A skilling is about equal to a halfpenny. He thinks this too little, but he won't condescend to say so. He merely pays no attention to the girl's violent entreaties. The language of the girl bears so strong a resemblance to our own that it scarcely requires translation. "Fiskman," she cries, "vill du have otto skillings?"

No, the fiskman won't have that; it is not enough, so he makes no reply, but pretends to be washing his boat. "Fiskman, fiskman, vill du have ni?" Still no reply. The fisherman turns his back on the market, gazes out to sea, and begins to whistle. At this the girl becomes furious. She whirls her umbrella in the air desperately.

The fiskman can hold out no longer. Without saying a word, he turns quietly round and hands up the fish. The girl, without a word, stoops down and pays for them, and then goes off in triumph, for her energy has been successful; she has got the fish a little cheaper than she had expected. Suppose twenty or thirty such scenes going on at once, and you have a faint idea of the Bergen fish-market.

The fiskman, who wears a red nightcap, with a tall hat on the top of it, takes off his head-gear, exposes his bald pate to view, and wipes it with a fishy cotton handkerchief; but he takes no notice whatever of the girl, who now becomes mad that is to say, she stamps, glares, shakes her pretty little fist at the hard-hearted man, and gasps. Ha! the mark is hit at last!