And every
evening the three young salesmen met at an appointed place and went
over the day's trade, each borrowing from another anything he'd sold
out of; and Andresen would sit down, often as not, and take out a file
and file away the German trade-mark from a sportsman's whistle, or rub
out "Faber" on the pens and pencils. Andresen was a trump, and always
had been.
Sivert, on the other hand, was rather a disappointment. Not that he
was any way slack, and failed to sell his goods--'twas he, indeed,
sold most--but he did not get enough for them. "You don't put in
enough patter with it," said Andresen.
No, Sivert was no hand at reeling off a lot of talk; he was a
fieldworker, sure of what he said, and speaking calmly when he spoke
at all. What was there to talk about here? Also, Sivert was anxious to
be done with it and get back home, there was work to do in the fields.
"Tis that Jensine's calling him," Fredrik Stroem explained. Fredrik,
himself, by the way, had work on his own fields to be done that
spring, and little time to waste; but for all that, he must look in on
Aronsen the last day and get up an argument with him.
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