"Occupation?"

This was driving me into a corner with a vengeance. Occupation! what was
my occupation? I thought first of turning myself into a tinker--but I
dared not; firstly, I had given myself a name that was not common to every
and any tinker--besides, I wore _pince-nez_. It suddenly entered my
head to be foolhardy. I took a step forward and said firmly, almost
solemnly:

"A journalist."

The guard gave a start before he wrote it down, whilst I stood as
important as a homeless Cabinet Minister before the barrier. It roused no
suspicions. The guard understood quite well why I hesitated a little
before answering. What did it look like to see a journalist in the night
guard-house without a roof over his head?

"On what paper, Herr Tangen?"

"_Morgenbladet_!" said I. "I have been out a little too late this
evening, more's the shame!"

"Oh, we won't mention that," he interrupted, with a smile; "when young
people are out ... we understand!"

Turning to a policeman, he said, as he rose and bowed politely to me,
"Show this gentleman up to the reserved section. Good-night!"

I felt ice run down my back at my own boldness, and I clenched my hands to