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He hesitated a moment, but when he saw that I was not trying to put him in the wrong, he admitted that he had been in the hut and rested, and found my crisp-bread there. "It wasn't easy to sit there without taking some of it," he said. We spoke of many things. His language was hardly coarse at all, nor did he dawdle over his food.
I gave him coffee. "Got anything to eat?" he said. "It's a shame to ask you. A round of crisp-bread? I had no chance to bring food with me." "Yes, I've got bread, butter, and reindeer cheese. Help yourself." "It's not so easy for a lot of people in the winter," said the man as he ate. "Could you take some letters to the village for me?" I asked. "I'll pay you for it."
No doubt it was all from the general stores, with the exception of a heap of broken crisp-bread, which might have been stolen elsewhere. "So you've got crisp-bread after all," I said. "If you knew anything about it, you wouldn't talk like that," the man replied. "When I'm crossing the fjeld on foot, walking and walking, don't I need food to put in my belly? It's blasphemy to listen to you!"
The days are short; at two, I am already strolling homeward in the deep twilight, with the good, still night approaching. Then I begin to cook. I have a great deal of meat stored in three pure-white drifts of snow. In fact I have something even better: eight fat cheeses of reindeer milk, to eat with butter and crisp-bread.
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