Irgens noticed the direction of his
glance, but this told him nothing; the old imbecile was evidently lost in
some crazy meditation or other. It was amusing to see him so altogether
unconscious of his surroundings, standing there agape with his nose in the
air. His eyes were almost in a direct line with the little office window
at the end of Henriksen's warehouse; he stared unblinkingly and apparently
unseeingly at that particular spot. Irgens was on the point of going over
in order to inquire if he perhaps wanted to see Ole Henriksen; he would
then be able to turn the conversation to his book and get the old man to
express an opinion. It would be quite entertaining; the oaf would be
forced to admit that he valued poetry according to weight. But was it
worth while? It was really of no account whatever what this person might
think. Irgens made a turn across the docks; he looked up--Coldevin had not
moved. Irgens sauntered past, crossed the street on his way up-town.
Suddenly Ole Henriksen and Aagot came out of the warehouse and caught
sight of him.
"Good day, good day, Irgens!" called Ole with outstretched hand. "Glad to
see you.
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