HOVSTAD.
Yes; and I think a journalist incurs a heavy responsibility if he lets slip a chance of helping to emancipate the downtrodden masses. I know well enough that our oligarchy will denounce me as an agitator, and so forth; but what do I care? If only my conscience is clear, I
Dr. Stockmann.
Just so, just so, my dear Mr. Hovstad. But still—deuce take it! [A knock at the door.] Come in!
Aslaksen, the printer, appears at the door leading to the hall. He is humbly but respectably dressed in black, wears a white necktie, slightly crumpled, and has a silk hat and gloves in his hand.
Aslaksen.
[Bowing.] I beg pardon, Doctor, for making so bold
Dr. Stockmann.
[Rising.] Hallo! If it isn't Mr. Aslaksen!
Aslaksen.
Yes, it's me, Doctor.
Hovstad.
[Rising.] Is it me you want, Aslaksen?
Aslaksen.
No, not at all. I didn't know you were here. No, it's the Doctor himself
Dr. Stockmann.
Well, what can I do for you?
