even to think of it,--beyond a sleepy wonder as to whether a scolding or
a flogging would be the penalty of his involuntary truancy. He even
forgot the existence of the man he had come to see, though the round,
red-faced sailor dozed in a corner directly opposite him.

Sigurd, however, was less muddled; and he had, besides, a strong
objection to returning the next morning, to be laughed at for his
weather-foolishness.

"If we do not want to be made fun of, it would be advisable for us to
take someone back with us to distract people's attention," he reasoned,
and laid plans accordingly. The next day, as they began buckling up
their various outer garments preparatory to departure, he suddenly
struck into the conversation with a reference to the festivities at
Brattahlid.

In a moment the sailor-man's eyes opened, like two round windows, above
his fat cheeks.

The Silver-Tongue spoke on concerning the products of the Brattahlid
kitchen, the fat beeves that were slaughtered each week, the gammons and
flitches that were taken from the larder, and the barrels of ale that
were tapped.

As he settled his boots with a final stamp, and stretched out his hand
toward the door, Grettir the sailor arose in his corner.

"Hold on, Jarl's son," he said thickly. "If it is not against your wish,
I will go with you." He made a propitiatory gesture to the group around
the fire. "You will not take it ill, shipmates, if I leave you now, with