Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 9).djvu/239

 so we shipped an American in his place. This new boatswain

Ellida.

The American?

Lyngstrand.

Yes;—one day he borrowed from the captain a bundle of old newspapers, and was perpetually poring over them, he wanted to learn Norwegian, he said.

Ellida.

Well; and then?

Lyngstrand.

Well, one evening it was blowing great guns. All hands were on deck—all except the boatswain and me. For he had sprained his ankle and couldn't walk; and I wasn't very well, and was lying in my bunk. Well, there he sat in the fo'c'sle, reading away as usual at one of the old papers

Ellida.

Well? well?

Lyngstrand.

When all of a sudden, I heard him give a kind of a roar; and when I looked at him I saw that his face was as white as chalk. Then he set to work to crumple and crush the paper up, and tear it into a thousand little pieces; but that he did quietly, quietly.

Ellida.

Did he say nothing at all? Did he not speak?

Lyngstrand.

Not at first. But presently he said, as if to