ans a penalty
of a thousand crowns.

It is getting darker.

At last there is nothing to be seen on the way but a shapeless mass of
snow struggling with bowed head against the storm, wading deep in the
loose drifts, wading seemingly at haphazard--and trailing after it an
indefinable bundle of white--dead white. Behind, a human being drags
along, holding on for dear life to the rings on the sleigh. It is the
post-boy from the last stage.

At last they were groping their way in the darkness towards the shore,
where the electric lights of the station showed faintly through the
snow-fog. And hardly had Peer got out of the sleigh before the snow
stopped suddenly, and the dazzling electric suns shone over the place,
with the workmen's barracks, the assistants' quarters, the offices, and
his own little plank-built house. Two of the engineers came out to meet
him, and saluted respectfully.

"Well, how is everything getting on?"

The greybeard answered: "The men have struck work to-day."

"Struck? What for?"

"They want us to take back the machinist that was dismissed the other
day for drunkenness."

Peer shook the snow from his fur coat, took his bag, and walked over to
the building, the others following. "Then we'll have to take him back,"
he said. "We can't afford a strike now."

A couple of days later Peer was lying in bed, when the post-bag was
brought in. He shook the letters out over the coverlet, and caught sight
of one from Klaus Brook.

What was this? Why did his hand tremble as he took it up? Of course it
was only one of Klaus's ordinary friendly letters.

DEAR FRIEND,--This is a hard letter to write. But I do hope you have
taken my advice and got some of your money at any rate over to Norway.
Well, to be as brief as possible! Ferdinand Holm has decamped, or is
in prison, or possibly worse--you know well enough it's no good asking
questions in a country like this when a big man suddenly disappears.
He had made enemies in the highest places; he was playing a dangerous
game--and this is the end of it.

You know what it means when a business goes into liquidation out here,
and no strong man on the spot to look after things. We Europeans can
whistle for our share.

You'll take it coolly, I know. I've lost every penny I had--but you've
still got your place over there and the workshops. And you're the sort
of fellow to make twice as much next time, or I don't know you. I hope
the Besna barrage is to be