only curved his back and
bristled, until the man, beside himself with fear, made a rush
for the window and leaped out into the court-yard. Then Mikkel,
thinking that he had had excitement enough for one night, curled
himself up on his cushion behind the stove and went to sleep.
The next morning, when Mr. Barth arrived, he found a window in the
back office broken, and the door of the safe wide open. On the
floor lay a bundle of papers, all relating to the transactions of
Tulstrup while a member of the firm, and, moreover, a hat, marked
on the inside with Tulstrup’s name, was found on a chair.
On the same day Mr. Lyng was summoned to the bedside of his former
partner, who made a full confession, and offered to return through
him the money which he had fraudulently acquired. His leg was
broken, and he seemed otherwise shattered in body and mind. It
had been his purpose, he said, to drive Mr. Lyng from the firm
in disgrace, and he was sure he could have accomplished it, if
Providence itself had not interfered. But, incredible as it seemed,
he had seen a luminous animal in the bank, and he felt convinced
that it was his father’s spectral fox. It was well enough to smile
at such things and call them childish, but he had certainly seen,
he said, a wonderful, shining fox.
Mr. Lyng did not attempt to convince Mr. Tulstrup that he was
wrong. He took the money and distributed it among those who
had suffered by Mr. Tulstrup’s frauds, and thus many needy
people--widows and industrious laborers--regained their hard-earned
property, and all because Mikkel’s skin was luminous. When Mr. Lyng
heard the whole story from Mr. Dreyer, he laughed heartily and
long. But from that day he took a warm interest in Thor and his
fox, and sent the former to school and, later, to the university,
where he made an honorable name for himself by his talents and
industry.
Poor Mikkel is now almost gray, and his teeth are so blunt that
he has to have his food minced before he can eat it. But he still
occupies a soft rug behind the stove in the student’s room, and
Thor hopes he will live long enough to be introduced to his
master’s wife. For it would be a pity if she were not to know him
to whom her husband owes his position, and she, accordingly, hers.
THE FAMINE AMONG THE GNOMES.
I believe it was in the winter of 18-- (but it does not matter
so much about the time) that the servants on the large estate of
Halthorp raised a great ado about something or other. Whereupon
the Baron of Halthorp, who was too stout to walk down the stairs
on slight provocation, called his steward, in a voice like that of
an angry lion, and asked him, “Why in the name of Moses he did not
keep the rascals quiet.”
“But, your lordship,” stammered the steward, who was as thin as
the baron was stout, “I have kept them quiet for more than a month
past, though it has been hard enough. Now they refuse to obey me
unless I admit them to your lordship’s presence, that they may
state their complaint.”
“Impudent beggars!” growled the old gentleman. “Tell them that I
am about to take my after-dinner nap, and that I do not wish to be
disturbed.”
“I have told them that a dozen times,” whined the steward,
piteously. “But they are determined to leave in a body, unless your
lordship consents to hear them.”
“Leave! They can’t leave,” cried his honor. “The law binds them.
Well, well, to save talking, fling the doors open and let them come
in.”
The steward hobbled away to the great oak-panelled doors (I forgot
to tell you that he limped in his left foot), and, cautiously
turning the knob and the key, peeped out into the hall. There stood
the servants--twenty-eight in all--but, oh! what a sight! They
were hollow-cheeked, with hungry eyes and bloodless lips, and deep
lines about their mouths, as if they had not seen food for weeks.
Their bony hands twitched nervously at the coarse clothes that
flapped in loose folds about their lean and awkward limbs. They
were indeed a pitiful spectacle. Only a single one of them--and
that was of course the cook--looked like an ordinary mortal, or
an extraordinary mortal, if you like, for he was nearly as broad
as he was long. It was owing to the fact that he walked at the
head of the procession, as they filed into the parlor, that the
baron did not immediately discover the miserable condition of the
rest. But when they had faced about, and stood in a long row from
wall to wall--well, you would hardly believe it, but the baron,
hard-hearted as he was, came near fainting. There is a limit to
all things, and even a heart of steel would have been moved at the
sight of such melancholy objects.
“Steward,” he roared, when he had sufficiently recovered himself,
“who is the demon who has dared to trifle with my fair name and
honor? Name him, sir--name him, and I will strangle him on the
spot!”
The steward, even if he had been acquainted with the demon, would
have thought twice before naming him under such circumstances.
Accordingly he was silent.
“Have I not,” continued the baron, still in a voice that made his
subjects quake--“have I not caused ample provisions to be daily
distributed among you? Have not you, Mr. Steward, the keys to my
store-houses, and have you not my authority to see that each member
of my household is properly provided for?”
The steward dared not answer; he only nodded his head in silence.
“If it please your lordship,” finally began a squeaky little voice
at the end of the row (it was that of the under-groom), “it isn’t
the steward as is to blame, but it’s the victuals. Somehow there
isn’t any taste nor fillin’ to them. Whether I eat pork and cabbage
or porridge with molasses, it don’t make no difference. It all
tastes alike. As I say, your lordship, the old Nick has got into
the victuals.”
The under-groom had hardly ceased speaking before the baron, who
was a very irascible old gentleman, seized his large gold-headed
cane and as quickly as his bulk would allow, rushed forward to give
vent to his anger.
“I’ll teach you manners, you impudent clown!” he bawled out, as,
with his cane lifted above his head, he rushed into the ranks of
the frightened servants, shouting to the under-groom, “Criticise my
victuals, will you, you miserable knave!”
The under-groom having on former occasions made the acquaintance of
the baron’s cane, and still remembering the unpleasant sensation,
immediately made for the door, and slipped nimbly out before a
blow had reached him. All the others, who had to suffer for their
spokesman’s boldness, tumbled pell-mell through the same opening,
jumped, rolled, or vaulted down the steps, and landed in a confused
heap at the bottom of the stairs.
The baron, in the meanwhile, marched with long strides up and down
the floor, and expressed himself, not in the politest language,
concerning the impudence of his domestics.
“However,” he grumbled to himself, “I must look into this affair
and find out what fraud there is at the bottom of it. The poor
creatures couldn’t get as lean as that unless there was some real
trouble.”
About three hours later the baron heard the large bell over the
gable of his store-house ring out for dinner. The wood-cutters and
the men who drove the snow-plough, and all other laborers on the
large estate, as soon as they heard it, flung away their axes and
snow-shovels and hurried up to the mansion, their beards and hair
and eyebrows all white with hoar-frost, so that they looked like
walking snow-men. But as it happened, the under-groom, Nils Tagfat,
chanced at that moment to be cutting down a large snow-laden
fir-tree which grew on a projecting knoll of the mountain. He
pulled off his mittens and blew on his hands (for it was bitter
cold), and was about to shoulder his axe, when suddenly he heard a
chorus of queer little metallic voices, as it seemed, right under
his feet. He stopped and listened.
“There is the bell of Halthorp ringing! Where is my cap? where is
my cap?” he heard distinctly uttered, though he could not exactly
place the sound, nor did he see anybody within a mile around.
And just for the joke of the thing, Nils, who was always a jolly
fellow, made his voice as fine as he could, and, mimicking the
tiny voices, squeaked out:
“Where is my cap? Where is my cap?”
But imagine his astonishment when suddenly he heard a voice answer
him: “You can take grandfather’s cap!” and at the same moment
there was tossed into his hands something soft, resembling a small
red-peaked cap. Just out of curiosity, Nils put it on his head
to try how it would fit him, and small as it looked, it fitted
him perfectly. But now, as the cap touched his head, his eyes
were opened to the strangest spectacle he ever beheld. Out of the
mountain came a crowd of gnomes, all with little red-peaked caps,
which made them invisible to all who were not provided with similar
caps. They hurried down the hill-side toward Halthorp, and Nils,
who was anxious to see what they were about, followed at a proper
distance behind. As he had half expected, they scrambled up on the
railings at the door of the servants’ dining-hall, and as soon as
the door was opened they rushed in, climbed up on the chairs, and
seated themselves on the backs just as the servants took their
places on the seats. And now Nils, who, you must remember, had on
the cap that made him invisible, came near splitting his sides with
laughter. The first course was boiled beef and cabbage. The smell
was delicious to Nils’s hungry nostrils, but he had to conquer his
appetite in order to see the end of the game. The steward stood at
the end of the table and served each with a liberal portion; and
at the steward’s side sat the baron himself, in a large, cushioned
easy-chair. He did not eat, however; he was there merely to see
fair play.
Each servant fell to work greedily with his knife and fork, and
just as he had got a delicious morsel half-way to his mouth, the
gnome on the back of his chair stretched himself forward and
deftly snatched the meat from the end of the fork. Thus, all the
way around the table, each man unconsciously put his piece of beef
into the wide-open mouth of his particular gnome. And the unbidden
guests grinned shrewdly at one another, and seemed to think it
all capital fun. Sometimes, when the wooden trays (which were
used instead of plates) were sent to be replenished, they made
horrrible grimaces, often mimicking their poor victims, who chewed
and swallowed and went through all the motions of eating, without
obtaining the slightest nourishment. They all would have liked to
fling knives and forks and trays out through the windows, but they
had the morning’s chastisement freshly in mind, and they did not
dare open their mouths, except for the futile purpose of eating.
“Well, my lads and lasses,” said the baron, when he had watched the
meal for some minutes; “if you can complain of food like this, you
indeed deserve to be flogged and put on prison fare.”
“Very likely, your lordship,” said one of the milkmaids; “but if
your lordship would demean yourself to take a morsel with us, we
would bless your lordship for your kindness and complain no more.”
[Illustration: THE BARON SPRANG UP WITH AN EXCLAMATION OF FRIGHT.]
The baron, looking around at all the hopeless eyes and haggard
faces, felt that there was something besides vanity that
prompted the request; and he accordingly ordered the cook to bring
his own plate and drew his chair up to the table. Hardly had he
seized his knife when Nils saw a gnome, who had hitherto been
seated on the floor awaiting his turn, crawl up on the arm of his
big chair and, standing on tiptoe, seize between his teeth the
first bit the baron was putting to his mouth. The old gentleman
looked astounded, mystified, bewildered; but, fearing to make
an exhibition of himself, selected another mouthful, and again
conducted it the accustomed way. The gnome came near laughing right
out, as he despatched this second morsel in the same manner as the
first, and all around the table the little monsters held their
hands over their mouths and seemed on the point of exploding. The
baron put down knife and fork with a bang; his eyes seemed to be
starting out of his head, and his whole face assumed an expression
of unspeakable horror.
“It is Satan himself who is mocking us!” he cried. “Send for the
priest! Send for the priest!”
Just then Nils crept around behind the baron, who soon felt
something soft, like a fine skull-cap, pressed on his head, and
before he had time to resent the liberty, he started in terror at
the sight of the little creature that he saw sitting on the arm of
his chair. He sprang up with an exclamation of fright, and pushed
the chair back so violently that it was almost upset upon the
floor. The gnome dexterously leaped down and stood staring back at
the baron for an instant; then, with a spring, he snatched a potato
and half a loaf of bread, and disappeared. In his haste, the
baron ran against Nils, the under-groom, who (now without a cap)
was standing with a smiling countenance calmly surveying all the
confusion about him.
“Now, was I right, your lordship?” he asked, with a respectful bow.
“Did _you_ find the victuals very filling?”
The baron, who was yet too frightened to answer, stood gazing
toward a window-pane, which suddenly and noiselessly broke, and
through which the whole procession of gnomes, huddled together in
flight, tumbled headlong into the snow-bank without.
“And what shall we do, Nils,” said the baron, the next day, when
he had recovered from his shock, “to prevent the return of the
unbidden guests?”
“Stop ringing the great bell,” answered Nils. “It is that which
invites the gnomes.”
And since that day the dinner-bell has never been rung at Halthorp.
But one day, late in the winter, Nils the groom, as he was
splitting wood on the mountain-side, heard a plaintively tinkling
voice within, singing:
“Hunger and sorrow each new day is bringing,
Since Halthorp bell has ceased its ringing.”
HOW BERNT WENT WHALING.
Bernt Holter and his sister Hilda were sitting on the beach,
playing with large spiral cockles which they imagined were cows
and horses. They built stables out of chips, and fenced in their
pastures, and led their cattle in long rows through the deep
grooves they had made in the sand.
“When I grow up to be a man,” said Bernt, who was twelve years
old, “I am going to sea and catch whales, as father did when he
was young. I don’t want to stand behind a counter and sell calico
and tape and coffee and sugar,” he continued, thrusting his chest
forward, putting his hands into his pockets, and marching with a
manly swagger across the beach. “I don’t want to play with cockles,
like a baby, any more,” he added, giving a forcible kick to one of
Hilda’s finest shells and sending it flying across the sand.
“I wish you wouldn’t be so naughty, Bernt,” cried his sister, with
tears in her eyes. “If you don’t want to play with me, I can play
alone. Bernt, oh--look there!”
Just at that moment a dozen or more columns of water flew high into
the air, and the same number of large, black tail-fins emerged from
the surface of the fiord, and again slowly vanished.
“Hurrah!” cried Bernt, in great glee, “it is a school of dolphins.
Good-by, Hilda dear, I think I’ll run down to the boat-house.”
“I think I’ll go with you, Bernt,” said his sister, obligingly,
rising and shaking the sand from her skirts.
“I think you’ll not,” remarked her brother, angrily; “I can run
faster than you.”
So saying, he rushed away over the crisp sand as fast as his
feet would carry him, while his sister Hilda, who was rather a
soft-hearted girl, and ready with her tears, ran after him, all
out of breath and calling to him at the top of her voice. Finally,
when she was more than half way to the boat-house, she stumbled
against a stone and fell full length upon the beach. Bernt, fearing
that she might be hurt, paused in his flight and returned to pick
her up, but could not refrain from giving her a vindictive little
shake, as soon as he discovered that she had sustained no injury.
“I do think girls are the greatest bother that ever was invented,”
he said, in high dudgeon. “I don’t see what they are good for,
anyway.”
“I want to go with you, Bernt,” cried Hilda.
Seeing there was no escape, he thought he might just as well be
kind to her.
“You may go,” he said, “if you will promise never to tell anybody
what I am going to do?”
“No, Bernt, I shall never tell,” said the child, eagerly, and
drying her tears.
“I am going a-whaling,” whispered Bernt, mysteriously. “Come
along!”
“Whaling!” echoed the girl, in delicious excitement. “Dear Bernt,
how good you are! Oh, how lovely! No, I shall never tell it to
anybody as long as I live.”
It was late in the afternoon, and the sun, which at that time of
the year never sets in the northern part of Norway, threw its red,
misty rays like a veil of dull flame over the lofty mountains
which, with their snow-hooded peaks, pierced the fiery clouds;
their huge reflections shone in soft tints of red, green, and blue
in the depth of the fiord, whose glittering surface was calm and
smooth as a mirror. Only in the bay which the school of dolphins
had entered was the water ruffled; but there, high spouts rose
every moment into the air and descended again in showers of fine
spray.
“It is well that father has gone away with the fishermen,” said
Bernt, as he exerted himself with all his might to push his small
boat down over the slippery beams of the boat-house. “Here, Hilda,
hold my harpoon for me.”
Hilda, greatly impressed with her own dignity in being allowed
to hold so dangerous a weapon as a harpoon, grasped it eagerly
and held it up in both her arms. Bernt once more put his shoulder
to the prow of his light skiff (which, in honor of his father’s
whaling voyages, he had named The North Pole) and with a tremendous
effort set it afloat. Then he carefully assisted Hilda into the
boat, in the stern of which she seated herself. Next he seized the
oars and rowed gently out beyond the rocky headland toward which
he had seen the dolphins steer their course. He was an excellent
sailor for his years, and could manage a boat noiselessly and well.
“Hilda, take the helm,” he whispered, “or, if you were only good
for anything, you might paddle and we should be upon them in a
minute. Now, remember, and push the tiller to the side opposite
where I want to go.”
“I’ll remember,” she replied, breathlessly.
The gentle splashing of the oars and the clicking of the rowlocks
were the only sounds which broke the silence of the evening. Now
and then a solitary gull gave a long, shrill scream as she dived
beneath the surface of the fiord, and once a fish-hawk’s loud,
discordant yell was flung by the echoes from mountain to mountain.
“Starboard,” commanded Bernt, sternly; but Hilda in her agitation
pushed the tiller to the wrong side and sent the boat flying to
port.
“Starboard, I said!” cried the boy, indignantly; “if I had known
you would be so stupid, I should never have taken you along.”