Two weeks, three weeks, passed. Rolandsen grew desperately thin from his wretched mode of life, but his eyes grew harder and harder from sheer determination, and he would not give in. His only fear was that someone might come and disturb him. A few nights back there had come a boat, a man and a woman in it--a pair out gathering down. They would have landed on the island, but Rolandsen was by no means that way inclined. He had sighted them afar off, and had time to work himself up into a fury, so that when they arrived, he made such threatening play with Børre’s tiny anchor that the couple rowed away in fright. Then Rolandsen laughed to himself, and a most uncomely fiend he was to look at, with his hollow cheeks. One morning the birds made more noise than usual, and Rolandsen awoke, though it was still so early as to be almost night. He sees a boat making in, already close at hand. It was always a trouble with Rolandsen that he was so slow to anger. Here was this boat coming in, and its coming highly inconvenient to him just then, but by the time he had worked up an adequate rage, the men had landed. If only they had given him time, he might have done something to stop them; might have pelted them to rags with stones from the beach. They were two of Mack’s folk from the factory, father and son. They stepped ashore, and “_Goddag!_” said the older one. “I’m not the least little pleased to see you, and I’ll do you a hurt,” said Rolandsen. “Ho, and how’ll you do that?” said the man, with a look at his son, but not very bold for all that. “Throttle you dead, for instance. What do you say to that little plan?” “’Twas Mack himself that sent us to find you here.” “Of course it was Mack himself. I know well enough what he wants.” Then the younger man put in a word, and this was that Børre the organ-blower wanted his boat and gear. Rolandsen shouted bitterly at that. “Børre! Is the fellow mad? And what about me then? Here am I living on a desert island; I must have a boat to get to folk, and gear to fish with, if I’m not to starve. Tell him that from me!” “And then there was a word from the new man at the station, how there’s telegrams waiting for you there. Important.” Rolandsen jumped. Already! He asked a question or so, which they answered, and thereafter he made no further objection, but went back with them. The younger man rowed Børre’s boat, and Rolandsen sat in the other. There was a provision-box in the forepart of the boat, that waked in his mind impertinent hopes of food. He was on the point of asking if they had brought anything to eat with them, but restrained himself, out of sheer lordliness and pride, and tried to talk it off. “How did Mack know I was here?” “’Twas the news came. A man and a woman saw you here one night; you frightened them a deal.” “Well, what did they want here anyway? And I’ve hit on a new fishing-ground there by the island. And now I’m leaving it.” “How long’d you thought to be staying there?”