I halted, and looked after him as he went slowly on his way. I struck my forehead, and, in measure, as he disappeared from my sight, I cried more violently. I railed at myself for my poverty, called myself abusive names, invented furious designations--rich, rough nuggets--in a vein of abuse with which I overwhelmed myself. I kept on at this until I was nearly home. On coming to the door I discovered I had dropped my keys. "Oh, of course," I muttered to myself, "why shouldn't I lose my keys? Here I am, living in a yard where there is a stable underneath and a tinker's workshop up above. The door is locked at night, and no one, no one can open it; therefore, why should I not lose my keys? "I am as wet as a dog--a little hungry--ah, just ever such a little hungry, and slightly, ay, absurdly tired about my knees; therefore, why should I not lose them? "Why, for that matter, had not the whole house flitted out to Aker by the time I came home and wished to enter it?" ... and I laughed to myself, hardened by hunger and exhaustion. I could hear the horses stamp in the stables, and I could see my window above, but I could not open the door, and I could not get in. It had begun to rain again, and I felt the water soak through to my shoulders. At the Town Hall I was seized by a bright idea. I would ask the policeman to open the door. I applied at once to a constable, and earnestly begged him to accompany me and let me in, if he could. Yes, if he could, yes! But he couldn't; he had no key. The police keys were not there; they were kept in the Detective Department. What was I to do then? Well, I could go to an hotel and get a bed! But I really couldn't go to an hotel and get a bed; I had not money, I had been out--in a café ... he knew.... We stood a while on the Town Hall steps. He considered and examined my personal appearance. The rain fell in torrents outside. "Well then, you must go to the guard-house and report yourself as homeless!" said he. Homeless? I hadn't thought of that. Yes, by Jove, that was a capital idea; and I thanked the constable on the spot for the suggestion. Could I simply go in and say I was homeless? "Just that."... * * * * * "Your name?" inquired the guard. "Tangen--Andreas Tangen!" I don't know why I lied; my thoughts fluttered about disconnectedly and inspired me with many singular whims, more than I knew what to do with. I hit upon this out-of-the-way name on the spur of the moment, and blurted it out without any calculation. I lied without any occasion for doing so. "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."