The first wharf gate is thrown open. Through it one catches a glimpse of
sacks and cases piled high, of cans and barrels; men with ropes and
wheelbarrows are moving around, still half asleep, yawning openly with
angular, bearded jaws. And barges are warped in alongside the docks;
another army begins the hoisting and stowing of goods, the loading of
wagons, and the moving of freight.

In the streets one door after another is opened; blinds are raised,
office-boys are sweeping floors and dusting counters. In the H. Henriksen
office the son is sitting at a desk, all alone; he is sorting mail. A
young gentleman is strolling, tired and sleepy, toward the railway square;
he comes from a late party given in some comrade's den and is taking the
morning air. At Fire Headquarters he runs across an acquaintance who has
also been celebrating.

"Abroad so early, Ojen?" asks the first stroller.

"Yes--that is to say, I haven't been in bed yet!"

"Neither have I," laughs the first. "Good night!"

And he wanders on, smiling in amusement over that good night on a bright
and sunny morning. He is a young and promising man; his name had suddenly
become famous two years ago when he published a lyric drama. His name is
Irgens; everybody knows him. He wears patent-leather shoes and is
good-looking, with his curled moustache and his sleek, dark hair.

He drifts from one market square to another; it amuses him, sleepy as he
is, to watch the farmers who are invading the public squares with their