It was Sunday, but though the streets of northern cities are usually quiet and well-nigh deserted on that day, an air of unusual bustle and animation pervaded the scene, for not only had the townspeople refrained from going to the country, as usual, but people from the surrounding towns and country was pouring in in such numbers that the Lake Miosen Railroad had been obliged to run extra trains.
The number of disinterested persons anxious to attend the drawing of the famous lottery was even greater than the number of ticket holders, consequently the streets were thronged with people. Whole families, and even whole villages, had come to the city, in the hope that their journey would not be in vain. Only to think of it! one million tickets had been sold, and even if they should win a prize of only one or two hundred marks, how many good people would return home rejoicing!
On leaving the hotel, Joel and Hulda first paid a visit to the wharves that line the harbor. Here the crowd was not so great except about the taverns, where huge tankards of beer were being continually called for to moisten throats that seemed to be in a state of constant thirst.
As the brother and sister wandered about among the long rows of barrels and boxes, the vessels which were anchored both near and far from the shore came in for a liberal share of their attention, for might there not be some from the port of Bergen where the Viking would never more be seen?
“Ole! my poor Ole!” sighed Hulda, and hearing this pathetic exclamation, Joel led her gently away from the wharves, and up into the city proper.
There, from the crowds that filled the streets and the public squares, they overheard more than one remark in relation to themselves.
“Yes,” said one man; “I hear that ten thousand marks have been offered for ticket 9672.”
“Ten thousand!” exclaimed another. “Why, I hear that twenty thousand marks, and even more, have been offered.”
“Mr. Vanderbilt, of New York, has offered thirty thousand.”
“And Messrs. Baring, of London, forty thousand.”
“And the Rothschilds, sixty thousand.”
So much for public exaggeration. At this rate the prices offered would soon have exceeded the amount of the capital prize.
But if these gossips were not agreed upon the sum offered to Hulda Hansen, they were all of one mind in regard to the usurer of Drammen.
“What an infernal scoundrel Sandgoist must be. That rascal who showed those poor people no mercy.”
“Yes; he is despised throughout the Telemark, and this is not the first time he has been guilty of similar acts of rascality.”
“They say that nobody will buy Ole Kamp’s ticket of him, now he has got it.”
“No; nobody wants it now.”
“That is not at all surprising. In Hulda Hansen’s hands the ticket was valuable.”
“And in Sandgoist’s it seems worthless.”
“I’m glad of it. He’ll have it left on his hands, and I hope he’ll lose the fifteen thousand marks it cost him.”
“But what if the scoundrel should win the grand prize?”
“He? Never!”
“He had better not come to the drawing.”
“No. If he does he will be roughly handled. There is no question about that.”
These and many other equally uncomplimentary remarks about the usurer were freely bandied about.
It was evident that he did not intend to be present at the drawing, as he was at his house in Drammen the night before; but feeling his sister’s arm tremble in his, Joel led her swiftly on, without trying to hear any more.
As for Sylvius Hogg, they had hoped to meet him in the street; but in this they were disappointed, though an occasional remark satisfied them that the public was already aware of the professor’s return, for early in the morning he had been seen hurrying toward the wharves, and afterward in the direction of the Naval Department.
Of course, Joel might have asked anybody where Professor Sylvius Hogg lived. Anyone would have been only too delighted to point out the house or even to accompany him to it; but he did not ask, for fear of being indiscreet, and as the professor had promised to meet them at the hotel, it would be better to wait until the appointed hour.
After a time Hulda began to feel very tired, and requested her brother to take her back to the hotel, especially as these discussions, in which her name was frequently mentioned, were very trying to her, and on reaching the house she went straight up to her own room to await the arrival of Sylvius Hogg.
Joel remained in the reading-room, on the lower floor, where he spent his time in mechanically looking over the Christiania papers. Suddenly he turned pale, a mist obscured his vision, and the paper fell from his hands.
In the Morgen-Blad, under the heading of Maritime Intelligence, he had just seen the following cablegram from Newfoundland:
“The dispatch-boat Telegraph has reached the locality where the Viking is supposed to have been lost, but has found no trace of the wreck. The search on the coast of Greenland has been equally unsuccessful, so it may be considered almost certain that none of the unfortunate ship’s crew survived the catastrophe.”
XVIII
“Good morning, Mr. Benett. It is always a great pleasure to me when I have an opportunity to shake hands with you.”
“And for me, professor, it is a great honor.”
“Honor, pleasure—pleasure, honor,” laughed the professor. “One balances the other.”
“I am glad to see that your journey through Central Norway has been safely accomplished.”
“Not accomplished, only concluded, for this year.”
“But tell me, pray, all about those good people you met at Dal.”
“Excellent people they were, friend Benett, in every sense of the word.”
“From what I can learn through the papers they are certainly very much to be pitied.”
“Unquestionably, Mr. Benett. I have never known misfortune to pursue persons so relentlessly.”
“It seems so, indeed, professor; for right after the loss
