He passed through the straight
and narrow gate where he was asked his name,
birthplace, and how much money he had,--at
which he grew very much frightened.
"And your destination?"--demanded the
gruff-looking functionary at the desk.
"America," said the youth, and touched his
hat politely.
"Do you think I have time for joking?"
roared the official, with an oath.
The Norseman ran his hand through his hair,
smiled his timidly conciliatory smile, and tried
his best to look brave; but his hand trembled
and his heart thumped away at an alarmingly
quickened tempo.
"Put him down for Nebraska!" cried a stout
red-cheeked individual (inwrapped in the mingled
fumes of tobacco and whisky) whose function
it was to open and shut the gate.
"There aint many as go to Nebraska."
"All right, Nebraska."
The gate swung open and the pressure from
behind urged the timid traveler on, while an
extra push from the gate-keeper sent him flying
in the direction of a board fence, where he sat
down and tried to realize that he was now in
the land of liberty.
Halfdan Bjerk was a tall, slender-limbed youth
of very delicate frame; he had a pair of
wonderfully candid, unreflecting blue eyes, a smooth,
clear, beardless face, and soft, wavy light hair,
which was pushed back from his forehead without
parting. His mouth and chin were well
cut, but their lines were, perhaps, rather weak
for a man. When in repose, the ensemble of
his features was exceedingly pleasing and somehow
reminded one of Correggio's St.
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