ual to a halfpenny.

He thinks this too little, but he won't condescend to say so. He merely
pays no attention to the girl's violent entreaties. The language of the
girl bears so strong a resemblance to our own that it scarcely requires
translation.

"Fiskman," she cries, "vill du have otto skillings?" (will you have
eight skillings?)

No, the fiskman won't have that; it is not enough, so he makes no reply,
but pretends to be washing his boat.

"Fiskman, fiskman, vill du have ni?" (will you have nine?)

Still no reply. The fisherman turns his back on the market, gazes out
to sea, and begins to whistle.

At this the girl becomes furious. She whirls her umbrella in the air
desperately. If that umbrella were only a foot longer the fiskman's
head would certainly feel its weight!

Presently the girl forces herself to become calm and deeply earnest; she
has made up her mind to make a liberal offer.

"Fiskman, vill du have ti (ten) skillings?"

The fiskman, who wears a red nightcap, with a tall hat on the top of it,
takes off his head-gear, exposes his bald pate to view, and wipes it
with a fishy cotton handkerchief; but he takes no notice whatever of the
girl, who now becomes mad--that is to say, she stamps, glares, shakes
her pretty little fist at the hard-hearted man, and gasps.

Suddenly she becomes reckless, and makes a wild offer of "tolve (twelve)
skillings."

Ha! the mark is hit at last! The fiskman can hold out no longer.
Without saying a word, he turns quietly round and hands up the fish.
The girl, without a word, stoops down and pays for them, and then goes
off in triumph, for her energy has been successful; she _has_ got the
fish a little cheaper than she had expected.

Suppose twenty or thirty such scenes going on at once, and you have a
faint idea of the Bergen fish-market.

It was just before the termination of the bargain which has been
described that Fred Temple and Sam Sorrel arrived on the scene. The
artist was busy with his sketch-book in one minute.

"Sam," said Fred, touching his friend's arm, "look here, sketch me
yonder girl, like a good fellow."

"Which girl; the one with the nose?"

"If you see one _without_ a nose," retorted Fred, "I'll be glad to have
a portrait of her too."

"Nay, but really, I do see one with such a long red nose that--"

"Well, well," interrupted Fred impatiently, "it's not _her. Do_ look to
where I am pointing; see, the stout pretty little woman