Quinze or Louis Seize, but it was sufficient.  On the wall with the window hung a few paintings, and on the other portraits of the King, Queen, and Crown Prince Olav, apparently cut out of an illustrated paper, and pasted on blue cardboard.  In the corner nearest the door on the right, where there was no bunk, the space seem to be occupied by clothes, some hanging on the wall, some on lines stretched across.  So that was the drying-place, modest in its simplicity.  Under the table were some varnished boxes —­ Heaven knows what they were for!

Now there seemed to be life in one of the bunks.  It was Wisting, who was getting tired of the noise that still continued.  Lindstrom took his time, rattling the spoons, smiling maliciously to himself, and looking up at the bunks.  He did not make all this racket for nothing.  Wisting, then, was the first to respond, and apparently the only one; at any rate, there was not a sign of movement in any of the others.  “Good-morning, Fatty!” “Thought you were going to stop there till dinner.”  This is Lindstrom’s greeting.  “Look after yourself, old ’un.  If I hadn’t got you out, you’d have been asleep still.”  That was paying him in his own coin:  Wisting was evidently not to be trifled with.  However, they smiled and nodded to each other in a way that showed that there was no harm meant.  At last Lindstrom had got rid of the last cup, and brought down the curtain on that act with the dropping of the final spoon.  I thought now that he would go back to his work in the kitchen; but it looked as if he had something else to do first.  He straightened himself, thrust his chin in the air and put his head back —­ reminding me very forcibly of a young cockerel preparing to crow —­ and roared with the full force of his lungs:  “Turn out, boys, and look sharp!” Now he had finished his morning duty there.  The sleeping-bags seemed suddenly to awake to life, and such remarks as, “That’s a devil of a fellow!” or “Shut up, you old chatterbox!” showed that the inhabitants of Framheim were now awake.  Beaming with joy, the cause of the trouble disappeared into the kitchen.

And now, one after the other they stick their heads out, followed by the rest of them.  That must be Helmer Hanssen, who was on the Gjoa; he looks as if he could handle a rope.  Ah, and there we have Olav Olavson Bjaaland!  I could have cried aloud for joy —­ my old friend from Holmenkollen.  The great long-distance runner, you remember.  And he managed the jump, too —­ 50 metres, I think —­ standing.  If Amundsen has a few like him, he will get to the Pole all right.  And there comes Stubberud, the man the Aftenpost said was so clever at double-entry book-keeping.  As I see him now, he does not give me the impression of being a book-keeper —­ but one can’t tell.  And here come Hassel, Johansen, and Prestrud; now they are all up, and will soon begin the day’s work.