custom had hitherto been. Immunity had made him reckless. Greed had grown with success. And now this painful expose resulted. He clung to a bunch of his net with one hand; with the other he menaced Oberhausen or appealed to Heaven indiscriminately. Oberhausen held on to the net. To all Mr. Ibsen's arguments, abuse, and protestations he made one reply: "Ikke forstaar"—"I do not understand," the simple, dignified, all-sufficing answer of the Briton in difficulties abroad. As I stepped ashore I heard these words barked out in Norwegian. "To blazes with your ikke forstaar! Give me my net." This was his last effort. He yielded to superior force; the net and a murdered sea-trout of 4 lb. weight which had spent the night in it were put into the boat, and while I rowed Oberhausen towards home, where the cause was to be tried by Mr. Thorwaldsen, president of the committee, he told me his tale.
He had, it seems, marked the net's corks in the very entering in of the sea-stream, and as the tide receded he had been able, by deep, indignant wading, to secure it. He had no sooner hauled it to the lake-side, a matter of half a mile, than Mr. Ibsen appeared like a whirlwind, demanding his net shamelessly, swearing at Oberhausen, and striking him (so manifest was his villainy) on the chest. The rest I knew.
