"Student Pettersen," repeats the girl. "Was it he who had the attic?" He had moved.
Well, she didn't know the address; but he had asked his letters to be sent to Hermansen in Tolbodgaden, and she mentioned the number.
I go, full of trust and hope, all the way to Tolbodgaden to ask Hans Pauli's address; being my last chance, I must turn it to account. On the way I came to a newly-built house, where a couple of joiners stood planing outside. I picked up a few satiny shavings from the heap, stuck one in my mouth, and the other in my pocket for by-and-by, and continued my journey.
I groaned with hunger. I had seen a marvellously large penny loaf at a baker's—the largest I could possibly get for the price.
"I come to find out Student Pettersen's address!"
"Bernt Akers Street, No. 10, in the attic." Was I going out there? Well, would I perhaps be kind enough to take out a couple of letters that had come for him?
I trudge up town again, along the same road, pass by the joiners—who are sitting with their cans between their knees, eating
