"I know your voice," he replied doubtfully. "You're the mate of the
Daisy."
"My name is Shackleton," I said.
Immediately he put out his hand and said, "Come in. Come in."
"Tell me, when was the war over?" I asked.
"The war is not over," he answered. "Millions are being killed.
Europe is mad. The world is mad."
Mr. Sorlle's hospitality had no bounds. He would scarcely let us wait
to remove our freezing boots before he took us into his house and gave
us seats in a warm and comfortable room. We were in no condition to
sit in anybody's house until we had washed and got into clean clothes,
but the kindness of the station-manager was proof even against the
unpleasantness of being in a room with us. He gave us coffee and cakes
in the Norwegian fashion, and then showed us upstairs to the bathroom,
where we shed our rags and scrubbed ourselves luxuriously.
Mr. Sorlle's kindness did not end with his personal care for the three
wayfarers who had come to his door. While we were washing he gave
orders for one of the whaling-vessels to be prepared at once in order
that it might leave that night for the other side of the island and
pick up the three men there. The whalers knew King Haakon Bay, though
they never worked on that side of the island. Soon we were clean again.
Then we put on delightful new clothes supplied from the station stores
and got rid of our superfluous hair.
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