e endeavoured to get his salary raised, so
that he might give himself up recklessly to his two ruling passions,
which were drinking beer and reading novels at night.

As Marianne went through the room she moved her grandfather's chair
close to the kitchen door, and gave him a meaning look. He nodded to
show that he understood her wishes. She then said good night to the old
man, and went into the kitchen, from whence a little dark staircase led
upstairs to her room.

Marianne locked her door and went to bed. She was so tired every night
that she could scarcely keep her eyes open while she undressed, and she
fell asleep the moment she got into bed. Under her the noise of voices
continued, varied by quarrelling and cursing, which mingled with the
dreams of her heavy and broken slumber. In the morning her hair and
pillow were damp with perspiration; she was chilled with cold, and was
even more tired than when she went to rest.

The talking soon went on again as briskly as ever. Martin related how he
had been up to the office that morning, intending to speak to the young
Consul personally. He wished to complain of the captain who had told
tales about him.

He did not, however, get so far as the Consul, but one of the clerks, a
stupid lout with an eyeglass, had come out and told him that he would
get no employment on a ship belonging to the firm, until he had been to
the Seamen's school, and gave up drinking. As he told his story there
was an evil glare in his eyes, which were large and bright like
Marianne's, but piercing and cruel. In the pale face there was also the
same trace of weakness as in his sister's; but Martin was tall and bony,
and his arms were strong and powerful, and he gesticulated with them as
he talked, and gave force to his words by striking the table with his
fist. He became every moment more violent, as he got heated by drink and
argument.

He was not going to the school to please Garman and Worse; and as to his
drinking, what had the young Consul got to do with that? But they should
see what he would do. And with a mighty oath, he shook his clenched fist
in the direction of Sandsgaard.

"Right you are, my boy!" cried Tom Robson, laughing; "good again. Let us
see what you are made of."

Robson was never so happy as when he could get Martin to talk himself
into a fury, which was not a very difficult task.

Ever since his childhood Martin had shown himself of a worthless and
cross-grained nature.