the sink in a fine, powerful jet. Grindhusen had borrowed the tools we
needed from somewhere else, so we could plaster up a few holes left here
and there; a couple of days more, and we had filled in the trench down the
hillside, and our work at the vicarage was done. The priest was pleased
with us; he offered to stick up a notice on the red post saying we were
experts in the business of wells and pipes and water-supply, but, seeing
it was so late in the year, and the frost might set in any time, it
wouldn't have helped us much. We begged him instead to bear us in mind
next spring.

Then we went over to the neighbouring farm to dig potatoes, promising to
look in at the vicarage again some time.

There were many hands at work on the new place; we divided up into gangs
and were merry enough. But the work would barely last over a week; after
that we should have to shift again.

One evening the priest came over and offered to take me on as an outdoor
hand at the vicarage. It was a nice offer, and I thought about it for a
while, but ended by saying no. I would rather wander about and be my own
master, doing such work as I could find here and there, sleeping in the
open, and finding a trifle to wonder at in myself. I had come across a man
here in the potato fields that I might join company with when Grindhusen
was gone. This new man was a fellow after my own mind, and from what I had
heard and seen of him a good worker; Lars Falkberget was his name,
wherefore he called himself Falkenberg. [Footnote: The latter name has a
more distinguished sound than the native and rustic "Falkberget."]

Young Erik was foreman and overseer in charge of the potato diggers, and
carted in the crop. He was a handsome lad of twenty, steady and sound for