Part 31 (1/2)

”Mind what you're doing, you little monkey, or I'll come after you!”

said Lars Peter with a terrible roar.

The boy laughed and hid behind the well.

Lars Peter caught him and put him on one shoulder, and his sister on the other. ”We'll go in the fields,” said he.

Ditte and Kristian went with him, it would be their last walk there; involuntarily they each took hold of his coat. Thus they went down the pathway to the clay-pit, past the marsh and up on the other side. It was strange how different everything looked now they were going to lose it. The marsh and the clay-pit could have told their own tale about the children's play and Lars Peter's plans. The brambles in the hedges, the large stone which marked the boundary, the stone behind which they used to hide--all spoke to them in their own way today. The winter seed was in the earth, and everything ready for the new occupier, whoever he might be. Lars Peter did not wish his successor to have anything to complain of. No-one should say that he had neglected his land, because he was not going to reap the harvest.

”Ay, our time's up here,” said he, when they were back in the house again. ”Lord knows what the new place'll be like!” There was a catch in his voice as he spoke.

A small crowd began to collect on the highroad. They stood in groups and did not go down to the Crow's Nest, until the auctioneer and his clerk arrived. Ditte was on the point of screaming when she saw who the two men were; they were the same who had come to fetch her mother. But now they came on quite a different errand, and spoke kindly.

Behind their conveyance came group after group of people, quite a procession. It looked as if no-one wanted to be the first to put foot on the rag and bone man's ground. Where the officials went, they too could follow, but the auctioneer and his clerk were the only ones to shake hands with Lars Peter; the others hung aimlessly about, and put their heads together, keeping up a whispering conversation.

Lars Peter summed up the buyers. There were one or two farmers among them, mean old men, who had come in the hope of getting a bargain.

Otherwise they were nearly all poor people from round about, cottagers and laborers who were tempted by the chance of buying on credit. They took no notice of him, but rubbed up against the farmers--and made up to the clerk; they did not dare to approach the auctioneer.

”Ay, they behave as if I were dirt,” thought Lars Peter. And what were they after all? Most of them did not even own enough ground to grow a carrot in. A good thing he owed them nothing! Even the cottagers from the marsh, whom he had often helped in their poverty, followed the others' example and looked down on him today. There was no chance now of getting anything more out of him.

After all, it was comical to go round watching people fight over one's goods and chattels. They were not too grand to take the rag and bone man's leavings--if only they could get it on credit and make a good bargain.

The auctioneer knew most of them by name, and encouraged them to bid. ”Now, Peter Jensen Hegnet, make a good bid. You haven't bought anything from me for a whole year!” said he suddenly to one of the cottagers. Or, ”Here's something to take home to your wife, Jens Petersen!” Each time he named them, the man he singled out would laugh self-consciously and make a bid. They felt proud at being known by the auctioneer.

”Here's a comb, make a bid for it!” shouted the auctioneer, when the farm implements came to be sold. A wave of laughter went through the crowd; it was an old harrow which was put up. The winnowing-machine he called a coffee-grinder. He had something funny to say about everything. At times the jokes were such that the laughter turned on Lars Peter, and this was quickly followed up. But Lars Peter shook himself, and took it as it came. It was the auctioneer's profession to say funny things--it all helped on the sale!

The poor silly day laborer, Johansen, was there too. He stood behind the others, stretching his neck to see what was going on--in ragged working clothes and muddy wooden shoes. Each time the auctioneer made a remark, he laughed louder than the rest, to show that he joined in the joke. Lars Peter looked at him angrily. In his house there was seldom food, except what others were foolish enough to give him--his earnings went in drink. And there he stood, stuck-up idiot that he was! And bless us, if he didn't make a bid too--for Lars Peter's old boots. No-one bid against him, so they were knocked down to him for a crown. ”You'll pay at once, of course,” said the auctioneer. This time the laugh was against the buyer; all knew he had no money.

”I'll pay it for him,” said Lars Peter, putting the crown on the table. Johansen glared at him for a few minutes; then sat down and began putting on the boots. He had not had leather footwear for years and years.

Indoors, a table was set out with two large dishes of sandwiches and a bottle of brandy, with three gla.s.ses round. At one end of the table was a coffee-pot. Ditte kept in the kitchen; her cheeks were red with excitement in case her preparations should not be appreciated. She had everything ready to cut more sandwiches as soon as the others gave out; every other minute she peeped through the door to see what was going on, her heart in her mouth. Every now and then a stranger strolled into the room, looking round with curiosity, but pa.s.sed out without eating anything. A man entered--he was not from the neighborhood, and Ditte did not know him. He stepped over the bench, took a sandwich, and poured himself out a gla.s.s of brandy. Ditte could see by his jaws that he was enjoying himself. Then in came a farmer's wife, drew him away by his arm, whispering something to him. He got up, spat the food out into his hand, and followed her out of doors.

When Lars Peter came into the kitchen, Ditte lay over the table, crying. He lifted her up. ”What's the matter now?” he asked.

”Oh, it's nothing,” sniffed Ditte, struggling to get away. Perhaps she wanted to spare him, or perhaps to hide her shame even from him.

Only after much persuasion did he get out of her that it was the food. ”They won't touch it!” she sobbed.

He had noticed it himself.

”Maybe they're not hungry yet,” said he, to comfort her. ”And they haven't time either.”

”They think it's bad!” she broke out, ”made from dog's meat or something like that.”

”Don't talk nonsense!” Lars Peter laughed strangely. ”It's not dinner-time either.”

”I heard a woman telling her husband myself--not to touch it,” she said.

Lars Peter was silent for a few minutes. ”Now, don't worry over it,”

said he, stroking her hair. ”Tomorrow we're leaving, and then we shan't care a fig for them. There's a new life ahead of us. Well, I must go back to the auction; now, be a sensible girl.”