The next morning, Halfdan was released from the Police Station, having first been fined five dollars for vagrancy. All his money, with the exception of a few pounds which he had exchanged in Liverpool, he had lost with his valise, and he had to his knowledge not a single acquaintance in the city or on the whole continent. In order to increase his capital he bought some fifty “Tribunes,” but, as it was already late in the day, he hardly succeeded in selling a single copy. The next morning, he once more stationed himself on the corner of Murray street and Broadway, hoping in his innocence to dispose of the papers he had still on hand from the previous day, and actually did find a few customers among the people who were jumping in and out of the omnibuses that passed up and down the great thoroughfare. To his surprise, however, one of these gentlemen returned to him with a very wrathful countenance, shook his fist at him, and vociferated with excited gestures something which to Halfdan’s ears had a very unintelligible sound. He made a vain effort to defend himself; the situation appeared so utterly incomprehensible to him, and in his dumb helplessness he looked pitiful enough to move the heart of a stone. No English phrase suggested itself to him, only a few Norse interjections rose to his lips. The man’s anger suddenly abated; he picked up the paper which he had thrown on the sidewalk, and stood for a while regarding Halfdan curiously. “Are you a Norwegian?” he asked. “Yes, I came from Norway yesterday.” “What’s your name?” “Halfdan Bjerk.” “Halfdan Bjerk! My stars! Who would have thought of meeting you here! You do not recognize me, I suppose.” Halfdan declared with a timid tremor in his voice that he could not at the moment recall his features. “No, I imagine I must have changed a good deal since you saw me,” said the man, suddenly dropping into Norwegian. “I am Gustav Olson, I used to live in the same house with you once, but that is long ago now.”