My head was light, without pain and without pressure, and my mood was unshadowed. It sailed away with me, and I made no effort. “Come in! Yes, only come right in! As you see everything is of ruby--Ylajali, Ylajali! that swelling crimson silken divan! Ah, how passionately she breathes. Kiss me--loved one--more--more! Your arms are like pale amber, your mouth blushes.... Waiter I asked for a plate of beef!” The sun gleamed in through the window, and I could hear the horses below chewing oats. I sat and mumbled over my chip gaily, glad at heart as a child. I kept all the time feeling for my manuscript. It wasn’t really in my thoughts, but instinct told me it was there--’twas in my blood to remember it, and I took it out. It had got wet, and I spread it out in the sun to dry; then I took to wandering up and down the room. How depressing everything looked! Small scraps of tin shavings were trodden into the floor; there was not a chair to sit upon, not even a nail in the bare walls. Everything had been brought to my “Uncle’s,” and consumed. A few sheets of paper lying on the table, covered with thick dust, were my sole possession; the old green blanket on the bed was lent to me by Hans Pauli some months ago.... Hans Pauli! I snap my fingers. Hans Pauli Pettersen shall help me! He would certainly be very angry that I had not appealed to him at once. I put on my hat in haste, gather up the manuscript, thrust it into my pocket, and hurry downstairs. “Listen, Jens Olaj!” I called into the stable, “I am nearly certain I can help you in the afternoon.” Arrived at the Town Hall I saw that it was past eleven, and I determined on going to the editor at once. I stopped outside the office door to see if my sheets were paged rightly, smoothed them carefully out, put them back in my pocket, and knocked. My heart beat audibly as I entered. “Scissors” is there as usual. I inquire timorously for the editor. No answer. The man sits and probes for minor items of news amongst the provincial papers. I repeat my question, and advance a little farther. “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.