Part 35 (1/2)

When Lars Peter was about to carry the things out to the cart, he said smilingly, ”That will be--let me see, how much do you owe for last time?”

”I'd like to let it wait a bit--till I get settled up after the auction!”

”Well, I'm afraid it can't. I don't know anything about you yet.”

”Oh, so you're paying me out.” Lars Peter began to fume.

”Paying you out? Not at all. But I like to know what sort of a man I'm dealing with before I can trust him.”

”Oh, indeed! It's easy enough to see what sort of a fellow you are!”

shouted Lars Peter and rushed out.

The inn-keeper followed him out to the cart. ”You'll have a different opinion of me some day,” said he gently, ”then we can talk it over again. Never mind. But another thing--where'll you get food for the horse?”

”I'll manage somehow,” answered Lars Peter shortly.

”And stabling? It's setting in cold now.”

”You leave that to me!”

Lars Peter drove off at a walking pace. He knew perfectly well that he could find neither food nor stabling for the horse without the inn-keeper's help. Two or three days afterwards he sent Kristian with the horse and cart back to the farm.

He had done this once, but he was wiser now--or at all events more careful. When occasionally he felt a longing for the road and wanted to spend a day on it in company with Klavs, he asked politely for the loan of it, and he was allowed to have it. Then he and the horse were like sweethearts who seldom saw each other.

He was no wiser than before. The inn-keeper he couldn't make out--with his care for others and his desire to rule.

His partners and the other men he didn't understand either. He had spent his life in the country where people kept to themselves--where he had often longed for society. It looked cosy--as seen from the lonely Crow's Nest--people lived next door to each other; they could give a helping hand occasionally and chat with each other. But what pleasure had a man here? They toiled unwillingly, pus.h.i.+ng responsibilities and troubles on to others, getting only enough for a meager meal from day to day and letting another man run off with their profits. It was extraordinary how that crooked devil sc.r.a.ped in everything with his long arms, without any one daring to protest.

He must have an enormous hold on them somehow.

Lars Peter did not think of rebelling again. When his anger rose he had only to think of fisher-Jacob, who was daily before his eyes.

Every one knew how he had become the wreck he was. He had once owned a big boat, and had hired men to work with him, so he thought it unnecessary to submit to the inn-keeper. But the inn-keeper licked him into shape. He refused to buy his fish, so that they had to sail elsewhere with it, but this outlet he closed for them too. They could buy no goods nor gear in the village--they were shunned like lepers, no one dared help them. Then his partners turned against him, blaming him for their ill-luck. He tried to sell up and moved to another place, but the inn-keeper would not buy his possessions and no-one else dared; he had to stay on--and learn to submit.

Although he owned a boat and gear, he had to hire it from the inn-keeper. It told so heavily on him that he lost his reason; now he muddled about looking for a magic word to fell the inn-keeper; at times he went round with a gun, declaring he would shoot him. But the inn-keeper only laughed.

Ditte talked a great deal with the women. They all agreed that the inn-keeper had the evil eye. He was always in her mind; she went in an everlasting dread of him. When she saw him on the downs she almost screamed; Lars Peter tried to reason her out of it.

Little Povl came home from the beach one morning feeling ill. He was sick, and his head ached, he was hot one moment and cold the next.

Ditte undressed him and put him to bed; then called her father, who was asleep in the attic.

Lars Peter hurried down. He had been out at sea the whole night and stumbled as he walked.

”Why, Povl, little man, got a tummy-ache?” asked he, putting his hand on the boy's forehead. It throbbed, and was burning hot. The boy turned his head away.

”He looks really bad,” he said, seating himself on the edge of the bed, ”he doesn't even know us. It's come on quickly, there was nothing the matter with him this morning.”

”He came home a few minutes ago--he was all gray in the face and cold, and he's burning hot now. Just listen to the way he's breathing.”

They sat by the bedside, looking at him in silence; Lars Peter held his little hand in his. It was black, with short stumpy fingers, the nails almost worn down into the flesh. He never spared himself, the little fellow, always ready; wide awake from the moment he opened his eyes. Here he lay, gasping. It was a sad sight! Was it serious?

Was there to be trouble with the children again? The accident with his first children he had shaken off--but he had none to spare now!

If anything happened to them, he had nothing more to live for--it would be the end. He understood now that they had kept him up--through the business with Sorine and all that followed. It was the children who gave him strength for each new day. All his broken hopes, all his failures, were dimmed in the cheery presence of the children; that was perhaps why he clung to them, as he did.