each to persuade the other that he was, on the whole, not at all
afraid, but really quite cheerful. The only one whose argument was
really convincing, however, was Karen; for she went peacefully to
sleep on Truls’ shoulder, and did not wake until the policeman came
and summoned them all into court. They made quite a sensation when
they entered; and people rose and craned their necks to catch a
glimpse of the curious group. It was probably the first time that a
bear had marched on its hind-legs into a police-court and taken its
place behind the bar as a prisoner. The judge smiled a little when
he saw it, and leaned himself half over to the policeman who was
apparently giving an account of the case.
“The officer charges you with roaming about with an unlicensed
bear,” he said severely, fixing a stern glance upon Alf. “What have
you to say to the charge?”
Alf gazed up helplessly, and shook his head.
“Why don’t you answer?” repeated the judge, impatiently. “Why
didn’t you take out a license for your bear?”
The policeman again leaned over and explained that the prisoners
were Dutch, or some other kind of foreigners, and that they did not
understand a word of English.
“Hm,” growled his Honor, “why didn’t you tell me that before? Is
there anyone in this court-room,” he went on, raising his voice,
“who understands foreign languages and would be willing to help the
court out of a difficulty?”
He looked expectantly about the large room, but no one volunteered
to act as interpreter of anything so comprehensive as “foreign
languages.”
“The gintleman over there,” the policeman remarked, pointing out a
well-dressed man in the audience, “looks as if he understood furrin
languages.”
The gentleman in question disclaimed all knowledge of the languages
referred to, and the Court visited him with a look of serious
displeasure. It was very annoying, and there seemed positively no
way of disposing of the case, except to recommit the prisoners
until an interpreter could be found. The judge was about to resort
to that expedient, when a new prisoner was led into the court, and
the boys gave a simultaneous exclamation of surprise at beholding
Jens Skoug, the emigration agent. Mr. Skoug had evidently come
into collision with a policeman’s club, or some other unyielding
substance, for his left eye was much blackened, and he had a great
bump on his forehead. He had been arrested the previous night for
disturbing the peace.
“That man, it appears, is acquainted with these Dutch boys,” the
Court remarked, nodding to the policeman who had charge of Mr.
Skoug; “bring him up.”
“Do you understand foreign languages?” the justice went on,
addressing the emigration agent in his severest judicial tones.
“Yes, lots of them,” replied Jens, drowsily.
“Do you know these boys?”
Jens contemplated the boys with a puzzled frown; then he shook his
head boozily and replied:
“No, yer Honor, I never saw them in all my life. They are not my
style, yer Honor; don’t look as if they had moved in the best
society.”
“Well, never mind that,” interrupted the Court; “but can’t you find
out anything about them? why they did not license their bear? Who
provides for them? Where do they live?”
Jens, in turning his back to the Court, gave Alf and Karen and
the bear a fierce glance, as if to say that he would make them
smart, if they dared in any way to compromise him. Then, to their
surprise, he stooped down and talked with them earnestly for
several minutes.
“Your Honor,” he resumed, rising and facing the judge; “these boys
are, as you supposed, Dutch. They are utterly destitute, and have
no money wherewith to buy a license for their bear. In other words,
they are vagrants; and if I may be permitted to make a suggestion,
I think the Reform School or the workhouse would be the right place
for them. They are a hardened lot, I am afraid, judging by their
talk----”
“You may spare your suggestions,” the judge interrupted curtly;
“though they happen to fit in exactly with what I had determined to
do with them. Their bear will have to be killed or sold, and they
are hereby recommitted, and will be sent to the Island for thirty
days.”
Mr. Skoug again stooped down and explained to the two culprits; but
he had no sooner mentioned the word “kill” than Alf gave a shout,
half of anger, half of dread, pulled his Norse tolle-knife[12] from
its sheath, and with one swift motion slit the bear’s skin from the
neck downward. The policeman rushed forward, the audience jumped
up on the benches, the judge himself started at the flash of the
knife, and was on the point of leaping over his desk. What was his
amazement when, instead of a bear, he saw a little shivering boy
in very scanty attire! A roar of laughter and a deafening salvo
of applause burst forth from all parts of the room, and it was in
vain that the judge hammered with all his might on his desk, and
in thunderous tones demanded order. The Irish policeman, to whose
taste for practical jokes the whole scene was due, laughed as if
he were going to split his sides. He would not have ventured to
confess that he had planned some such dramatic incident, although,
as he admitted to himself, it had turned out even more startling
than he had dared to hope.
When order was finally restored, the Court commanded that
the prisoners be removed; but Truls, who now comprehended the
situation, and was determined not to submit to further imposition,
marched boldly up to the judge, and put Mr. Tenney’s card before
him on the desk.
“This gentleman,” he said, confidently, “made me promise to send
for him if I should ever need a friend. Now I need him, and if you
would kindly send someone to fetch him, I should be much obliged.”
The judge understood the purport of this speech, even though the
words were unintelligible to him. Mr. Tenney’s name was well known
to him, as that of a citizen of great wealth and influence, and his
prisoners immediately rose in his estimation when he heard that
they enjoyed the protection of so prominent a man. He therefore
beckoned to a policeman, wrote a hasty note, and told him to
have it instantly despatched. The boys and their sister, in the
meanwhile, were permitted to sit down in the court-room, awaiting
Mr. Tenney’s arrival. Mr. Skoug, who betrayed a great anxiety to be
off, pleading a variety of business engagements, was then examined
and fined ten dollars. He had just managed to disappear through
a side-room when Mr. Tenney’s tall and portly figure was seen
entering. He gave the boys a friendly nod, as he walked rapidly up
to the judge, with whom he conversed amicably for several minutes.
There was something brisk, energetic, and business-like in all his
movements. He laughed very heartily when the recent incident with
the bear was related to him, and the judge joined in the laugh,
and asserted that it was the most amusing thing that ever had
occurred in all his long experience on the bench. Then Mr. Tenney
apologized for having taken up so much of the Court’s valuable
time, and the Court expressed itself delighted to have made Mr.
Tenney’s acquaintance and to have been in any way able to serve
him; whereupon Mr. Tenney had the three children conveyed to his
carriage, and they drove away through the glorious May sunshine, up
one street and down another, until they reached a large and stately
house on Madison Avenue. Here they stepped out of the carriage,
and a liveried servant flung the doors open before them, as they
entered the house.
Such magnificence the boys had never beheld before: long, wonderful
mirrors which looked like strips of lake standing on end, carpets
which felt soft under the feet like fine moss, and gilt and carved
furniture, which seemed to have stepped right out of a fairy story.
It was certainly very extraordinary; but still more extraordinary
was the kindness and consideration with which they were treated by
Mr. Tenney and his wife. Two pretty rooms were assigned to them
on the fourth floor of the house; little Karen was dressed in
beautiful clothes, and the boys themselves got each a new suit, the
like of which they had never had on their backs before. They felt
like young princes, and if they could only have talked with the
kind people who took so much trouble on their account, they would
have expressed to them their gratitude, and perhaps, too, solicited
their aid in ascertaining the whereabouts of their lost father.
Mr. Tenney, however, guessed their thoughts, and did not need to
be told that their minds were torn with anxiety. He first procured
a Norwegian interpreter from one of the steamship companies, and
made the boys describe to him accurately the time and circumstances
of Fiddle-John’s disappearance. He wrote letters to the emigration
commissioners, inserted advertisements in the newspapers, and set
the whole official machinery in motion to get a clew by which to
unravel the mystery.
Investigations were set on foot, detectives were employed, the
Castle Garden officials were questioned and cross-examined, but
there was no one who had the slightest recollection of having seen
Fiddle-John. Thus three days passed. Mr. Tenney’s determination
to accomplish his purpose increased, the greater the obstacles
were that he encountered. There was a streak of obstinacy in his
temperament, and there seemed to be an impression abroad that Mr.
Tenney was not to be trifled with, when once he was aroused, and
that may have been the reason why Fiddle-John grew in the course
of a week to be a kind of public character, and people asked each
other jocosely when they met in street cars or in hotel vestibules:
“How do you do? Seen Fiddle-John?”
Someone, it appears, had seen Fiddle-John, and that was the purser
of the steamboat Ruckert, whose encounter with the lamented
Garibaldi was yet fresh in the boys’ memories. He came late one
evening to Mr. Tenney’s residence, and explained to him that a
man called Fiddle-John had just been put aboard the ship, as a
lunatic, to be taken back to Norway free of charge. The ship
was to sail the next day at noon; and if Mr. Tenney would hold
himself responsible for the consequences, the purser said he would
undertake to restore Fiddle-John to his family within--well, within
five minutes.
Mr. Tenney was quite ready to assume all the responsibility in the
matter, and accordingly the purser raised the window, and beckoned
to a carriage which had stopped on the other side of the street.
The carriage drove up before the door, and out stepped Fiddle-John.
But oh, how miserable he looked! The light from the gas-lamp fell
upon his pale face, his disordered hair, and his tall, stooping
figure. He was led carefully up the steps, and the children flew
into his arms, hugging him, kissing him, and weeping over him.
He sat down on a low stool, and stared about him in a bewildered
fashion. But gradually, as his eyes rested upon the dear familiar
faces, his expression softened, the wild look of fright departed
from his face, and the tears began slowly to course down his cheeks.
“O, children!” he said in a hoarse, broken voice; “I thought I
should never see you again!”
He covered his face with his hands, and wept long and silently.
“They wanted to make a madman of me,” he sobbed; “and they almost
succeeded. Whatever I did or said--it made no difference--it only
proved that I was mad. I came to believe it, children, and the
thought was terrible to me; if I had staid another day, I should
never have recovered my reason.”
VI.
Five years have passed since Fiddle-John and his sons were rescued
from misery by Mr. Tenney. They now live in the porter’s lodge of
Mr. Tenney’s beautiful Berkshire country-seat; and Fiddle-John,
with all his eccentricities, makes a very acceptable porter. The
little stone cottage at the gate of the larger villa looks very
picturesque with the green vines trailing over it, and it is very
comfortably and prettily furnished. Little Karen is now a matronly
little body, with a strict sense of order, and many housewifely
accomplishments. She goes to the public school in the morning, but
studies at home in the afternoon, and keeps her father company. The
boys are both big fellows now, and they are as good Americans as
any to the manner born. Truls brags of American enterprise, and the
blessings of democratic institutions, as if every drop of his Norse
blood had become naturalized. He is an engineer, and earns good
wages, and is full of hopefulness for the future. It need scarcely
be said that his sister adores him, and regards him as one of the
most remarkable men of the century.
Alf, who has inherited his father’s handsome face, and incapacity
for practical concerns, is at present preparing to enter college.
Mr. Tenney is much interested in him, as a lad of unusual ability
and a singular sweetness of character; and it is owing to his
generosity that Alf has been able to follow the career for which
he is by nature and inclination adapted. He has his father’s
beautiful voice, too, and makes a sensation in the church choir
every Sunday when he sustains the lovely tenor solo in the anthems
“As Pants the Hart,” and “I Know that My Redeemer Liveth.”
He is a rather serious fellow, with thoughtful eyes, and a frank
and open countenance. Some think he would have a fine career as a
clergyman, but it is difficult to tell whether his inclination,
in later years, will turn in that direction. His father, however,
does all in his power to encourage this ambition, and it is not
unlikely that his hopes may some day be fulfilled. In fact, it
is Fiddle-John’s favorite occupation to hope and dream about the
future of his sons.
During the long summer afternoons he sits in the shadow of the
vines, outside of his cottage, while his daughter reads aloud to
him from the old Norse ballad books which he yet loves so dearly.
And it happens very frequently, then, that the young ladies and
gentlemen who are visiting at the neighboring villas come, in a
company, and beg him to sing to them. They throw themselves down
in easy attitudes upon the soft, close-trimmed lawn; and their
bright garments, their crimson sunshades, and their fresh, youthful
faces make a fine picture against the green background of elms and
chestnut trees.
To the gentle and guileless minstrel it is a great pleasure to see
these gay and happy creatures; and when the young girls hang upon
his arms and urge him to sing, his eyes beam with delight.
“Now, do sing, Fiddle-John,” they coaxingly say. “You know we have
walked miles and miles to hear your voice. And here is a young lady
from New York, who never heard a Norse song in all her life, and is
disappointed, because you look so nice and gentle, and not wild and
savage as a son of the Vikings should.”
Fiddle-John likes this kind of banter very well; and when, finally,
he yields to their coaxing and lifts up his clear, strong voice,
singing the sad, wild ballads of his native land, there falls a
hush upon the noisy company, as if they were in the presence of
a renowned artist. These are Fiddle-John’s happiest moments. And
it was just on such an occasion when, on a beautiful afternoon in
July, he had been entertaining the young people with his songs,
that a swarthy-looking Savoyard walked up before his door, and
began to whip up a bear which danced to a tune from “Il Trovatore,”
played upon a wheezy hand-organ.
“Stop, you sacrilegious brute!” said one of the young men,
addressing, not the bear, but his master; “we have a better kind of
music here than your asthmatic organ can produce.”
The Savoyard, being apparently well accustomed to this manner of
address, swung his organ across his back and was about to take his
departure, when Karen, prompted by some idle impulse, stepped up to
the bear and patted it. Then a sudden change came over the young
man’s countenance. He stared for a moment fixedly at the little
girl.
“Take care, _Carina mia_,” he said, with a smile; “that bear is a
real one!”
“Annibale!” she cried in surprise; and, to be sure, it was Annibale!
He had grown five years older, but in other respects he had changed
but little. He knew but very little more English than he had done
on the day of his arrival, and his ambition still did not extend
beyond hand-organs and bears. He reaped a plentiful harvest of
coins that night; but that was owing to little Karen, and not to
the doleful hand-organ. She ran into the cottage and spread out
upon the lawn a rug, made out of a small bear-skin. “Do you know
that, Annibale?” she cried.
“Garibaldi, my poor Garibaldi!” exclaimed the Savoyard, while the
tears glittered in his eyes; and he stooped down and caressed the
furry head.
Now the curiosity of the young ladies was excited, and the whole
company clamored for the story of Annibale and the bear-skin. They
all seated themselves in a ring about Fiddle-John, and he told the
story, as I have told it to you. For I had the good luck to be one
of the listeners.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Skees are a kind of snowshoe, four to six feet long, bent
upward in front, with a band to attach it to the foot in the middle.
[2] Lord Dufferin tells, in his Letters from High Latitudes,
how the Icelandic pilots conversed with him in Latin, and other
travellers have many similar tales to relate.
[3] Professor Willard Fiske, formerly of Cornell University, was
instrumental in collecting in the United States a library of
several thousand volumes, which he presented to the Icelanders on
the one thousandth birthday of their nation.
[4] The auk cannot fly well, but uses its wings for swimming and
diving.
[5] The burgomaster gull is the largest of all gulls. It is thirty
inches long, exclusive of its tail, and its wings have a span of
five feet.
[6] The national knife of Norway. It has a round or oblong handle
of wood, bone, or ivory, often beautifully carved, and a slightly
curved, one-edged blade, with a sharp point.
[7] The sheriffs in Norway are by law required to pay, in behalf
of the State, certain premiums for the killing of bears, wolves,
foxes, and eagles.
[8] A species of grouse.
[9] The finishing-stroke.
[10] Skees (Norwegian _skier_) are a peculiar kind of snow-shoes,
generally from five to nine feet long, but only a few inches
broad. They are made of tough pine-wood, and are smoothly polished
on the under side, so as to make them glide the more easily over
the surface of the snow. In the middle there are bands to put the
feet into, and the front end of each skee is pointed and strongly
bent upward. This enables the runner to slide easily over logs,
hillocks, and other obstacles, instead of thrusting against them.
The skee only goes in straight lines; still the runner can, even
when moving with great speed, change his course at pleasure by
means of a long pole which he carries for this purpose, and uses
as a sort of rudder. Skees are especially convenient for sliding
downhill, but are also, for walking in deep snow, much superior to
the common American snow-shoes.
[11] “Ah, Mr. Truls, Garibaldi and I are half dead.”
[12] All Norse peasant lads wear a sheathed knife at the side,
called a “tolle-knife.”
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.
Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained. For example,
book-case, bookcase; hind-legs, hind legs; drift-wood, driftwood;
bowlder; despatch; skee; inspiriting.
Pg 4, “the otto’s name” replaced by “the otter’s name”.
Pg 51, “tore his watstcoat” replaced by “tore his waistcoat”.
Pg 82, “gentle plashing” replaced by “gentle splashing”.
Pg 115, “to find himself himself in” replaced by “to find himself in”.
Pg 125, “into the the twilight” replaced by “into the twilight”.
Pg 257, “I onct seed” replaced by “I once seed”.
Pg 257, “I onct knowed” replaced by “I once knowed”.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Modern Vikings, by Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen