"You're an old hand at this work, then?"

"Yes."

"And are you the one that sings?"

"No, more's the pity. He is the one that sings."

"Oh, so you are the singer, are you? We're namesakes, I believe?"

"Why, yes, in a way," said Falkenberg, a little awkwardly, "My name is
Lars Falkenberg, and I've my certificate to show for that."

"What part d'you come from?"

"From Trondelagen."

The Captain went home. He was friendly enough, but spoke in a short,
decisive way, with never a smile or a jesting word. A good face, something
ordinary.

From that day onwards Falkenberg never sang but in the men's quarters, or
out in the open; no more singing in the kitchen now the Captain had come
home. Falkenberg was irritable and gloomy; he would swear at times and say
life wasn't worth living these days; a man might as well go and hang
himself and have done with it. But his fit of despair soon came to an end.
One Sunday he went back to the two farms where he had tuned the pianos,
and asked for a recommendation from each. When he came back he showed me
the papers, and said: