CHECKMATE
The winter passed; slowly for the sufferers, more quickly for those who
were less unhappy. Spring came with its disappointed hopes of sun and
verdure, and in its turn made room for the summer which was but a short
introduction to the autumn.
On a May morning Arvid Falk, now a member of the permanent staff of the
_Workman's Flag_, was strolling along the quay, watching the vessels
loading and discharging their cargoes. He looked less well-groomed than
in days gone by; his black hair was longer than fashion decreed, and he
wore a beard a la Henri IV, which gave his thin face an almost savage
expression. An ominous fire burned in his eyes, a fire denoting the
fanatic or the drunkard.
He seemed to be endeavouring to make a choice among the vessels, but
was unable to come to a decision. After hesitating for a considerable
time, he accosted one of the sailors, who was wheeling a barrow full of
goods on to a brig. He courteously raised his hat.
"Can you tell me the destination of this ship?" he asked timidly,
imagining that he was speaking in a bold voice.
"Ship? I see no ship?"
The bystanders laughed.
"But if you want to know where this brig's bound for, go and read that
bill over there!"
Falk was disconcerted, but he forced himself to say, angrily:
"Can't you give a civil reply to a civil question?"
"Go to hell, and don't stand there swearing at a fellow!--'tention!"
The conversation broke off, and Falk made up his mind. He retraced his
footsteps, passed through a narrow street, crossed a market-place, and
turned the first corner. Before the door of a dirty-looking house he
stopped. Again he hesitated; he could never overcome his besetting sin
of indecision.
A small, ragged boy with a squint came running along, his hands full of
proofs in long strips; as he was going to pass Falk, the latter stopped
him.
"Is the editor upstairs?" he asked.
"Yes, he's been here since seven," replied the boy, breathlessly.
"Has he asked for me?"
"Yes, more than once."
"Is he in a bad temper?"
"He always is."
The boy shot upstairs like an arrow. Falk, following on his heels,
entered the editorial office. It was a hole with two windows looking on
a dark street; before each of the windows stood a plain deal table,
covered with paper, pens, newspapers, scissors and a gum bottle.
One of the tables was occupied by his old friend Ygberg, dressed in a
ragged black coat, engaged in reading proofs. At the other table, which
was Falk's, sat a man in shirt sleeves, his head covered by a black
silk cap of the kind affected by the communards. His face was covered
by a red beard, and his thick-set figure with its clumsy outlines
betrayed the man of the people.
As Falk entered, the communard's legs kicked the table violently: he
turned up his shirt-sleeves, displaying blue tattoo marks representing
an anchor and an Anglo-Saxon R, seized a pair of scissors, savagely
stabbed the front page of a morning paper, cut out a paragraph, and
said, rudely, with his back to Falk:
"Where have you been?"
"I've been ill," replied Falk, defiantly, as he thought, but humbly as
Ygberg told him afterwards.
"It's a lie! You've been drinking! I saw you at a cafe last night...."
"Surely I can go where I please."
"You can do what you like; but you've got to be here at the stroke of
the clock, according to our agreement. It's a quarter past eight. I am
well aware that gentlemen who have been to college, where they imagine
they learn a lot, have no idea of method and manners. Don't you call it
ill-bred to be late at your work? Aren't you behaving like a boor when
you compel your employer to do your work? What? It's the world turned
upside down! The employe treats the master--the employer, if you
like--as if he were a dog, and capital is oppressed."
"When did you come to these conclusions?"
"When? Just now, sir! just now! And I trust these conclusions are worth
considering, in spite of that. But I discovered something else; you are
an ignoramus; you can't spell! Look at this! What's written here? Read
it! 'We hope that all those who will have to go through their drill
next year....' Is it possible? '_Who ... next year...._'"
"Well, that's quite right," said Falk.
"Right? How dare you say it's right? It's customary to say _who in the
next year_, and consequently it should also be written in this form."
"That's right, too; definitions of time govern either the accusative
or...."
"None of your learned palaver! Don't talk nonsense to me! Besides this
you spell ex-ercise with an x only, although it should be spelt
_ex-sercise_. Don't make excuses--is it ex-ercise or ex-sercise?"
"Of course people say...."
"People say--therefore ex-sercise is right; the customary pronunciation
must be correct. Perhaps, all things considered, I'm a fool? Perhaps I
can't spell correctly? But enough, now! Get to work and another time
pay a little more attention to the clock."
He jumped up from his chair with a yell, and boxed the ears of the
printer's boy.
"Are you sleeping in bright daylight, you young scamp? I'll teach you
to keep awake. You are not yet too old for a thrashing."
He seized the victim by the braces, threw him on a pile of unsold
papers, and beat him with his belt.
"I wasn't asleep! I wasn't asleep! I was only closing my eyes a
little," howled the boy.
"What, you dare to deny it? You've learned to lie, but I will teach you
to speak the truth! Were you asleep or were you not asleep? Tell the
truth or you'll be sorry for it."
"I wasn't asleep," whimpered the boy, too young and inexperienced to
get over his difficulty by telling a lie.
"I see, you mean to stand by your lie, you hardened little devil! You
insolent liar!"
He was going to continue the thrashing when Falk rose, approached the
editor, and said firmly:
"Don't touch him! I saw that he was not asleep!"
"By jove! Listen to him! Who the dickens are you? Don't touch him! Who
said those words? I must have heard a gnat buzzing. Or perhaps my ears
deceived me. I hope so! I do hope so! Mr. Ygberg! You are a decent
fellow. You haven't been to college. Did you happen to see whether this
boy, whom I'm holding by the braces like a fish, was asleep or not?"
"If he wasn't asleep," replied Ygberg, phlegmatically and obligingly,
"he was just on the point of dropping off."
"Well answered! Would you mind holding him, Mr. Ygberg, while I give
him a lesson with my cane in telling the truth?"
"You've no right to beat him," said Falk. "If you dare to touch him, I
shall open the window and call for the police."
"I am master in my own house and I always thrash my apprentices. He is
an apprentice and will be employed in the editorial office later on.
That's what's going to be done, although there are people who imagine
that a paper can only be properly edited by a man who has been to
college. Speak up, Gustav, are you learning newspaper work? Answer, but
tell the truth, or...."
Before the boy had time to reply, the door was opened and a head looked
in--a very striking head, and certainly not one that might have been
expected in such a place; but it was a well-known head; it had been
painted five times.
At the sight of it the editor strapped his belt round him, hastily put
on his coat, bowed and smiled.
The visitor asked whether the editor was disengaged? He received a
satisfactory reply, and the last remnant of the working man disappeared
when a quick movement swept the communard's cap off the editor's head.
Both men went into an inner office and the door closed behind them.
"I wonder what the Count's after?" said Ygberg, with the air of a
schoolboy, when the master had left the class-room.
"I don't wonder in the least," said Falk; "I think I know the kind of
rascal he is, and the kind of rascal the editor is. But I am surprised
to find that you have changed from a mere blockhead into an infamous
wretch, and that you lend yourself to these disgraceful acts."
"Don't lose your temper, my dear fellow! You were not at the House last
night?"
"No! In my opinion Parliament is a farce, except in so far as private
interests are concerned. What about the 'Triton'?"
"The question was put to the vote, and it was resolved that the
Government, in view of the greatness, the patriotism, which
characterized the enterprise, should take over the debentures while
the society went into liquidation, that is to say, settled the current
affairs."
"Which means that Government will prop up the house while the
foundation crumbles away, so as to give the directors time to get out
of harm's way."
"You would rather that all those small...."
"I know what you are going to say, all those small capitalists. Yes, I
would rather see them working with their small capital than idling away
their time and lending it out at interest; but, above all things, I
should like to see those sharpers in prison; it would help to put a
stop to these swindles. But they call it political economy! It's vile!
There's something else I want to say: You covet my post. You shall have
it! I hate the idea of your sitting in your corner with a heart filled
with bitterness, because you have to sweep up after me in reading
proofs. There are already too many of my unprinted articles lying on
the desk of this contemptible apostle of liberty to tempt me to go on
telling cock-and-bull stories. The _Red Cap_ was too Conservative to
please me, but the _People's Flag_ is too dirty."
"I am glad to see you relinquishing your chimeras and listening to
common sense. Go to the _Grey Bonnet_, you'll have a chance there."
"I have lost the illusion that the cause of the oppressed lies in good
hands, and I think it would be a splendid mission to enlighten the
people on the value of public opinion--especially printed public
opinion--and its origin; but I shall never abandon the cause."
The door to the inner room opened again, and the editor came out. He
stood still in the middle of the office and said, in an unnaturally
conciliatory voice, almost politely:
"I want you to look after the office for a day, Mr. Falk. I have to go
away on important business. Mr. Ygberg will assist you so far as the
daily business is concerned. His Lordship will be using my room for a
few minutes. I hope, gentlemen, you will see that he has everything
he wants."
"Oh, please don't trouble," came the Count's voice from inside the
room, where he was sitting bent over a manuscript.
The editor went and, strange to say, two minutes later the Count went
also; he had waited just long enough to avoid being seen in the company
of the editor of the _Workman's Flag_.
"Are you sure that he's gone?" asked Ygberg.
"I hope so," said Falk.
"Then I'll go and have a look at the market. By-the-by, have you seen
Beda since?"
"Since when?"
"Since she left the cafe and went to live in a room by herself."
"How do you know she did?"
"Do control your temper, Falk. You'll never get on in the world unless
you do."
"Yes, you're right. I must take matters more calmly, or else I'll go
out of my mind! But that girl, whom I loved so dearly! How shamefully
she has treated me! To give to that clumsy boor all she denied to me!
And then to have the face to tell me that it proved the purity of her
love for me!"
"Most excellent dialectics! And she is quite right too, for her first
proposition is correct. She does love you, doesn't she?"
"She's running after me, anyhow."
"And you?"
"I hate her with all my soul, but I am afraid to meet her."
"Which proves that you are still in love with her."
"Let's change the subject!"
"You really must control yourself, Falk! Take an example from me! But
now I'll go and sun myself; one should enjoy life as much as possible
in this dreary world. Gustav, you can go and play buttons for an hour,
if you like."
Falk was left alone. The sun threw his rays over the steep roof
opposite and warmed the room; he opened the window and put out his head
for a breath of fresh air, but he only breathed the pungent odours of
the gutter. His glance swept the street on the right and far away in
the distance he saw a part of a steamer, a few waves of the Lake of
Maelar glittering in the sunlight, and a hollow in the rocks on the
other side, which were just beginning to show a little green here and
there. He thought of the people whom that steamer would take into the
country, who would bathe in those waves and feast their eyes on the
young green. But at this moment the whitesmith below him began to
hammer a sheet of iron, so that house and window panes trembled; two or
three labourers went by with a rattling, evil-smelling cart, and an
odour of brandy, beer, sawdust, and pine-branches poured out of the inn
opposite. He shut the window and sat down at his table.
Before him lay a heap of about a hundred provincial papers, from which
it was his task to make cuttings. He took off his cuffs and began to
look through them. They smelt of oil and soot and blackened his
hands--that was their principal feature. Nothing he considered worthy
of reprinting was of any use, for he had to consider the programme of
his paper. A report to the effect that the workmen of a certain factory
had given the foreman a silver snuff-box had to be cut out; but the
notice of a manufacturer having given five hundred crowns to his
working-men's funds had to be ignored. A paragraph reporting that the
Duke of Halland had handselled a pile-driver, and Director Holzheim
celebrated the event in verses, had to be cut out and reproduced in
full "because the people liked to read this kind of thing"; if he could
add a little biting sarcasm, all the better, for then "they were sure
to hear about it."
Roughly speaking, the rule was to cut out everything said in favour of
journalists and working men and everything depreciating clergymen,
officers, wholesale merchants (not retail), the professions, and
famous writers. Moreover, at least once a week, it was his business to
attack the management of the Royal Theatre, and severely criticize the
frivolous musical comedies produced in the Little Theatre, in the name
of morality and public decency--he had noticed that the working men did
not patronize these theatres. Once a month the town councillors had to
be accused of extravagance. As often as opportunity arose the form of
government, not Government itself, had to be assailed. The editor
severely censored all attacks on certain members of Parliament and
ministers. Which? That was a mystery unknown to even the editor; it
depended on a combination of circumstances which only the secret
proprietor of the paper could deal with.
Falk worked with his scissors until one of his hands was black. He had
frequent recourse to the gum-bottle, but the gum smelt sour and the
heat in the room was stifling. The poor aloe, capable of enduring
thirst like a camel, and patiently receiving countless stabs from an
irritated steel-nib, increased the terrible resemblance to a desert. It
had been stabbed until it was covered with black wounds; its leaves
shot, like a bundle of donkeys' ears out of the parched mould. Falk
probably had a vague consciousness of something of this sort, as he
sat, plunged in thought, for before he could realize what he was doing,
he had docked off all the ear lobes. When he perceived what he had
done, he painted the wounds with gum and watched it drying in the sun.
He vaguely wondered for a few moments how he was to get dinner, for he
had strayed on to that path which leads to destruction, so-called _poor
circumstances_. Finally he lit a pipe and watched the soothing smoke
rising and bathing, for a few seconds in the sunshine. It made him feel
more tolerant of poor Sweden, as she expressed herself in these daily,
weekly, and monthly reports, called the Press.
He put the scissors aside and threw the papers into a corner; he
shared the contents of the earthen water-bottle with the aloe; the
miserable object looked like a creature whose wings had been clipped; a
spirit standing in a bog on its head, digging for something; for
pearls, for instance, or at any rate, for empty shells.
Then despair, like a tanner, seized him again with a long hook, and
pushed him down into the vat, where he was to be prepared for the
knife, which should scrape his skin off and make him like everybody
else. And he felt no remorse, no regret at a wasted life, but only
despair at having to die in his youth, die the spiritual death, before
he had had an opportunity of being of use in the world; despair that he
was being cast into the fire as a useless reed.
The clock on the German church struck eleven, and the chimes began to
play "Oh blessed land" and "My life a wave"; as if seized by the same
idea, an Italian barrel-organ, with a flute accompaniment, began to
play "The Blue Danube." So much music put new life into the tinsmith
below, who began hammering his iron-sheet with redoubled energy.
The din and uproar prevented Falk from becoming aware of the opening of
the door and the entrance of two men. One of them had a tall, lean
figure, an aquiline nose and long hair; the other one was short, blond,
and thick set; his perspiring face much resembled the quadruped which
the Hebrews consider more unclean than any other. Their outward
appearance betrayed an occupation requiring neither much mental nor
great physical strength; it had a quality of vagueness, pointing to
irregularity of work and habits.
"Hsh!" whispered the tall man, "are you alone?"
Falk was partly pleased, partly annoyed at the sight of his visitors.
"Quite alone; the Red One's left town."
"Has he? Come along then and have some dinner."
Falk had no objection; he locked the office and went with his visitors
to the nearest public-house, where the three of them sat down in the
darkest corner.
"Here, have some brandy," said the thick-set man, whose glazed eyes
sparkled at the sight of the brandy bottle.
But Falk who had only joined his friends because he was yearning for
sympathy and comfort, paid no attention to the proffered delights.
"I haven't been as miserable as this for a long time," he said.
"Have some bread and butter and a herring," said the tall man. "We'll
have some caraway cheese. Here! Waiter!"
"Can't you advise me?" Falk began again. "I can't stand the Red One any
longer, and I must...."
"Here! Waiter! Bring some black bread! Drink, Falk, and don't talk
nonsense."
Falk was thrown out of the saddle; he made no second attempt to find
sympathy with his mental difficulties, but tried another, not unusual
way.
"Your advice is the brandy bottle?" he said. "Very well, with all my
soul, then!"
The alcohol flowed through his veins like poison, for he was not
accustomed to take strong drink in the morning; the smell of cooking,
the buzzing of the flies, the odour of the faded flowers, which stood
by the side of the dirty table-centre, induced in him a strange feeling
of well-being. And his low companions with their neglected linen, their
greasy coats, and their unwashed gaol-bird faces harmonized so well
with his own degraded position, that he felt a wild joy surging in his
heart.
"We were in the Deer Park last night and, by Jove! we did drink," said
the stout man, once more enjoying the past delights in memory.
Falk had no answer to this, and moreover, his thoughts were running in
a different groove.
"Isn't it jolly to have a morning off?" said the tall man, who seemed
to be playing the part of tempter.
"It is, indeed!" replied Falk, trying to measure his freedom, as it
were, with a glance through the window; but all he saw was a
fire-escape and a dust-bin in a yard which never received more than a
faint reflexion of the summer sky.
"Half a pint! That's it! Ah! Well and what do you say to the 'Triton'?
Hahaha!"
"Don't laugh," said Falk; "many a poor devil will suffer through it."
"Who are the poor devils? Poor capitalists? Are you sorry for those who
don't work, but live on the proceeds of their money? No, my boy, you
are still full of prejudices! There was a funny tale in the _Hornet_
about a wholesale merchant, who bequeathed to the creche Bethlehem
twenty thousand crowns, and was given the order of Vasa for his
munificence; now it has transpired that the bequest was in 'Triton'
shares with joint liability, and so the creche is of course bankrupt.
Isn't that lovely? The assets were twenty-five cradles and an oil
painting by an unknown master. It's too funny! The portrait was valued
at five crowns! Hahahaha!"
The subject of conversation irritated Falk, for he knew more of the
matter than the two others.
"Did you see that the _Red Cap_ unmasked that humbug Schoenstroem who
published that volume of miserable verses at Christmas?" said the stout
man. "It really was a rare pleasure to learn the truth about the
rascal. I have more than once given him a sound slating in the
_Copper-Snake_."
"But you were rather unjust; his verses were not as bad as you said,"
remarked the tall man.
"Not as bad? They were worse than mine which the _Grey Bonnet_ tore to
shreds. Don't you remember?"
"By-the-by, Falk, have you been to the theatre in the Deer Park?" asked
the tall man.
"No!"
"What a pity! That Lundholm gang of thieves is playing there. Impudent
fellow, the director! He sent no seats to the _Copper-Snake_, and when
we arrived at the theatre last night, he turned us out. But he'll pay
for it! You give it to the dog! Here's paper and pencil. Heading:
'Theatre and Music. Deer Park Theatre.' Now, you go on!"
"But I haven't seen the company."
"What does that matter? Have you never written about anything you
hadn't seen?"
"No! I've unmasked humbugs, but I have never attacked unoffending
people, and I know nothing about this company."
"They are a miserable lot. Just scum," affirmed the stout man. "Sharpen
your pen and bruise his heel; you are splendid at it."
"Why don't you bruise him yourselves?"
"Because the printers know our handwriting and some of them walk on in
the crowds. Moreover Lundholm is a violent fellow; he will be sure to
invade the editorial office; then it will be a good thing to be able to
tell him that the criticism is a communication from the public. And
while you write up the stage, I will do the concerts. There was a
sacred concert last week. Wasn't the man's name Daubry? With a 'y'?"
"No, with an 'i,'" corrected the fat man. "Don't forget that he's a
tenor and sang the 'Stabat Mater.'"
"How do you spell it?"
"I'll tell you in a minute."
The stout editor of the _Copper-Snake_ took a packet of greasy
newspapers from the gas-meter.
"Here's the whole programme, and, I believe, a criticism as well."
Falk could not help laughing.
"How could a criticism appear simultaneously with the advertisement?"
"Why shouldn't it? But we shan't want it; I will criticize that French
mob myself. You'd better do the literature, Fatty!"
"Do the publishers send books to the _Copper-Snake_?" asked Falk.
"Are you mad?"
"Do you buy them yourselves for the sake of reviewing them?"
"Buy them? Greenhorn! Have another glass and cheer up, and I'll treat
you to a chop."
"Do you read the books which you review?"
"Who do you think has time for reading books? Isn't it enough to write
about them? It's quite sufficient to read the papers. Moreover, it's
our principle to slate everything."
"An absurd principle!"
"Not at all! It brings all the author's enemies and enviers on one's
side--and so one's in the majority. Those who are neutral would rather
see an author slated than praised. To the nobody there is something
edifying and comforting in the knowledge that the road to fame is beset
with thorns. Don't you think so?"
"You may be right. But the idea of playing with human destinies in this
way is terrible."
"Oh! It's good for young and old; I know that, for I was persistently
slated in my young days."
"But you mislead public opinion."
"The public does not want to have an opinion, it wants to satisfy its
passions. If I praise your enemy you writhe like a worm and tell me
that I have no judgment; if I praise your friend, you tell me that I
have. Take that last piece of the Dramatic Theatre, Fatty, which has
just been published in book form."
"Are you sure that it has been published?"
"I am certain of it. It's quite safe to say that there isn't enough
action in it; that's a phrase the public knows well; laugh a little at
the 'beautiful language'; that's good, old, disparaging praise; then
attack the management for having accepted such a play and point out
that the moral teaching is doubtful--a very safe thing to say about
most things. But as you haven't seen the performance, say that want of
room compels us to postpone our criticism of the acting. Do that, and
you can't make a mistake."
"Who is the unfortunate author?" asked Falk.
"Nobody knows."
"Think of his parents, his friends, who will read your possibly quite
unjust remarks."
"What's that got to do with the _Copper-Snake_? They were hoping to see
a friend slated; they know what to expect from the _Copper-Snake_."
"Have you no conscience?"
"Has the public which supports us, a conscience? Do you think we could
survive if it did not support us? Would you like to hear a paragraph
which I wrote on the present state of literature? I can assure you it
will give you plenty to think about. I have a copy with me. But let us
have some stout first. Waiter! Here! Now I'm going to give you a treat;
you can profit by it if you like."
"'We have not heard so much whining in the Swedish verse-factory for
many years; this constant puling is enough to drive a man into a
lunatic asylum. Robust rascals caterwaul like cats in March; they
imagine that anaemia and adenoids will arouse public interest now that
consumption is played out. And withal they have backs broad as brewers'
horses and faces red as tapsters. This one whimpers about the
infidelity of women, although all he has to go on is the bought loyalty
of a wanton; that one tells us that he has no gold, but that his "harp
is all he possesses in the world"--the liar! He has five thousand
crowns dividend per annum and the right to an endowed chair in the
Swedish Academy. A third is a faithless, cynical scoffer, who cannot
open his lips without breathing forth his impure spirit and babbling
blasphemies. Their verses are not a whit better than those which thirty
years ago clergymen's daughters sang to the guitar. They should write
for confectioners at a penny a line, and not waste the time of
publishers, printers, and reviewers with their rhymes. What do they
write about? About nothing at all, that is to say about themselves. It
is bad form to talk about oneself, but it is quite the right thing to
write about oneself. What are they bemoaning? Their incapacity to
achieve a success? Success? That is the word! Have they produced one
single thought, capable of benefiting their fellow-creatures; the age
in which they live? If they had but once championed the cause of the
helpless, their sins might be forgiven them; but they have not.
Therefore they are as sounding brass--nay, they are as a clanking piece
of tin and the cracked bell of a fool's cap--for they have no other
love than the love of the next edition of their books, the love of the
Academy and the love of themselves.'"
"That's sarcasm, isn't it? What?"
"It's unjust," said Falk.
"I find it very impressive," said the stout man. "You can't deny that
it is well written. Can you? He wields a pen which pierces
shoe-leather."
"Now, lads, stop talking and write; afterwards you shall have coffee
and liqueurs."
And they wrote of human merit and human unworthiness and broke hearts
as if they were breaking egg-shells.
Falk felt an indescribable longing for fresh air; he opened the window
which looked on the yard; it was dark and narrow like a tomb; all he
could see was a small square of the sky if he bent his head far back.
He fancied that he was sitting in his grave, breathing brandy fumes and
kitchen smells, eating the funeral repast at the burial of his youth,
his principles and his honour. He smelt the elder-blossoms which stood
on the table, but they reeked of decay; once more he looked out of the
window eager to find an object which would not inspire him with
loathing; but there was nothing but a newly tarred dust-bin--standing
like a coffin--with its contents of cast-off finery and broken litter.
His thoughts climbed up the fire-escape which seemed to lead from dirt,
stench, and shame right up into the blue sky; but no angels were
ascending and descending, and no love was watching from above--there
was nothing but the empty, blue void.
Falk took his pen and began to shade the letters of the headline
"Theatre," when a strong hand clutched his arm and a firm voice said:
"Come along, I want to speak to you!"
He looked up, taken back and ashamed. Borg stood beside him, apparently
determined not to let him go.
"May I introduce...." began Falk.
"No, you may not," interrupted Borg, "I don't want to know any drunken
scribblers, come along."
He drew Falk to the door.
"Where's your hat? Oh, here it is! Come along!"
They were in the street. Borg took his arm, led him to the nearest
square, marched him into a shop and bought him a pair of canvas shoes.
This done, he drew him across the lock to the harbour. A cutter lay
there, fast to her moorings, but ready to go to sea; in the cutter sat
young Levi reading a Latin grammar and munching a piece of bread and
butter.
"This," said Borg, "is the cutter _Urijah_; it's an ugly name, but she
is a good boat and she is insured in the 'Triton.' There sits her
owner, the Hebrew lad Isaac, reading a Latin grammar--the idiot wants
to go to college--and from this moment you are engaged as his tutor for
the summer--and now we'll be off for our summer residence at Naemdoe. All
hands on board! No demur! Ready? Put off!"