er.

"The editor has not come yet!" said "Scissors" at length, without
looking up.

How soon would he come?

"Couldn't say--couldn't say at all!"

How long would the office be open?

To this I received no answer, so I was forced to leave. "Scissors" had
not once looked up at me during all this scene; he had heard my voice,
and recognized me by it. You are in such bad odour here, thought I,
that he doesn't even take the trouble to answer you. I wonder if that
is an order of the editor's. I had, 'tis true enough, right from the
day my celebrated story was accepted for ten shillings, overwhelmed him
with work, rushed to his door nearly every day with unsuitable things
that he was obliged to peruse only to return them to me. Perhaps he
wished to put an end to this--take stringent measures.... I took the
road to Homandsbyen.

Hans Paul! Pettersen was a peasant-farmer's son, a student, living in
the attic of a five-storeyed house; therefore, Hans Pauli Pettersen was
a poor man. But if he had a shilling he wouldn't stint it. I would get
it just as sure as if I already held it in my hand. And I rejoiced the
whole time, as I went, over the shilling, and felt confident I would
get it.

When I got to the street door it was closed and I had to ring.

"I want to see Student Pettersen," I said, and was about to step
inside. "I know his room."

"Student Pettersen," repeats the girl. "Was it he who had the attic?"
He had moved.

Well, she didn't know the address; but he had asked his letters to be
sent to Hermansen in Tolbod-gaden, and she mentioned the number.

I go, full of trust and hope, all the way to Tolbod-gaden to ask Hans
Pauli's address; being my last chance, I must turn it to account. On
the way I came to a newly-built house, where a couple of joiners stood
planing outside. I picked up a few satiny shavings from the heap, stuck
one in my mouth, and the other in my pocket for by-and-by, and
continued my journey.

I groaned with hunger. I had seen a marvellously large penny loaf at a
baker's--the largest I could possibly get for the price.

"I come to find out Student Pettersen's address!"

"Bernt Akers Street, No. 10, in the attic." Was I going out there?
Well, would I perhaps be kind enough to take out a couple of letters
that had come for him?

I trudge up town again, along the same road, pass by the joiners--who
are sitting with their cans between their knees, eating their good warm
dinner from the D