Next morning we woke to find Anders' words too true; the wind still
howled, and the rain still poured, deerstalking was out of the question,
nor could the girls stir out of the doors to look after the kine. There
we were, all house-bound. What was to be done? After breakfast we
smoked, and the girls knitted stockings. Anders, for want of something
better to do, cleaned our guns and admired their make and locks. But all
this was not much towards killing time on the Fjeld, and we had no
books.
At last Edward, who was rather afraid of Anders and his jokes on his
sportsmanship, whispered to me,
"Can't you make him tell us some more stories? I'll be bound _Osborn's
Pipe_ is not the only tale he has in his scrip."
Not a bad thought, but Anders was one of those free spirits who must be
stalked as warily as a reindeer. I felt that if I asked him outright he
might betake him to his Norse pride and say he was no story-teller. "If
I wanted stories I had better ask some of the old women down in the
dales." It was not the first time I had unsealed unwilling lips, and I
knew the way.
"That was a good story about Osborn's Pipe, and I owe you one for it,
Anders. Come listen to one of mine, and let the lassies listen to it
too. It's not long."