Then he began to rummage in his sack again, pushing the bacon well down so
that the cloth might not be stained by it; after this he took off his
leather belt and put it round the sack, with a loop to carry over one
shoulder.

"Now if I take the neck of the sack over the other shoulder, I'll find it
easier to carry," he said.

I gave him my letters to post on the other side of the fjeld and he stowed
them away safely, slapping the outside of his pocket afterward; I also
gave him a special envelope in which to keep the money for the stamps, and
tied it to the neck of the sack.

"Where do you live?" I asked him.

"Where can a poor man live? Of course I live by the sea. I'm sorry to say
I have a wife and children--no use denying it."

"How many children have you?"

"Four. One's got a crippled arm and the others--there's something wrong
with all of them. It's not easy for a poor devil. My wife's ill, and a few
days ago she thought she was dying and wanted Communion."

A sad note crept into his voice. But the note was false. He was telling me
a pack of lies. When they came to look for him from the village, no
Christian would have the heart to accuse a man with such a large and sick
family. This, no doubt, was his meaning.