A dog follows her and makes every
trip with her.
Traffic and noise increase and spread; beginning at the factories, the
wharves, the shipyards, and the sawmills, they mingle with wagon rumblings
and human voices; the air is rent by steam-whistles whose agonising wails
rise skyward, meeting and blending above the large squares in a booming
diapason, a deep-throated, throbbing roar that enwraps the entire city.
Telegraph messengers dart hither and yon, scattering orders and quotations
from distant markets. The powerful, vitalising chant of commerce booms
through the air; the wheat in India, the coffee in Java promise well; the
Spanish markets are crying for fish--enormous quantities of fish during
Lent.
It is eight o'clock; Irgens starts for home. He passes H. Henriksen's
establishment and decides to drop in a moment. The son of the house, a
young man in a business suit of cheviot, is still busy at his desk. His
eyes are large and blue, although his complexion is rather dark otherwise;
a stray wisp of hair sags untidily over his forehead. The tall, somewhat
gaunt and taciturn fellow looks about thirty years old. His comrades value
him highly because he helps them a good deal with money and articles of
commerce from the firm's cellars.
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