CHAPTER XIX

ILL LUCK FOLLOWS THE RAVEN'S CALL

On receiving information of old Maren's death, four of her children

assembled at the hut on the Naze, to look after their own interests,

and watch that no-one ran off with anything. The other four on the

other side of the globe, could of course not be there.

There was no money--not as much as a farthing was to be found, in

spite of their searching, and the splitting up of the eiderdown--and

the house was mortgaged up to the hilt. They then agreed to give

Soerine and her husband what little there was, on condition that they

provided the funeral. On this occasion, Soerine did not spare money,

she wanted the funeral to be talked about. Old Maren was put into

the ground with more grandeur than she had lived.

Ditte was at the funeral--naturally, as she was the only one who had

ever cared for the dead woman. But in the churchyard she so lost

control over herself, that Lars Peter had to take her aside, to

prevent her disturbing the parson. She had such strong feelings,

every one thought.

But in this respect Ditte changed entirely. After Granny's death,

she seemed to quieten. She went about doing her work, was not

particularly lively, but not depressed either. Lars Peter observed

that she and her mother quarreled no longer. This was a pleasant

step in the right direction!

Ditte resigned herself to her lot. It cost her an effort to remain

under the same roof as her mother; she would rather have left home.

But this would have reflected on her stepfather, and her sense of

justice rebelled against this. Then too the thought of her little

brothers and sisters kept her back; what would become of them if she

left?

She remained--and took up a definite position towards her mother.

Soerine was kind and considerate to her, so much so that it was

almost painful, but Ditte pretended not to notice it. All advances

from her mother glanced off her. She was stubborn and determined,

carrying through what she set her mind on--the mother was nothing to

her.

Soerine's eyes constantly followed her when unobserved--she was

afraid of her. Had the child been in the hut when it happened, or

had she only arrived later? Soerine was not sure whether she herself

had overturned the chair that evening in the darkness? How much did

Ditte know? That she knew something her mother could tell from her

face. She would have given much to find out, and often touched upon

the question--with her uncertain glance at the girl.

"'Tis terrible to think that Granny should die alone," she would

say, hoping the child would give herself away. But Ditte was

obstinately silent.

One day Soerine gave Lars Peter a great surprise, by putting a large

sum of money on the table in front of him. "Will that build the

house, d'you think?" asked she.

Lars Peter looked at her; he was astounded.

"I've saved it by selling eggs and butter and wool," said she; "and

by starving you," she added with an uncertain smile. "I know that

I've been stingy and a miser; but in the end it pays you as well."

It was so seldom she smiled. "How pretty it made her!" thought Lars

Peter, looking lovingly at her. She had lately been happier and more

even tempered--no doubt the prospect of getting a better home.

He counted the money--over three hundred crowns! "That's a step

forward," said he. The next evening when returning home he had

bricks on the cart; and every evening he continued bringing home

materials for building.

People who passed the Crow's Nest saw the erection of beams and

bricks shoot up, and rumors began to float round the neighborhood.

It began with a whisper that the old woman had left more than had

been spoken of. Then it was said that perhaps, after all, old Maren

had not died a natural death. And some remembered having seen Soerine

on her way from the Crow's Nest towards the hamlet, on the same

afternoon as her mother's death; little by little more was added to

this, until it was declared that Soerine had strangled her own

mother. Ditte was probably--with the exception of the mother--the

only one who knew the real facts, and nothing could be got out of

her when it affected her family--least of all on an occasion like

this. But it was strange that she should happen to arrive just at

the critical moment; and still more remarkable that she should run

to Per Nielsen's and not home with the news of her grandmother's

death.

Neither Soerine herself nor Lars Peter heard a word of these rumors.

Ditte heard it at school through the other children, but did not

repeat it. When her mother was more than usually considerate, her

hate would seethe up in her--"Devil!" it whispered inside her, and

suddenly she would feel an overwhelming desire to shout to her

father: "Mother stifled Granny with the eiderdown!" It was worst of

all when hearing her speak lovingly about the old woman. But the

thought of his grief stopped her. He went about now like a great

child, seeing nothing, and was more than ever in love with Soerine;

he was overjoyed by the change for the better. Ditte and the others

loved him as never before.

When Soerine was too hard on the children, they would hide from her

outside the house, and only appear when their father returned at

night. But since Granny's death there had been no need for this. The

mother was entirely changed; when her temper was about to flare up,

an unseen hand seemed to hold it back.

But it happened at times that Ditte could not bear to stay in the

same room with her mother, and then she would go back to her old way

and hide herself.

One evening she lay crouching in the willows. Soerine came time after

time to the door, calling her in a friendly voice, and at each call

a feeling of disgust went through the girl. "Ugh!" said she; it made

her almost sick. After having searched for her round the house,

Soerine went slowly up to the road and back again, peering about all

the time: passing so close to Ditte that her dress brushed her face:

then she went in.

Ditte was cold, and tired of hiding, but in she would not go--not

till her father came home. He might not return until late, or not at

all. Ditte had experienced this before, but then there had been a

reason for it. It was no whipping she expected now!

No, but how lovely it had been to walk in holding her father's hand.

He asked no question now, but only looked at the mother accusingly,

and could not do enough for one. Perhaps he would make an excuse for

a trip over to ... no ... this ... Ditte began to cry. It was

terrible that however much she mourned for Granny--suddenly she

would find she had forgotten Granny was dead. "Granny's dead, dear

little Granny's dead," she would repeat to herself, so that it

should not happen again, but the next minute it was just the same.

It was so disloyal!

Now that it was too late, she was sorry she had not gone in when her

mother called. She drew her feet up under her dress and began

pulling up the grass to keep herself awake. Hearing a sound from the

distance she jumped up--wheels approaching! but alas, it was not the

well-known rumbling of her father's cart.

The cart turned from the road down in the direction of the Crow's

Nest. Two men got out and went into the house; both wore caps with

gold braid on. Ditte crept down to the house, behind the willows;

her heart was beating loudly. The next moment they reappeared with

her mother between them; she was struggling and shrieking wildly.

"Lars Peter!" she cried heartrendingly in the darkness; they had to

use force to get her into the cart. Inside the house the children

could be heard crying in fear.

This sound made Ditte forget everything else, and she rushed

forward. One of the men caught her by the arm, but let her go at a

sign from the other man. "D'you belong to the house?" asked he.

Ditte nodded.

"Then go in to the little ones and tell them not to be afraid....

Drive on!"

Quick as lightning, Soerine put both legs over the side of the cart,

but the policemen held her back. "Ditte, help me!" she screamed, as

the cart swung up the road and disappeared.

* * * * *

Lars Peter was about three miles from the Crow's Nest, turning into

the road beside the grocer's, when a cart drove past; in the light

from the shop windows he caught sight of gold-braided caps. "The

police are busy tonight!" said he, and shrugged his shoulders. He

proceeded up the road and began humming again, mechanically flicking

the nag with the whip as usual. He sat bent forward, thinking of

them all at home, of what Soerine would have for him tonight--he was

starving with hunger--and of the children. It was a shame that he

was so late--it was pleasant when they all four rushed to meet him.

Perhaps, after all, they might not be in bed.

The children stood out on the road, all four of them, waiting for

him; the little ones dared not stay in the house. He stood as though

turned to stone, holding on to the cart for support, while Ditte

with tears told what had happened; it looked as if the big strong

man would collapse altogether. Then he pulled himself together and

went into the house with them, comforting them all the time; the nag

of its own accord followed with the cart.

He helped Ditte put the children to bed. "Can you look after the

little ones tonight?" he asked, when they had finished. "I must

drive to town and fetch mother--it's all a misunderstanding."

His voice sounded hollow.

Ditte nodded and followed him out to the cart.

He turned and set the horse in motion, but suddenly he stopped.

"You know all about it, better than any one else, Ditte," said he.

"You can clear your mother." He waited quietly, without looking at

her, and listened. There was no answer.

Then he turned the cart slowly round and began to unharness.

PART II

CHAPTER I

MORNING AT THE CROW'S NEST

Klavs was munching busily in his stall, with a great deal of noise.

He had his own peculiar way of feeding; always separating the corn

from the straw, however well Lars Peter had mixed it. He would first

half empty the manger--so as to lay a foundation. Then, having still

plenty of room for further operations, he would push the whole

together in the middle of the manger, blowing vigorously, so that

the straw flew in all directions, and proceed to nuzzle all the

corn. This once devoured, he would scrape his hoofs on the stone

floor and whinny.

Ditte laughed. "He's asking for more sugar," said she. "Just like

little Povl when he's eating porridge; he scrapes the top off too."

But Lars Peter growled. "Eat it all up, you old skeleton," said he.

"These aren't times to pick and choose."

The nag would answer with a long affectionate whinny, and go on as

before.

At last Lars Peter would get up and go to the manger, mixing the

straw together in the middle. "Eat it up, you obstinate old thing!"

said he, giving the horse a slap on the back. The horse, smelling

the straw, turned its head towards Lars Peter; and looked

reproachfully at him as though saying: "What's the matter with you

today?" And nothing else would serve, but he must take a handful of

corn and mix it with the straw. "But no tricks now," said he,

letting his big hand rest on the creature's back. And this time

everything was eaten up.

Lars Peter came back and sat under the lantern again.

"Old Klavs is wise," said Ditte, "he knows exactly how far to go.

But he's very faddy all the same."

"I'll tell you, he knows that we're going on a long trip; and wants

a big feed beforehand," answered Lars Peter as if in excuse. "Ay,

he's a wise rascal!"

"But pussy's much sharper than that," said Ditte proudly, "for she

can open the pantry door herself. I couldn't understand how she got

in and drank the milk; I thought little Povl had left the door open,

and was just going to smack him for it. But yesterday I came behind

pussy, and can you imagine what she did? Jumped up on the sink, and

flew against the pantry door, striking the latch with one paw so it

came undone. Then she could just stand on the floor and push the

door open."

They sat under the lantern, which hung from one of the beams,

sorting rags, which lay round them in bundles; wool, linen and

cotton--all carefully separated. Outside it was cold and dark, but

here it was cosy. The old nag was working at his food like a

threshing machine, the cow lay panting with well-being as it chewed

the cud, and the hens were cackling sleepily from the hen-house. The

new pig was probably dreaming of its mother--now and again a sucking

could be heard. It had only left its mother a few days ago.

"Is this wool?" asked Ditte, holding out a big rag.

Lars Peter examined it, drew out a thread and put it in the flame of

the lantern.

"It should be wool," said he at last, "for it melts and smells of

horn. But Heaven knows," he felt the piece of cloth again

meditatively. "Maybe 'tis some of those new-fashioned swindles; 'tis

said they can make plant stuff, so folks can't see the difference

between it and wool. And they make silk of glass too, I'm told."

Ditte jumped up and opened the shutter, listening, then disappeared

across the yard. She returned shortly afterwards.

"Was anything wrong with the children?" asked Lars Peter.

"'Twas only little Povl crying; but how can they make silk of

glass?" asked she suddenly, "glass is so brittle!"

"Ay, 'tis the new-fashioned silk though, and may be true enough. If

you see a scrap of silk amongst the rags 'tis nearly always

broken."

"And what queer thing's glass made of?"

"Ay, you may well ask that--if I could only tell you. It can't be

any relation to ice, as it doesn't melt even when the sun shines on

it. Maybe--no, I daren't try explaining it to you. 'Tis a pity not

to have learned things properly; and think things out oneself."

"Can any folks do that?"

"Ay, there _must_ be some, or how would everything begin--if no one

hit on them. I used to think and ask about everything; but I've

given it up now, I never got to the bottom of it. This with your

mother doesn't make a fellow care much for life either." Lars Peter

sighed.

Ditte bent over her work. When this topic came up, it was better to

be silent.

For a few minutes neither spoke. Lars Peter's hands were working

slowly, and at last stopped altogether. He sat staring straight

ahead without perceiving anything; he was often like this of late.

He rose abruptly, and went towards the shutter facing east, and

opened it; it was still night, but the stars were beginning to pale.

The nag was calling from the stall, quietly, almost unnoticeably.

Lars Peter fastened the shutter, and stumbled out to the horse.

Ditte followed him with her eyes.

"What d'you want now?" he asked in a dull voice, stroking the horse.

The nag pushed its soft nose into his shoulder. It was the gentlest

caress Lars Peter knew, and he gave it another supply of corn.

Ditte turned her head towards them--she felt anxious over her

father's present condition. It was no good going about hanging one's

head.

"Is it going to have another feed?" said she, trying to rouse him.

"That animal'll eat us out of house and home!"

"Ay, but it's got something to do--and we've a long journey in front

of us." Lars Peter came back and began sorting again.

"How many miles is it to Copenhagen then?"

"Six or seven hours' drive, I should say; we've got a load."

"Ugh, what a long way." Ditte shivered. "And it's so cold."

"Ay, if I'm to go alone. But you might go with me! 'Tisn't a

pleasant errand, and the time'll go slowly all that long way. And

one can't get away from sad thoughts!"

"I can't leave home," answered Ditte shortly.

For about the twentieth time Lars Peter tried to talk her over. "We

can easily get Johansens to keep an eye on everything--and can send

the children over to them for a few days," said he.

But Ditte was not to be shaken. Her mother was nothing to her,

people could say what they liked; she _would_ not go and see her in

prison. And her father ought to stop talking like that or she would

be angry; it reminded her of Granny. She hated her mother with all

her heart, in a manner strange for her years. She never mentioned

her, and when the others spoke of her, she would be dumb. Good and

self-sacrificing as she was in all other respects, on this point she

was hard as a stone.

To Lars Peter's good-natured mind this hatred was a mystery. However

much he tried to reconcile her, in the end he had to give up.

"Look and see if there's anything you want for the house," said he.

"I want a packet of salt, the stuff they have at the grocer's is too

coarse to put on the table. And I must have a little spice. I'm

going to try making a cake myself, bought cakes get dry so quickly."

"D'you think you can?" said Lars Peter admiringly.

"There's more to be got," Ditte continued undisturbed, "but I'd

better write it down; or you'll forget half the things like you did

last time."

"Ay, that's best," answered Lars Peter meekly. "My memory's not as

good as it used to be. I don't know--I used to do hundreds of

errands without forgetting one. Maybe 'tis with your mother. And

then belike--a man gets old. Grandfather, he could remember like a

printed book, to the very last."

Ditte got up quickly and shook out her frock.

"There!" said she with a yawn. They put the rags in sacks and tied

them up.

"This'll fetch a little money," said Lars Peter dragging the sacks

to the door, where heaps of old iron and other metals lay in

readiness to be taken to the town. "And what's the time now?--past

six. Ought to be daylight soon."

As Ditte opened the door the frosty air poured in. In the east, over

the lake, the skies were green, with a touch of gold--it was

daybreak. In the openings in the ice the birds began to show signs

of life. It was as if the noise from the Crow's Nest had ushered in

the day for them, group after group began screaming and flew towards

the sea.

"It'll be a fine day," said Lars Peter as he dragged out the cart.

"There ought to be a thaw soon." He began loading the cart, while

Ditte went in to light the fire for the coffee.

As Lars Peter came in, the flames from the open fireplace were

flickering towards the ceiling, the room was full of a delicious

fragrance, coffee and something or other being fried. Kristian was

kneeling in front of the fire, feeding it with heather and dried

sticks, and Ditte stood over a spluttering frying-pan, stirring with

all her might. The two little ones sat on the end of the bench

watching the operations with glee, the reflection of the fire

gleaming in their eyes. The daylight peeped in hesitatingly through

the frozen window-panes.

"Come along, father!" said Ditte, putting the frying-pan on the

table on three little wooden supports. "'Tis only fried potatoes,

with a few slices of bacon, but you're to eat it all yourself!"

Lars Peter laughed and sat down at the table. He soon, however, as

was his wont, began giving some to the little ones; they got every

alternate mouthful. They stood with their faces over the edge of the

table, and wide open mouths--like two little birds. Kristian had his

own fork, and stood between his father's knees and helped himself.

Ditte stood against the table looking on, with a big kitchen knife

in her hand.

"Aren't you going to have anything?" asked Lars Peter, pushing the

frying-pan further on to the table.

"There's not a scrap more than you can eat yourself; we'll have

something afterwards," answered Ditte, half annoyed. But Lars Peter

calmly went on feeding them. He did not enjoy his food when there

were no open mouths round him.

"'Tis worth while waking up for this, isn't it?" said he, laughing

loudly; his voice was deep and warm again.

As he drank his coffee, Soester and Povl hurried into their clothes;

they wanted to see him off. They ran in between his and the nag's

legs as he was harnessing.

The sun was just rising. There was a red glitter over the

ice-covered lake and the frosted landscape, the reeds crackled as if

icicles were being crushed. From the horse's nostrils came puffs of

air, showing white in the morning light, and the children's quick

short breaths were like gusts of steam. They jumped round the cart

in their cloth shoes like two frolicsome young puppies. "Love to

Mother!" they shouted over and over again.

Lars Peter bent down from the top of the load, where he was half

buried between the sacks. "Shan't I give her your love too?" asked

he. Ditte turned away her head.

Then he took his whip and cracked it. And slowly Klavs set off on

his journey.

CHAPTER II

THE HIGHROAD

"He's even more fond of the highroad than a human being," Lars Peter

used to say of Klavs, and this was true; the horse was always in a

good temper whenever preparations were being made for a long

journey. For the short trips Klavs did not care at all; it was the

real highroad trips with calls to right and left, and stopping at

night in some stable, which appealed to him. What he found to enjoy

in it would be difficult to say; hardly for the sake of a new

experience--as with a man. Though God knows--'twas a wise enough

rascal! At all events Klavs liked to feel himself on the highroad,

and the longer the trip the happier he would be. He took it all with

the same good temper--up hills where he had to strain in the shafts,

and downhill where the full weight of the cart made itself felt. He

would only stop when the hill was unusually steep--to give Lars

Peter an opportunity of stretching his legs.

To Lars Peter the highroad was life itself. It gave daily bread to

him and his, and satisfied his love of roaming. Such a piece of

highroad between rows of trimmed poplars with endless by-ways off

to farms and houses was full of possibilities. One could take this

turning or that, according to one's mood at the moment, or leave the

choice of the road to the nag. It always brought forth something.

And the highroad was only the outward sign of an endless chain. If

one liked to wander straight on, instead of turning off, ay, then

one would get far out in the world--as far as one cared. He did not

do it of course; but the thought that it could be done was something

in itself.

On the highroad he met people of his own blood: tramps who crawled

up without permission on to his load, drawing a bottle from their

pocket, offering it to him, and talking away. They were people who

traveled far; yesterday they had come from Helsingoer; in a week's

time they would perhaps be over the borders in the south and down in

Germany. They wore heavily nailed boots, and had a hollow instead of

a stomach, a handkerchief round their throat and mittens on their

red wrists--and were full of good humor. Klavs knew them quite well,

and stopped of his own accord.

Klavs also stopped for poor women and school-children; Lars Peter

and he agreed that all who cared to drive should have that pleasure.

But respectable people they passed by; they of course would not

condescend to drive with the rag and bone man.

They both knew the highroad with its by-ways equally well. When

anything was doing, such as a thrashing-machine in the field, or a

new house being built, one or other of them always stopped. Lars

Peter pretended that it was the horse's inquisitiveness. "Well, have

you seen enough?" he growled when they had stood for a short while,

and gathered up the reins. Klavs did not mind the deception in the

least, and in no way let it interfere with his own inclinations;

Klavs liked his own way.

Things must be black indeed, if the highroad did not put the rag and

bone man into a good temper. The calm rhythmic trot of the nag's

hoofs against the firm road encouraged him to hum. The trees, the

milestones with the crown above King Christian the Fifth's initials,

the endless perspective ahead of him, with all its life and

traffic--all had a cheering effect on him.

The snow had been trodden down, and only a thin layer covered with

ice remained, which rang under the horse's big hoofs. The thin light

air made breathing easy, and the sun shone redly over the snow. It

was impossible to be anything but light-hearted. But then he

remembered the object of the drive, and all was dark again.

Lars Peter had never done much thinking on his own account, or

criticized existence. When something or other happened, it was

because it could not be otherwise--and what was the good of

speculating about it? When he was on the cart all these hours, he

only hummed a kind of melody and had a sense of well-being. "I

wonder what mother'll have for supper?" he would think, or "maybe

the kiddies'll come to meet me today." That was all. He took bad and

good trade as it came, and joy and sorrow just the same; he knew

from experience that rain and sunshine come by turns. It had been

thus in his parents' and grandparents' time, and his own had

confirmed it. Then why speculate? If the bad weather lasted longer

than usual, well, the good was so much better when it came.

And complaints were no good. Other people beside himself had to take

things as they came. He had never had any strong feeling that there

was a guiding hand behind it all.

But now he _had_ to think, however useless he found it. Suddenly

something would take him mercilessly by the neck, and always face

him with the same hopeless: _Why_? A thousand times the thought of

Soerine would crop up, making everything heavy and sad.

Lars Peter had been thoroughly out of luck before--and borne it as

being part of his life's burden. He had a thick skull and a broad

back--what good were they but for burdens; it was not his business

to whimper or play the weakling. And fate had heaped troubles upon

him: if he could bear that, then he can bear this!--till at last he

would break down altogether under the burden. But his old stolidness

was gone.

He had begun to think of his lot--and could fathom nothing: it was

all so meaningless, now he compared himself with others. As soon as

ever he got into the cart, and the nag into its old trot, these sad

thoughts would reappear, and his mind would go round and round the

subject until he was worn out. He could not unravel it. Why was he

called the rag and bone man, and treated as if he were unclean? He

earned his living as honestly as any one else. Why should his

children be jeered at like outcasts--and his home called the Crow's

Nest? And why did the bad luck follow him?--and fate? There was a

great deal now that he did not understand, but which must be cleared

up. Misfortune, which had so often knocked at his door without

finding him at home, had now at last got its foot well inside the

door.

However much Lars Peter puzzled over Soerine, he could find no way

out of it. It was his nature to look on the bright side of things;

and should it be otherwise they were no sooner over than forgotten.

He had only seen her good points. She had been a clever wife, good

at keeping the home together--and a hard worker. And she had given

him fine children, that alone made up for everything. He had been

fond of her, and proud of her firmness and ambition to get on in

the world. And now as a reward for her pride she was in prison! For

a long time he had clung to the hope that it must be a mistake.

"Maybe they'll let her out one day," he thought. "Then she'll be

standing in the doorway when you return, and it's all been a

misunderstanding." It was some time now since the sentence had

been pronounced, so it must be right. But it was equally difficult

to understand!

There lay a horseshoe on the road. The nag stopped, according to

custom, and turned its head. Lars Peter roused himself from his

thoughts and peered in front of the horse, then drove on again.

Klavs could not understand it, but left it at that: Lars Peter could

no longer be bothered to get off the cart to pick up an old

horseshoe.

He began whistling and looked out over the landscape to keep his

thoughts at bay. Down in the marsh they were cutting ice for the

dairies--it was high time too! And the farmer from Gadby was driving

off in his best sledge, with his wife by his side. Others could

enjoy themselves! If only he had his wife in the cart--driving in to

the Capital. There now--he was beginning all over again! Lars Peter

looked in the opposite direction, but what good was that. He could

not get rid of his thoughts.

A woman came rushing up the highroad, from a little farm. "Lars

Peter!" she cried. "Lars Peter!" The nag stopped.

"Are you going to town?" she asked breathlessly, leaning on the

cart.

"Ay, that I am," Lars Peter answered quietly, as if afraid of her

guessing his errand.

"Oh! would you mind buying us a chamber?"

"What! you're getting very grand!" Lars Peter's mouth twisted in

some semblance of a smile.

"Ay, the child's got rheumatic fever, and the doctor won't let her

go outside," the woman explained excusingly.

"I'll do that for you. How big d'you want it?"

"Well, as we must have it, it might as well be a big one. Here's

sixpence, it can't be more than that." She gave him the money

wrapped in a piece of paper, and the nag set off again.

When they had got halfway, Lars Peter turned off to an inn. The

horse needed food, and something enlivening for himself would not

come amiss. He felt downhearted. He drove into the yard, partly

unharnessed, and put on its nosebag.

The fat inn-keeper came to the door, peering out with his small

pig's eyes, which were deeply embedded in a huge expanse of flesh,

like two raisins in rising dough. "Why, here comes the rag and bone

man from Sand!" he shouted, shaking with laughter. "What brings such

fine company today, I wonder?"

Lars Peter had heard this greeting before, and laughed at it, but

today it affected him differently. He had come to the end of his

patience. His blood began to rise. The long-suffering, thoughtful,

slothful Lars Peter turned his head with a jerk--showing a gleam of

teeth. But he checked himself, took off his cape, and spread it over

the horse.

"'Tis he for sure," began the inn-keeper again. "His lordship of the

Crow's Nest, doing us the honor."

But this time Lars Peter blazed out.

"Hold your mouth, you beer-swilling pig!" he thundered, stepping

towards him with his heavy boots, "or I'll soon close it for you!"

The inn-keeper's open mouth closed with a snap. His small pig's

eyes, which almost disappeared when he laughed, opened widely in

terror. He turned round and rushed in. When Lars Peter, with a frown

on his face, came tramping into the tap-room, he was bustling about,

whistling softly with his fat tongue between his teeth and looking

rather small.

"A dram and a beer," growled the rag and bone man, seating himself

by the table and beginning to unpack his food.

The inn-keeper came towards him with a bottle and two glasses. He

glanced uncertainly at Lars Peter, and poured out two brimming

glassfuls. "Your health, old friend," said he ingratiatingly. The

rag and bone man drank without answering his challenge; he had given

the fat lump a fright, and now he was making up to him. It was odd

to be able to make people shiver--quite a new feeling. But he rather

liked it. And it did him good to give vent to his anger; he had a

feeling of well-being after having let off steam. Here sat this

insolent landlord trying to curry favor, just because one would not

put up with everything. Lars Peter felt a sudden inclination to put

his foot upon his neck, and give him a thorough shock. Or bend him

over so that head and heels met. Why should he not use his superior

strength once in a while? Then perhaps people would treat him with

something like respect.

The inn-keeper sank down on a chair in front of him. "Well, Lars

Peter Hansen, so you've become a socialist?" he began, blinking his

eyes.

Lars Peter dropped his heavy fist on the table so that everything

jumped--the inn-keeper included. "I'm done with being treated like

dirt--do you understand! I'm just as good as you and all the rest of

them. And if I hear any more nonsense, then to hell with you all."

"Of course, of course! 'twas only fun, Lars Peter Hansen. And how's

every one at home? Wife and children well?" He still blinked

whenever Lars Peter moved.

Lars Peter did not answer him, but helped himself to another dram.

The rascal knew quite well all about Soerine.

"D'you know--you should have brought the wife with you. Womenfolk

love a trip to town," the inn-keeper tried again. Lars Peter looked

suspiciously at him.

"What d'you mean by this tomfoolery?" he said darkly. "You know

quite well that she's in there."

"What--is she? Has she run away from you then?"

Lars Peter took another glass. "She's locked up, and you know

it--curse you!" He put the glass down heavily on the table.

The landlord saw it was no good pretending ignorance. "I think I do

remember hearing something about it," said he. "How was it--got into

trouble with the law somehow?"

The rag and bone man gave a hollow laugh. "I should think so! She

killed her own mother, 'tis said." The spirit was beginning to

affect him.

"Dear, dear! was it so bad as that?" sighed the inn-keeper, turning

and twisting as if he had a pain inside. "And now you're going to

the King, I suppose?"

Lars Peter lifted his head. "To the King?" he asked. The thought

struck him, perhaps this was the miracle he had been hoping for.

"Ay, the King decides whether it's to be life or death, you know. If

there's any one he can't stand looking at, he only says: 'Take that

fellow and chop off his head!' And he can let folk loose again too,

if he likes."

"And how's the likes of me to get near the King?" The rag and bone

man laughed hopelessly.

"Oh, that's easily done," said the inn-keeper airily. "Every one in

the country has the right to see the King. When you get in there,

just ask where he lives, any one can tell you."

"Hm, I know that myself," said Lars Peter with assurance. "I was

once nearly taken for the guards myself--for the palace. If it

hadn't been for having flat feet, then----"

"Well, it isn't quite as easy as you think; he's got so many

mansions. The King's got no-one to associate with, you see, as

there's only one King in every land, and talk to his wife always, no

man could stand--the King as little as we others. That's why he gets

bored, and moves from one castle to another, and plays at making a

visitor of himself. So you'd better make inquiries. 'Twouldn't come

amiss to get some one to speak for you either. You've got money, I

suppose?"

"I've got goods on the cart for over a hundred crowns," said Lars

Peter with pride.

"That's all right, because in the Capital nearly all the doors need

oiling before they are opened. Maybe the castle gate will creak a

little, but then----" The inn-keeper rubbed one palm against the

other.

"Then we'll oil it," said Lars Peter, with a wave of his arm as he

got up.

He had plenty of courage now, and hummed as he harnessed the horse

and got into the cart. Now he knew what to do, and he was anxious to

act. Day and night he had been faced with the question of getting

Soerine out of prison, but how? It was no good trying to climb the

prison wall at night, and fetch her out, as one read of in books.

But he could go to the King! Had he not himself nearly been taken

into the King's service as a guardsman? "He's got the height and the

build," they had said. Then they had noticed his flat feet and

rejected him; but still he had said he almost----

CHAPTER III

LARS PETER SEEKS THE KING

Lars Peter Hansen knew nothing of the Capital. As a boy he had been

there with his father, but since then no opportunity had arisen for

a trip to Copenhagen. He and Soerine had frequently spoken of taking

their goods there and selling direct to the big firms, instead of

going the round of the small provincial dealers, but nothing had

ever come of it beyond talk. But today the thing was to be done. He

had seen posters everywhere advertising: "The largest house in

Scandinavia for rags and bones and old metals," and "highest prices

given." It was the last statement which had attracted him.

Lars Peter sat reckoning up, as he drove along the Lyngby road

towards the eastern end of the city. Going by prices at home he had

a good hundred crowns' worth of goods on the cart; and here it ought

to fetch at least twenty-five crowns more. That would perhaps pay

for Soerine's release. This was killing two birds with one stone,

getting Soerine out--and making money on the top of it! All that was

necessary was to keep wide awake. He lifted his big battered hat and

ran his hand through his tousled mop of hair--he was in a happy

mood.

At Trianglen he stopped and inquired his way. Then driving through

Blegdamsvej he turned into a side street. Over a high wooden paling

could be seen mountains of old rusty iron: springs and empty tins,

bent iron beds, dented coal-boxes red with rust, and pails. This

must be the place. On the signboard stood: _Levinsohn & Sons,

Export_.

The rag and bone man turned in through the gateway and stopped

bewildered as he came into the yard. Before him were endless

erections of storing-places and sheds, one behind the other, and

inclosures with masses of rags, dirty cotton-wool and rusty iron and

tin-ware. From every side other yards opened out, and beyond these

more again. If he and Klavs went gathering rags until Doomsday, they

would never be able to fill one yard. He sat and gazed, overwhelmed.

Involuntarily he had taken his hat off, but then, gathering himself

together, he drove into one of the sheds and jumped down from the

cart. Hearing voices, he opened the door. In the darkness sat some

young girls sorting some filth or other, which looked like

blood-stained rags.

"Well, well, what a dove-cote to land in," broke out Lars Peter in

high spirits. "What's that you're doing, sorting angels' feathers?"

The room was filled with his good-humored chuckles.

As quick as lightning one of the girls grasped a bundle and threw

it at him. He only just escaped it by bending his head, and the

thing brought up against the door-post. It was cotton-wool covered

with blood and matter--from the hospital dust-bins. He knew that

there was a trade in this in the Capital. "Puh!" he said in disgust,

and hurried out. "Filthy, pish!" A shout of laughter went up from

the girls.

From the head-office a little spectacled gentleman came tripping

towards him. "What--what are you doing here?" he barked from afar,

almost falling over himself in his eagerness. "It--it's no business

of yours prying in here!" He was dreadfully dirty and unshaven, his

collar and frock-coat looked as if they had been fished up from a

ragbag. No, the trade never made Lars Peter as dirty as that; why,

the dirt was in layers on this old man. But of course--this business

was ever so much bigger than his own! Good-naturedly, he took off

his hat.

"Are you Mr. Levinsohn?" asked he, when the old man had finished.

"I've got some goods."

The old man stared at him speechless with surprise that any one

could be so impudent as to take him for the head of the firm. "Oh,

you're looking for Mr. Levinsohn," he said searchingly, "indeed?"

"Ay, I've got some goods I want to sell."

Now the old man understood. "And you must see him, himself--it's a

matter of life and death--eh? No one else in the whole world can buy

those goods from you, or the shaft'll break and the rags'll fall out

and break to pieces, and Heaven knows what! So you must see Mr.

Levinsohn himself." He looked the rag and bone man up and down,

almost bursting with scorn.

"Well, I shouldn't mind seeing him himself," Lars Peter patiently

said.

"Then you'd better drive down to the Riviera with your dust-cart, my

good man."

"What, where?"

"Yes, to the Riviera!" The old man rubbed his hands. He was enjoying

himself immensely. "It's only about fourteen hundred miles from

here--over there towards the south. The best place to find him is

Monte Carlo--between five and seven. And his wife and daughters--I

suppose you want to see them too? Perhaps a little flirtation? A

little walk--underneath the palm-trees, what?"

"Good Lord! is he a grand sort like that," said Lars Peter,

crestfallen. "Well--maybe I can trade with you?"

"At your service, Mr. Jens Petersen from--Sengeloese; if you, sir,

will condescend to deal with a poor devil like me."

"I may just as well tell you that my name is Lars Peter Hansen--from

Sand."

"Indeed--the firm feels honored, highly honored, I assure you!" The

old man bustled round the cartload, taking in the value at a glance,

and talking all the time. Suddenly he seized the nag by the head,

but quickly let go, as Klavs snapped at him. "We'll drive it down

to the other yard," said he.

"I think we'd better leave the goods on the cart, until we've agreed

about the price," Lars Peter thought; he was beginning to be

somewhat suspicious.

"No, my man, we must have the whole thing emptied out, so that we

can see what we're buying," said the old man in quite another tone.

"That's not our way."

"And I don't sell till I know my price. It's all weighed and sorted,

Lars Peter's no cheat."

"No, no, of course not. So it's really you? Lars Peter Hansen--and

from Sand too--and no cheat. Come with me into the office then."

The rag and bone man followed him. He was a little bewildered, was

the man making a fool of him, or did he really know him? Round about

at home Lars Peter of Sand was known by every one; had his name as a

buyer preceded him?

He had all the weights in his head, and gave the figures, while the

old man put them down. In the midst of this he suddenly realized

that the cart had disappeared. He rushed out, and down in the other

yard found two men engaged in unloading the cart. For the second

time today Lars Peter lost his temper. "See and get those things on

to the cart again," he shouted, picking up his whip. The two men

hastily took his measure; then without a word reloaded the cart.

He was no longer in doubt that they would cheat him. The cursed

knaves! If they had emptied it all out on to the heap, then he could

have whistled for his own price. He drove the cart right up to the

office door, and kept the reins on his arm. The old fox stood by his

desk, looking at him out of the corners of his eyes. "Were they

taking your beautiful horse from you?" he asked innocently.

"No, 'twas something else they wanted to have their fingers in,"

growled Lars Peter; he would show them that he could be sarcastic

too. "Now then, will you buy the goods or not?"

"Of course we'll buy them. Look here, I've reckoned it all up. It'll

be exactly fifty-six crowns--highest market price."

"Oh, go to the devil with your highest market price!" Lars Peter

began mounting the cart again.

The old man looked at him in surprise through his spectacles: "Then

you won't sell?"

"No, that I won't. I'd rather take it home again--and get double the

price."

"Well, if you say so of course--Lars Peter Hansen's no cheat. But

what are we to do, my man? My conscience won't allow me to send you

dragging those things home again--it would be a crime to this

beautiful horse." He approached the nag as if to pat it, but Klavs

laid back his ears and lashed his tail. This praise of his horse

softened Lars Peter, and the end of it was that he let the load go

for ninety crowns. A cigar was thrown into the bargain. "It's from

the cheap box, so please don't light it until you get outside the

gate," said the impudent old knave. "Come again soon!"

Thanks! It would be some time before he came here again--a pack of

robbers! He asked the way to an inn in Vestergade, where people from

his neighborhood generally stayed, and there he unharnessed.

The yard was full of vehicles. Farmers with pipes hanging from their

lips and fur-coats unbuttoned were loading their wagons. Here and

there between the vehicles were loiterers, with broad gold chains

across their chest and half-closed eyes. One of them came up to Lars

Peter. "Are you doing anything tonight?" said he. "There's a couple

of us here--retired farmers--going to have a jolly evening together.

We want a partner." He drew a pack of cards from his breast-pocket,

and began shuffling them.

No, Lars Peter had no time. "All the same, thanks." "Who are those

men?" he asked the stable-boy.

"Oh, they help the farmers to find their way about town, when it's

dark," answered the man, laughing.

"Are they paid for that then?" asked Lars Peter thoughtfully.

"Oh, yes--and sometimes a good deal. But then they fix up other

things besides--lodging for the night and everything. Even a wife

they'll get for you, if you like."

"Well, I don't care about that. If they'd only help a man to get

hold of his own wife!"

"I don't think they do that. But you can try."

No, Lars Peter would not do that. He realized these were folk it was

better to avoid. Then he sauntered out into the town. At Hauserplads

there was an inn kept by a man he knew--he would look him up. Maybe

he could give him a little help in managing the affair.

The street-lamps were just being lit, although it was not nearly

dark; evidently there was no lack of money here. Lars Peter

clattered in his big boots down towards Frue Plads, examining the

houses as he went. This stooping giant, with faded hat and cape,

looked like a wandering piece of the countryside. When he asked the

way his voice rang through the street--although it was not loud for

him. People stopped and laughed. Then he laughed back again and made

some joke or other, which, though he did not mean it, sounded like a

storm between the rows of houses. Gradually a crowd of children and

young people gathered and followed in his wake. When they shouted

after him he took it with good humor, but was not altogether at his

ease until he reached the tavern. Here he took out his red pocket

handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

"Hullo! Hans Mattisen," he shouted down into the dark cellar. "D'you

know an old friend again, what?" His joy over having got so far made

his voice sound still more overpowering than usual; there was

hardly room for it under the low ceiling.

"Not so fast, not so fast!" came from a jolly voice behind the

counter, "wait until I get a light."

When the gas was lit, they found they did not know each other at

all. Hans Mattisen had left years ago. "Don't you worry about that,"

said the inn-keeper, "sit down." After Lars Peter had seated

himself, he was given some lobscouse and a small bottle of wine, and

soon felt at peace with the world.

The inn-keeper was a pleasant man with a keen sense of humor. Lars

Peter was glad of a talk with him, and before he was aware of it,

had poured out all his troubles. Well, he had come down here to get

advice; and he had not gone far wrong either.

"Is that all?" said the inn-keeper, "we'll soon put that right.

We've only to send a message to the Bandmaster."

"Who's that?" asked Lars Peter.

"Oh, he has the cleverest head in the world; there's not a piece of

music but he can manage it. Curious fellow--never met one like him.

For example, he can't bear dogs, because once a police-dog took him

for an ordinary thief. He never can forget that. Therefore, if he

asks, you've only to say that dogs are a damned nuisance--almost as

loathsome as the police. He can't stand them either. Hi! Katrine,"

he called into the kitchen, "get hold of the Bandmaster quick, and

tell him to come along--give him plenty of drink too, for he must

be thawed before you get anything out of him."

"No fear about that," said Lars Peter airily, putting a ten-crown

piece on the table, which the inn-keeper quickly pocketed. "That's

right, old man--that's doing the thing properly," said he

appreciatively. "I'll see to the whiskey. You're a gentleman, that's

certain--you've got a well-filled pocketbook, I suppose?"

"I've got about a hundred crowns," answered Lars Peter, fearing it

would not suffice.

"You shall see your wife!" shouted the inn-keeper, shaking Lars

Peter's hand violently. "You shall see your wife as certain as I'm

your friend! Perhaps she'll be with you tonight. What do you think

of that, eh, old man?" He put his arm round Lars Peter's shoulders,

shaking him jovially.

Lars Peter laughed and was moved--he almost had tears in his eyes.

He was a little overcome by the warmth of the room and the whiskey.

A tall thin gentleman came down into the cellar. He wore a black

frock-coat, but was without waistcoat and collar--perhaps because he

had been sent for in such a hurry. He had spectacles on, and looked

on the whole a man of authority. He had a distinguished appearance,

somewhat like a town-crier or a conjurer from the market-place. His

voice was shrill and cracked, and he had an enormous larynx.

The inn-keeper treated him with great deference. "G'day, sir," said

he, bowing low--"here's a man wants advice. He's had an accident,

his wife's having a holiday at the King's expense."

The conductor glanced rather contemptuously at the rag and bone

man's big shabby figure. But the inn-keeper winked one eye, and

said, "I mustn't forget the beer-man." He went behind the desk and

wrote on a slate, "100." The Bandmaster glanced at the figure and

nodded to himself, then sat down and began to question Lars

Peter--down to every detail. He considered for a few minutes, and

then said, turning towards the inn-keeper, "Alma must tackle

this--she's playing with the _princess_, you know."

"Yes, of course!" shouted the inn-keeper, delightedly. "Of course

Alma can put it right, but tonight----?" He looked significantly at

the Bandmaster.

"Leave it to me, my dear friend. Just you leave it to me," said the

other firmly.

Lars Peter tried hard to follow their conversation. They were funny

fellows to listen to, although the case itself was serious enough.

He began to feel drowsy with the heat of the room--after his long

day in the fresh air.

"Well, my good man, you wish to see the King?" said the Bandmaster,

taking hold of the lapel of his coat. Lars Peter pulled himself

together.

"I'd like to try that way, yes," he answered with strained

attention.

"Very well, then listen. I'll introduce you to my niece, who plays

with the princess. This is how it stands, you see--but it's

between ourselves--the _princess_ rather runs off the lines at

times, she gets so sick of things, but it's incognito, you

understand--unknowingly, we say--and then my niece is always by

her side. You'll meet her--and the rest you must do yourself."

"H'm, I'm not exactly dressed for such fine society," said Lars

Peter, looking down at himself. "And I'm out of practice with the

womenfolk--if it had been in my young days, now----!"

"Don't worry about that," said his friend, "people of high degree

often have the most extraordinary taste. It would be damned strange

if the _princess_ doesn't fall in love with you. And if she once

takes a fancy to you, you may bet your last dollar that your case is

in good hands."

The inn-keeper diligently refilled their glasses, and Lars Peter

looked more and more brightly at things. He was overcome by the

Bandmaster's grand connections, and his ability in finding ways and

means--exceedingly clever people he had struck upon. And when Miss

Alma came, full-figured and with a curled fringe, his whole face

beamed. "What a lovely girl," said he warmly, "just the kind I'd

have liked in the old days."

Miss Alma at once wanted to sit on his knee, but Lars Peter kept her

at arms' length. "I've got a wife," said he seriously. Soerine

should have no grounds for complaint. A look from the Bandmaster

made Alma draw herself up.

"Just wait until the _princess_ comes, then you'll see a lady," said

he to Lars Peter.

"She's not coming. She's at a ball tonight," said Miss Alma with

resentment.

"Then we'll go to the palace and find her." The Bandmaster took his

hat, and they all got up.

Outside in the street, a half-grown girl ran up and whispered

something to him.

"Sorry, but I must go," said he to Lars Peter--"my mother-in-law is

at death's door. But you'll have a good time all right."

"Come along," cried Miss Alma, taking the rag and bone man by the

arm. "We two are going to see life!"

"Hundred--er--kisses, Alma! don't forget," called the Bandmaster

after them. His voice sounded like a market crier's.

"All right," answered Miss Alma, with a laugh.

"What's that he says?" asked Lars Peter wonderingly.

"Don't you bother your head about that fool," she answered, and drew

him along.

* * * * *

Next morning Lars Peter woke early--as usual. There was a curious

illumination in the sky, and with terror he tumbled quickly out of

bed. Was the barn on fire? Then suddenly he remembered that he was

not at home; the gleam of light on the window-panes came from the

street lamps, which struggled with the dawn of day.

He found himself in a dirty little room, at the top of the house--as

far as he could judge from the roofs all round him. How in the name

of goodness had he got here?

He seated himself on the edge of the bed, and began dressing. Slowly

one thing after another began to dawn on him. His head throbbed like

a piston rod--headache! He heard peculiar sounds: chattering women,

hoarse rough laughter, oaths--and from outside came the peal of

church bells. Through all the noise and tobacco smoke came visions

of a fair fringe, and soft red lips--the _princess_! But how did he

come to be here, in an iron bed with a lumpy mattress, and ragged

quilt?

He felt for his watch to see the time--the old silver watch had

vanished! Anxiously he searched his inner pocket--thank Heaven! the

pocketbook was there alright. But what had happened to his watch?

Perhaps it had fallen on the floor. He hurried into his clothes, to

look for it--the big leather purse felt light in his pocket. It was

empty! He opened his pocketbook--that too was empty!

Lars Peter scrambled downstairs, dreading lest any one should see

him, slipped out into one of the side streets, and stumbled to the

inn, harnessed the nag and set off. He began to long for the

children at home--yes, and for the cows and pigs too.

Not until he was well outside the town, with a cold wind blowing on

his forehead, did he remember Soerine. And, suddenly realizing the

full extent of his disaster, he broke down and sobbed helplessly.

He halted at the edge of the wood--just long enough for Klavs to

have a feed. He himself had no desire for food then. He was on the

highroad again, and sat huddled up in the cart, while the previous

evening's debauch sang through his head.

At one place a woman came running towards him. "Lars Peter!" she

shouted, "Lars Peter!" The nag stopped. Lars Peter came to himself

with a jerk; without a word he felt in his waistcoat pocket, gave

her back her coin, and whipped up the horse.

On the highroad, some distance from home, a group of children stood

waiting. Ditte had not been able to manage them any longer. They

were cold and in tears. Lars Peter took them up into the cart, and

they gathered round him, each anxious to tell him all the news. He

took no notice of their chatter. Ditte sat quietly, looking at him

out of the corners of her eyes.

When he was seated at his meal, she said, "Where're all the things

you were to buy for me?" He looked up startled, and began stammering

something or other--an excuse--but stopped in the middle.

"How was mother getting on?" asked Ditte then. She was sorry for

him, and purposely used the word "mother" to please him.

For a few moments his features worked curiously. Then he buried his

face in his hands.

CHAPTER IV

LITTLE MOTHER DITTE

At first, Lars Peter told them nothing of his visit to the Capital.

But Ditte was old enough to read between the lines, and drew her own

conclusions. At all events, her commission had not been executed.

Soerine, for some reason or other, he had not seen either, as far as

she could understand; and no money had been brought home. Apparently

it had all been squandered--spent in drink no doubt.

"Now he'll probably take to getting drunk, like Johansen and the

others in the huts," she thought with resignation. "Come home and

make a row because there is nothing to eat--and beat us."

She was prepared for the worst, and watched him closely. But Lars

Peter came home steady as usual. He returned even earlier than

before. He longed for children and home when he was away. And, as

was his custom, he gave an account of what he had made and spent. He

would clear out the contents of his trouser-pockets with his big

fist, spreading the money out over the table, so that they could

count it together and lay their plans accordingly. But now he liked

a glass with his meals! Soerine had never allowed him this, there

was no need for it--said she--it was a waste of money. Ditte gave it

willingly, and took care to have it ready for him--after all, he was

a man!

Lars Peter was really ashamed of his trip to town, and not least of

all that he had been made such a fool of. The stupid part of it was

that he remembered so little of what had happened. Where had he

spent the night--and in what society? From a certain time in the

evening until he woke the following morning in that filthy bedroom,

all was like a vague dream--good or bad, he knew not. But in spite

of his shame he felt a secret satisfaction in having for once kicked

over the traces. He had seen life. How long had he been out? Jolting

round from farm to farm, he would brood on the question, would

recall some parts of the evening and suppress others--to get as much

pleasure out of it as possible. But in the end he was none the

wiser.

However, it was impossible for him to keep any secret for long.

First one thing, then another, came out, and eventually Ditte had a

pretty good idea of what had happened, and would discuss it with

him. In the evenings, when the little ones were in bed, they would

talk it over.

"But don't you think she was a real princess?" asked Ditte each

time. She always came back to this--it appealed to her vivid

imagination and love of adventure.

"The Lord only knows," answered her father thoughtfully. He could

not fathom how he could have been such a fool; he had managed so

well with the Jews in the stable-yard. "Ay, the Lord only knows!"

"And the Bandmaster," said Ditte eagerly, "he must have been a

wonderful man."

"Ay, that's true--a conjurer! He made I don't know how many drinks

disappear without any one seeing how it was done. He held the glass

on the table in his left hand, slapped his elbow with his right--and

there it was empty."

To Ditte it was a most exciting adventure, and incidents that had

seemed far from pleasant to Lars Peter became wonders in Ditte's

version of the affair. Lars Peter was grateful for the child's help,

and together they spoke of it so long, that slowly, and without his

being aware of it, the whole experience assumed quite a different

aspect.

It certainly had been a remarkable evening. And the princess--yes,

she must have been there in reality, strange though it sounded that

a beggar like him should have been in such company. But the devil of

a woman she was to drink and smoke. "Ay, she was real enough--or I

wouldn't have been so taken with her," admitted he.

"Then you've slept with a real princess--just like the giant in the

fairy tale," broke out Ditte, clapping her hands in glee. "You have,

father!" She looked beamingly at him.

Lars Peter was silent with embarrassment, and sat blinking at the

lamp--he had not looked upon it in the innocent light of a fairy

tale. To him it seemed--well, something rather bad--it was being

unfaithful to Soerine.

"Ay, that's true," said he. "But then, will Mother forgive it?"

"Oh, never mind!" answered Ditte. "But it was a good thing you

didn't cut yourself!"

Lars Peter lifted his head, looking uncertainly at her.

"Ay, because there must have been a drawn sword between you--there

always is. You see, princesses are too grand to be touched."

"Oh--ay! that's more than likely." Lars Peter turned this over in

his mind. The explanation pleased him, and he took it to himself; it

was a comforting idea. "Ay, 'tis dangerous to have dealings with

princesses, even though a man doesn't know it at the time," said he.

* * * * *

Lars Peter thought no more of visiting Soerine in prison. He would

have liked to see her and clasp her hand, even though it were only

through an iron grating; but it was not to be. He must have patience

until she had served her time.

To him the punishment was that they had to live apart in the coming

years. He lacked imagination to comprehend Soerine's life behind

prison walls, and therefore he could not think of her for long at a

time. But unconsciously he missed her, so much so that he felt

depressed.

Lars Peter was no longer eager to work--the motive power was

lacking. He was too easily contented with things as they were; there

was no-one to taunt him with being poorer than others. Ditte was too

good-natured; she was more given to taking burdens on her own

shoulders.

He had grown quieter, and stooped more than ever. He played less

with the children, and his voice had lost some of its ring. He never

sang now, as he drove up to the farms to trade; he felt that people

gossiped about him and his affairs, and this took away his

confidence. It made itself felt when housewives and maids no longer

smiled and enjoyed his jokes or cleared out all their old rubbish

for him. He was never invited inside now--he was the husband of a

murderess! Trade dwindled away--not that he minded--it gave him more

time with the children at home.

At the same time there was less to keep house on. But, thanks to

Ditte, they scraped along; little as she was, she knew how to make

both ends meet, so they did not starve.

There was now plenty of time for Lars Peter to build. Beams and

stones lay all round as a silent reproach to him.

"Aren't you going to do anything with it?" Ditte would ask. "Folk

say it's lying there wasting."

"Where did you hear that?" asked Lars Peter bitterly.

"Oh--at school!"

So they talked about that too! There was not much where he was

concerned which was not torn to pieces. No, he had no desire to

build. "We've got a roof over our heads," said he indifferently. "If

any one thinks our hut's not good enough, let them give us another."

But the building materials remained there as an accusation; he was

not sorry when they were overgrown with grass.

What good would it do to build? The Crow's Nest was, and would

remain, the Crow's Nest, however much they tried to polish it up. It

had not grown in esteem by Soerine's deed. She had done her best to

give them a lift up in the world--and had only succeeded in pushing

them down to the uttermost depth. Previously, it had only been

misfortune which clung to the house, and kept better people away;

now it was crime. No-one would come near the house after dusk, and

by day they had as little as possible to do with the rag and bone

man. The children were shunned; they were the offspring of a

murderess, and nothing was too bad to be thought of them.

The people tried to excuse their harshness, and justified their

behavior towards the family, by endowing them with all the worst

qualities. At one time it was reported that they were thieves. But

that died down, and then they said that the house was haunted. Old

Maren went about searching for her money; first one, then another,

had met her on the highroad at night, on her way to the Crow's Nest.

The full burden of all this fell on the little ones. It was

mercilessly thrown in their faces by the other children at school;

and when they came home crying, Lars Peter of course had to bear his

share too. No-one dared say anything to him, himself--let them try

if they dared! The rag and bone man's fingers tingled when he heard

all this backbiting--why couldn't he and his be allowed to go in

peace. He wouldn't mind catching one of the rogues red-handed. He

would knock him down in cold blood, whatever the consequences might

be.

Kristian now went to school too, in the infants' class. The classes

were held every other day, and his did not coincide with Ditte's,

who was in a higher class. He had great difficulty in keeping up

with the other children, and could hardly be driven off in the

mornings. "They call me the young crow," he said, crying.

"Then call them names back again," said Ditte; and off he had to go.

But one day there came a message from the schoolmaster that the boy

was absent too often. The message was repeated. Ditte could not

understand it. She had a long talk with the boy, and got out of him

that he often played truant. He made a pretense of going to school,

hung about anywhere all day long, and only returned home when

school-time was over. She said nothing of this to Lars Peter--it

would only have made things worse.

The unkindness from outside made them cling more closely to one

another. There was something of the hunted animal in them; Lars

Peter was reserved in his manner to people, and was ready to fly out

if attacked. The whole family grew shy and suspicious. When the

children played outside the house, and saw people approaching on the

highroad, they would rush in, peeping at them from behind the broken

window-panes. Ditte watched like a she-wolf, lest other children

should harm her little brothers and sister; when necessary, she

would both bite and kick, and she could hurl words at them too. One

day when Lars Peter was driving past the school, the schoolmaster

came out and complained of her--she used such bad language. He could

not understand it; at home she was always good and saw that the

little ones behaved properly. When he spoke of this, Ditte hardened.

"I won't stand their teasing," said she.

"Then stay at home from school, and then we'll see what they'll do."

"We'll only be fined for every day; and then one day they'll come

and fetch me," said Ditte bitterly.

"They won't easily take you away by force. Somebody else would have

something to say to that." Lars Peter nodded threateningly.

But Ditte would not--she would take her chance. "I've just as much

right to be there as the others," she said stubbornly.

"Ay, ay, that's so. But it's a shame you should suffer for other

people's wickedness."

Lars Peter seldom went out now, but busied himself cultivating his

land, so that he could be near the children and home. He had a

feeling of insecurity; people had banded themselves together against

him and his family, and meant them no good. He was uneasy when away

from home, and constantly felt as if something had happened. The

children were delighted at the change.

"Are you going to stay at home tomorrow too, Father?" asked the two

little ones every evening, gazing up at him with their small arms

round his huge legs. Lars Peter nodded.

"We must keep together here in the Crow's Nest," said he to Ditte as

if in excuse. "We can't get rid of the 'rag and bone man'--or the

other either; but no-one can prevent us from being happy together."

Well, Ditte did not object to his staying at home. As long as they

got food, the rest was of no consequence.

Yes, they certainly must keep together--and get all they could out

of one another, otherwise life would be too miserable to bear. On

Sundays Lars Peter would harness the nag and drive them out to

Frederiksvaerk, or to the other side of the lake. It was pleasant to

drive, and as long as they possessed a horse and cart, they could

not be utterly destitute.

Their small circle of acquaintances had vanished, but thanks to

Klavs they found new friends. They were a cottager's family by the

marsh--people whom no-one else would have anything to do with. There

were about a dozen children, and though both the man and his wife

went out as day laborers, they could not keep them, and the parish

had to help. Lars Peter had frequently given them a hand with his

cart, but there had never been much intercourse as long as Soerine

was in command of the Crow's Nest. But now it came quite naturally.

Birds of a feather flock together--so people said.

To the children it meant play-fellows and comrades in disgrace. It

was quite a treat to be asked over to Johansens on a Sunday

afternoon, or even more so to have them at the Crow's Nest. There

was a certain satisfaction in having visitors under their roof, and

giving them the best the house could provide. For days before they

came Ditte would be busy making preparations: setting out milk for

cream to have with the coffee, and buying in all they could afford.

On Sunday morning she would cut large plates of bread-and-butter, to

make it easier for her in the afternoon. As soon as the guests

arrived, they would have coffee, bread-and-butter and home-made

cakes. Then the children would play "Touch," or "Bobbies and

Thieves." Lars Peter allowed them to run all over the place, and

there would be wild hunting in and outside the Crow's Nest. In the

meanwhile the grown-ups wandered about in the fields, looking at

the crops. Ditte went with them, keeping by the side of Johansen's

wife, with her hands under her apron, just as she did.

At six o'clock they had supper, sandwiches with beer and brandy;

then they would sit for a short time talking, before going home.

There was the evening work to be done, and every one had to get up

early the next morning.

They were people even poorer than themselves. They came in shining

wooden shoes, and in clean blue working clothes. They were so poor

that in the winter they never had anything to eat but herrings and

potatoes, and it delighted Ditte to give them a really good meal:

sandwiches of the best, and bottles of beer out of which the cork

popped and the froth overflowed.

CHAPTER V

THE LITTLE VAGABOND

Lars Peter stood by the water-trough where Klavs was drinking his

fill. They had been for a long trip, and both looked tired and glad

to be home again.

At times a great longing for the highroad came over the rag and bone

man, and he would then harness the nag and set off on his old rounds

again. The road seemed to ease his trouble, and drew him further and

further away, so that he spent the night from home, returning the

following day. There was not much made on these trips, but he always

managed to do a little--and his depression would pass off for the

time being.

He had just returned from one of these outings, and stood in deep

thought, happy to be home again, and to find all was well. Now there

should be an end to these fits of wandering. Affairs at home

required a man.

Povl and his sister Else hurried out to welcome him; they ran in and

out between his legs, which to them were like great thick posts,

singing all the while. Sometimes they would run between the nag's

legs too, and the wise creature would carefully lift its hoofs, as

though afraid of hurting them--they could stand erect between their

father's legs.

Ditte came out from the kitchen door with a basket on her arm. "Now,

you're thinking again, father," said she laughingly, "take care you

don't step on the children."

Lars Peter pulled himself together and tenderly stroked the rough

little heads. "Where are you off to?" asked he.

"Oh, to the shop. I want some things for the house."

"Let Kristian go, you've quite enough to do without that."

"He hasn't come home from school yet--most likely I'll meet him on

the way."

"Not home yet?--and it's nearly supper-time." Lars Peter looked at

her in alarm. "D'you think he can be off on the highroad again?"

Ditte shook her head. "I think he's been kept in--I'm sure to meet

him. It's a good thing too--he can help me to carry the things

home," she added tactfully.

But Lars Peter could no longer be taken in. He had just been

thanking his stars that all was well on his return, and had silently

vowed to give up his wanderings--and now this! The boy was at his

old tricks again, there was no doubt about that--he could see it in

the girl's eyes. It was in his children's blood, it seemed, and much

as he cared for them--his sins would be visited on them. For the

little ones' sake he was struggling to overcome his own wandering

bent, and now it cropped out in them. It was like touching an open

wound--he felt sick at heart.

Lars Peter led the horse into its stall, and gave it some corn. He

did not take off the harness. Unless the boy returned soon, he would

go and look for him. It had happened before that Lars Peter and

Klavs had spent the night searching. And once Ditte had nearly run

herself off her legs looking for the boy, while all the time he was

quite happy driving round with his father on his rounds. He had been

waiting for Lars Peter on the highroad, telling him he had a

holiday--and got permission to go with his father. There was no

trusting him.

When Ditte got as far as the willows, she hid the basket in them.

She had only used the shop as an excuse to get away from home and

look for the boy, without the father knowing anything was wrong. A

short distance along the highroad lived some of Kristian's

school-fellows, and she went there to make inquiries. Kristian had

not been at school that day. She guessed as much--he had been in

such a hurry to get off in the morning! Perhaps he was in one of the

fields, behind a bush, hungry and wornout; it would be just like him

to lie there until he perished, if no-one found him in the

meanwhile.

She ran aimlessly over the fields, asking every one she met if they

had seen her brother. "Oh, is it the young scamp from the Crow's

Nest?" people asked. "Ay, he's got vagabond's blood in him."

Then she ran on, as quickly as she could. Her legs gave way, but she

picked herself up and stumbled on. She couldn't think of going home

without the boy; it would worry her father dreadfully! And Kristian

himself--her little heart trembled at the thought of his being out

all night.

A man on a cart told her he had seen a boy seven or eight years old,

down by the marsh. She rushed down--and there was Kristian. He stood

outside a hut, howling, the inhabitants gathered round him, and a

man holding him firmly by his collar.

"Come to look for this young rascal?" said he. "Ay, we've caught

him, here he is. The children told he'd shirked his school, and we

thought we'd better make sure of him, to keep him out of mischief."

"Oh, he's all right," said Ditte, bristling, "he wouldn't do any

harm." She pushed the man's hand away, and like a little mother drew

the boy towards her. "Don't cry, dear," said she, drying his wet

cheeks with her apron. "Nobody'll dare to touch you."

The man grinned and looked taken aback. "Do him harm?" said he

loudly. "And who is it sets fire to other folk's houses and sets on

peaceful womenfolk, but vagabonds. And that's just the way they

begin."

But Ditte and Kristian had rushed off. She held him by his hand,

scolding him as they went along. "There, you can hear yourself what

the man says! And that's what they'll think you are," said she. "And

you know it worries Father so. Don't you think he's enough trouble

without that?"

"Why did Mother do it?" said Kristian, beginning to cry.

He was worn out, and as soon as they got home Ditte put him quickly

to bed. She gave him camomile tea and put one of her father's

stockings--the left one--round his throat.

During the evening she and her father discussed what had happened.

The boy lay tossing feverishly in bed. "It's those mischievous

children," said Ditte with passion. "If I were there, they wouldn't

dare to touch him."

"Why does the boy take any notice of it?" growled Lars Peter.

"You've been through it all yourself."

"Ay, but then I'm a girl--boys mind much more what's said to them. I

give it them back again, but when Kristian's mad with rage, he can't

find anything to say. And then they all shout and laugh at him--and

he takes off his wooden shoe to hit them."

Lars Peter sat silent for a while. "We'd better see and get away

from here," said he.

Kristian popped his head over the end of the bed. "Yes, far, far

away!" he shouted. This at all events he had heard.

"We'll go to America then," said Ditte, carefully covering him up.

"Go to sleep now, so that you'll be quite well for the journey."

The boy looked at her with big, trusting eyes, and was quiet.

"'Tis a shame, for the boy's clever enough," whispered Lars Peter.

"'Tis wonderful how he can think a thing out in his little head--and

understand the ins and outs of everything. He knows more about

wheels and their workings than I do. If only he hadn't got my

wandering ways in his blood."

"That'll wear off in time!" thought Ditte. "At one time I used to

run away too."

The following day Kristian was out again, and went singing about the

yard. A message had been sent to school that he was ill, so that he

had a holiday for a few days--he was in high spirits. He had got

hold of the remains of an old perambulator which his father had

brought home, and was busy mending it, for the little ones to ride

in. Wheels were put on axles, now only the body remained to be

fixed. The two little ones stood breathlessly watching him. Povl

chattered away, and wanted to help, every other moment his little

hands interfered and did harm. But sister Else stood dumbly

watching, with big thoughtful eyes. "She's always dreaming, dear

little thing," said Ditte, "the Lord only knows what she dreams

about."

Ditte, to all appearance, never dreamed, but went about wide awake

from morning till night. Life had already given her a woman's hard

duties to fulfil, and she had met them and carried them out with a

certain sturdiness. To the little ones she was the strict

house-wife and mother, whose authority could not be questioned, and

should the occasion arise, she would give them a little slap. But

underneath the surface was her childish mind. About all her

experiences she formed her own opinions and conclusions, but never

spoke of them to any one.

The most difficult of all for her to realize was that Granny was

dead, and that she could never, never, run over to see her any more.

Her life with Granny had been her real childhood, the memory of

which remained vivid--unforgettable, as happy childhood is when one

is grown up. In the daytime the fact was clear enough. Granny was

dead and buried, and would never come back again. But at night when

Ditte was in bed, dead-beat after a hard day, she felt a keen desire

to be a child again, and would cuddle herself up in the quilt,

pretending she was with Granny. And, as she dropped off, she seemed

to feel the old woman's arm round her, as was her wont. Her whole

body ached with weariness, but Granny took it away--wise Granny who

could cure the rheumatism. Then she would remember Granny's awful

fight with Soerine. And Ditte would awaken to find Lars Peter

standing over her bed trying to soothe her. She had screamed! He did

not leave her until she had fallen asleep again--with his huge hand

held against her heart, which fluttered like that of a captured

bird.

At school, she never played, but went about all alone. The others

did not care to have her with them, and she was not good at games

either. She was like a hard fruit, which had had more bad weather

than sunshine. Songs and childish rhymes sounded harsh on her lips,

and her hands were rough with work.

The schoolmaster noticed all this. One day when Lars Peter was

passing, he called him in to talk of Ditte. "She ought to be in

entirely different surroundings," said he, "a place where she can

get new school-fellows. Perhaps she has too much responsibility at

home for a child of her age. You ought to send her away."

To Lars Peter this was like a bomb-shell. He had a great respect for

the schoolmaster--he had passed examinations and things--but how was

he to manage without his clever little housekeeper? "All of us ought

to go away," he thought. "There're only troubles and worries here."

No, there was nothing to look forward to here--they could not even

associate with their neighbors! He had begun to miss the fellowship

of men, and often thought of his relations, whom he had not seen,

and hardly heard of, for many years. He longed for the old

homestead, which he had left to get rid of the family nickname, and

seriously thought of selling the little he had, and turning

homewards. Nicknames seemed to follow wherever one went. There was

no happiness to be found here, and his livelihood was gone. "Nothing

seems to prosper here," thought he, saving of course the blessed

children--and they would go with him.

The thought of leaving did not make things better. Everything was at

a standstill. It was no good doing anything until he began his new

life--whatever that might be.

He and Ditte talked it over together. She would be glad to leave,

and did not mind where they went. She had nothing to lose. A new

life offered at least the chance of a more promising future.

Secretly, she had her own ideas of what should come--but not here;

the place was accursed. Not exactly the prince in Granny's

spinning-song, she was too old for that--princes only married

princesses. But many other things might happen besides that, given

the opportunity. Ditte had no great pretensions, but "forward" was

her motto. "It must be a place where there're plenty of people,"

said she. "Kind people," she added, thinking most of her little

brothers and sister.

Thus they talked it over until they agreed that it would be best to

sell up as soon as possible and leave. In the meantime, something

happened which for a time changed their outlook altogether, and made

them forget their plans.

CHAPTER VI

THE KNIFE-GRINDER

One afternoon, when the children were playing outside in the

sunshine, Ditte stood just inside the open kitchen door, washing up

after dinner. Suddenly soft music was heard a short distance away--a

run of notes; even the sunshine seemed to join in. The little ones

lifted their heads and gazed out into space; Ditte came out with a

plate and a dishcloth in her hands.

Up on the road just where the track to the Crow's Nest turned off

stood a man with a wonderful-looking machine; he blew, to draw

attention--on a flute or clarionet, whatever it might be--and looked

towards the house. When no-one appeared in answer to his call, he

began moving towards the house, pushing the machine in front of him.

The little ones rushed indoors. The man left his machine beside the

pump and came up to the kitchen door. Ditte stood barring the way.

"Anything want grinding, rivetting or soldering, anything to mend?"

he gabbled off, lifting his cap an inch from his forehead. "I

sharpen knives, scissors, razors, pitchforks or plowshares! Cut

your corns, stick pigs, flirt with the mistress, kiss the maids--and

never say no to a glass and a crust of bread!" Then he screwed up

his mouth and finished off with a song.

"Knives to grind, knives to grind!

Any scissors and knives to grind?

Knives and scissors to gri-i-ind!"

he sang at the top of his voice.

Ditte stood in the doorway and laughed, with the children hanging on

to her skirt. "I've got a bread-knife that won't cut," said she.

The man wheeled his machine up to the door. It was a big thing:

water-tank, grindstone, a table for rivetting, a little anvil and a

big wheel--all built upon a barrow. The children forgot their fear

in their desire to see this funny machine. He handled the

bread-knife with many flourishes, whistled over the edge to see how

blunt it was, pretended the blade was loose, and put it on the anvil

to rivet it. "It must have been used to cut paving-stories with,"

said he. But this was absurd; the blade was neither loose nor had it

been misused. He was evidently a mountebank.

He was quite young; thin, and quick in his movements; he rambled on

all the time. And such nonsense he talked! But how handsome he was!

He had black eyes and black hair, which looked quite blue in the

sunshine.

Lars Peter came out from the barn yawning; he had been having an

after-dinner nap. There were bits of clover and hay in his tousled

hair. "Where do you come from?" he cried gaily as he crossed the

yard.

"From Spain," answered the man, showing his white teeth in a broad

grin.

"From Spain--that's what my father always said when any one asked

him," said Lars Peter thoughtfully. "Don't come from Odsherred by

any chance?"

The man nodded.

"Then maybe you can give me some news of an Amst Hansen--a big

fellow with nine sons?... The rag and bone man, he was called." The

last was added guiltily.

"I should think I could--that's my father."

"No!" said Lars Peter heartily, stretching out his big hand. "Then

welcome here, for you must be Johannes--my youngest brother." He

held the youth's hand, looking at him cordially. "Oh, so that's what

you look like now; last time I saw you, you were only a couple of

months old. You're just like mother!"

Johannes smiled rather shyly, and drew his hand away; he was not so

pleased over the meeting as was his brother.

"Leave the work and come inside," said Lars Peter, "and the girl

will make us a cup of coffee. Well, well! To think of meeting like

this. Ay, just like mother, you are." He blinked his eyes, touched

by the thought.

As they drank their coffee, Johannes told all the news from home.

The mother had died some years ago and the brothers were gone to

the four corners of the earth. The news of his mother's death was a

great blow to Lars Peter. "So she's gone?" said he quietly. "I've

not seen her since you were a baby. I'd looked forward to seeing her

again--she was always good, was mother."

"Well," Johannes drawled, "she was rather grumpy."

"Not when I was at home--maybe she was ill a long time."

"We didn't get on somehow. No, the old man for me, he was always in

a good temper."

"Does he still work at his old trade?" asked Lars Peter with

interest.

"No, that's done with long ago. He lives on his pension!" Johannes

laughed. "He breaks stones on the roadside now. He's as hard as ever

and will rule the roost. He fights with the peasants as they pass,

and swears at them because they drive on his heap of stones."

Johannes himself had quarreled with his master and had given him a

black eye; and as he was the only butcher who would engage him over

there, he had left, crossing over at Lynoes--with the machine which

he had borrowed from a sick old scissor-grinder.

"So you're a butcher," said Lars Peter. "I thought as much. You

don't look like a professional grinder. You're young and strong;

couldn't you work for the old man and keep him out of the

workhouse?"

"Oh, he's difficult to get on with--and he's all right where he is.

If a fellow wants to keep up with the rest--and get a little fun out

of life--there's only enough for one."

"I dare say. And what do you think of doing now? Going on again?"

Yes, he wanted to see something of life--with the help of the

machine outside.

"And can you do all you say?"

Johannes made a grimace. "I learned a bit from the old man when I

was a youngster, but it's more by way of patter than anything else.

A fellow's only to ramble on, get the money, and make off before

they've time to look at the things. It's none so bad, and the police

can't touch you so long as you're working."

"Is that how it is?" said Lars Peter. "I see you've got the roving

blood in you too. 'Tis a sad thing to suffer from, brother!"

"But why? There's always something new to be seen! 'Tis sickening to

hang about in the same place, forever."

"Ay, that's what I used to think; but one day a man finds out that

it's no good thinking that way! Nothing thrives when you knock about

the road to earn your bread. No home and no family, nothing worth

having, however much you try to settle down."

"But you've got both," said Johannes.

"Ay, but it's difficult to keep things together. Living from hand to

mouth and nothing at your back--'tis a poor life. And the worst of

it is, we poor folk _have_ to turn that way; it seems better not to

know where your bread's to come from day by day and go hunting it

here, there and everywhere. It's that that makes us go a-roving. But

now you must amuse yourself for a couple of hours; I've promised to

cart some dung for a neighbor!"

During Lars Peter's absence Ditte and the children showed their

uncle round the farm. He was a funny fellow and they very soon made

friends. He couldn't be used to anything fine, for he admired

everything he saw, and won Ditte's confidence entirely. She had

never heard the Crow's Nest and its belongings admired before.

He helped her with her evening work, and when Lars Peter returned

the place was livelier than it had been for many a day. After supper

Ditte made coffee and put the brandy bottle on the table, and the

brothers had a long chat. Johannes told about home; he had a keen

sense of humor and spared neither home nor brothers in the telling,

and Lars Peter laughed till he nearly fell off his chair.

"Ay, that's right enough!" he cried, "just as it would have been in

the old days." There was a great deal to ask about and many old

memories to be refreshed; the children had not seen their father so

genial and happy for goodness knows how long. It was easy to see

that his brother's coming had done him good.

And they too had a certain feeling of well-being--they had got a

relation! Since Granny's death they had seemed so alone, and when

other children spoke of their relations they had nothing to say.

They had got an uncle--next after a granny this was the greatest of

all relations. And he had come to the Crow's Nest in the most

wonderful manner, taking them unawares--and himself too! Their

little bodies tingled with excitement; every other minute they crept

out, meddling with the wonderful machine, which was outside sleeping

in the moonlight. But Ditte soon put a stop to this and ordered them

to bed.

The two brothers sat chatting until after midnight, and the children

struggled against sleep as long as they possibly could, so as not to

lose anything. But sleep overcame them at last, and Ditte too had to

give in. She would not go to bed before the men, and fell asleep

over the back of a chair.

Morning came, and with it a sense of joy; the children opened their

eyes with the feeling that something had been waiting for them by

the bedside the whole night to meet them with gladness when they

woke--what was it? Yes, over there on the hook by the door hung a

cap--Uncle Johannes was here! He and Lars Peter were already up and

doing.

Johannes was taken with everything he saw and was full of ideas.

"This might be made a nice little property," he said time after

time. "'Tis neglected, that's all."

"Ay, it's had to look after itself while I've been out," answered

Lars Peter in excuse. "And this trouble with the wife didn't make

things better either. Maybe you've heard all about it over there?"

Johannes nodded. "That oughtn't to make any difference to you,

though," said he.

That day Lars Peter had to go down to the marsh and dig a ditch, to

drain a piece of the land. Johannes got a spade and went with him.

He worked with such a will that Lars Peter had some difficulty in

keeping up with him. "'Tis easy to see you're young," said he, "the

way you go at it."

"Why don't you ditch the whole and level it out? 'Twould make a good

meadow," said Johannes.

Ay, why not? Lars Peter did not know himself. "If only a fellow had

some one to work with," said he.

"Do you get any peat here?" asked Johannes once when they were

taking a breathing space.

"No, nothing beyond what we use ourselves; 'tis a hard job to cut

it."

"Ay, when you use your feet! But you ought to get a machine to work

with a horse; then a couple of men can do ever so many square feet

in a day."

Lars Peter became thoughtful. Ideas and advice had been poured into

him and he would have liked to go thoroughly through them and digest

them one by one. But Johannes gave him no time.

The next minute he was by the clay-pit. There was uncommonly fine

material for bricks, he thought.

Ay, Lars Peter knew it all only too well. The first summer he was

married, Soerine had made bricks to build the outhouse and it had

stood all kinds of weather. But one pair of hands could not do

everything.

And thus Johannes went from one thing to the other. He was observant

and found ways for everything; there was no end to his plans. Lars

Peter had to attend; it was like listening to an old, forgotten

melody. Marsh, clay-pit and the rest had said the same year after

year, though more slowly; now he had hardly time to follow. It was

inspiriting, all at once to see a way out of all difficulties.

"Look here, brother," said he, as they were at dinner, "you put

heart into a man again. How'd you like to stay on here? Then we

could put the place in order together. There's not much in that

roving business after all."

Johannes seemed to like the idea--after all, the highroad was

unsatisfactory as a means of livelihood!

During the day they talked it over more closely and agreed how to

set about things; they would share as brothers both the work and

what it brought in. "But what about the machine?" said Lars Peter.

"That must be returned."

"Oh, never mind that," said Johannes. "The man can't use it; he's

ill."

"Ay, but when he gets up again, then he'll have nothing to earn his

living; we can't have that on our conscience. I'm going down to the

beach tomorrow for a load of herrings, so I'll drive round by

Hundested and put it off there. There's sure to be a fisherman

who'll take it over with him. I'd really thought of giving up the

herring trade; but long ago I bound myself to take a load, and there

should be a good catch these days."

At three o'clock next morning Lars Peter was ready in the yard to

drive to the fishing village; at the back of the cart was the

wonderful machine. As he was about to start, Johannes came running

up, unwashed and only half awake; he had just managed to put on his

cap and tie a handkerchief round his neck. "I think I'll go with

you," he said with a yawn.

Lars Peter thought for a minute--it came as a surprise to him. "Very

well, just as you like," said he at last, making room. He had

reckoned on his brother beginning the ditching today; there was so

little water in the meadow now.

"Do me good to get out a bit!" said Johannes as he clambered into

the cart.

Well--yes--but he had only just come in. "Don't you want an

overcoat?" asked Lars Peter. "There's an old one of mine you can

have."

"Oh, never mind--I can turn up my collar."

The sun was just rising; there was a white haze on the shores of the

lake, hanging like a veil over the rushes. In the green fields

dewdrops were caught by millions in the spiders' webs, sparkling

like diamonds in the first rays of sunshine.

Lars Peter saw it all, and perhaps it was this which turned his

mind; at least, today, he thought the Crow's Nest was a good and

pretty little place; it would be a sin to leave it. He had found out

all he wanted to know about his relations and home and what had

happened to every one in the past years and his longing for home had

vanished; now he would prefer to stay where he was. "Just you be

thankful that you're away from it all!" Johannes had said. And he

was right--it wasn't worth while moving to go back to the quarreling

and jealousies of relations. As a matter of fact there was no

inducement to leave: no sense in chasing your luck like a fool,

better try to keep what there was.

Lars Peter could not understand what had happened to him--everything

looked so different today. It was as if his eyes had been rubbed

with some wonderful ointment; even the meager lands of the Crow's

Nest looked beautiful and promising. A new day had dawned for him

and his home.

"'Tis a glorious morning," said he, turning towards Johannes.

Johannes did not answer. He had drawn his cap down over his eyes and

gone to sleep. He looked somewhat dejected and his mouth hung

loosely as if he had been drinking. It was extraordinary how he

resembled his mother! Lars Peter promised himself that he would take

good care of him.

CHAPTER VII

THE SAUSAGE-MAKER

Nothing was done to the land round the Crow's Nest this time; it was

a fateful moment when Johannes, instead of taking his spade and

beginning the ditching, felt inclined to go with his brother carting

herrings. On one of the farms where they went to trade, a still-born

calf lay outside the barn; Johannes caught sight of it at once. With

one jump he was out of the cart and beside it.

"What do you reckon to do with it?" asked he, turning it over with

his foot.

"Bury it, of course," answered the farm-lad.

"Don't folks sell dead animals in these parts?" asked Johannes when

they were in the cart again.

"Why, who could they sell them to?" answered Lars Peter.

"The Lord preserve me, you're far behind the times. D'you know what,

I've a good mind to settle down here as a cattle-dealer."

"And buy up all the still-born calves?" Lars Peter laughed.

"Not just that. But it's not a bad idea, all the same; the old

butcher at home often made ten to fifteen crowns out of a calf like

that."

"I thought we were going to start in earnest at home," said Lars

Peter.

"We'll do that too, but we shall want money! Your trade took up all

your time, so everything was left to look after itself, but

cattle-dealing's another thing. A hundred crowns a day's easily

earned, if you're lucky. Let me drive round once a week, and I'll

promise it'll give us enough to live on. And then we've the rest of

the week to work on the land."

"Sounds all right," said Lars Peter hesitatingly. "There's trader's

blood in you too, I suppose?"

"You may be sure of that, I've often earned hundreds of crowns for

my master at home in Knarreby."

"But how'd you begin?" said Peter. "I've got fifty crowns at the

most, and that's not much to buy cattle with. It's put by for rent

and taxes, and really oughtn't to be touched."

"Let me have it, and I'll see to the rest," said Johannes

confidently.

The very next day he set off in the cart, with the whole of Lars

Peter's savings in his pocket. He was away for two days, which was

not reassuring in itself. Perhaps he had got into bad company, and

had the money stolen from him--or frittered it away in poor trade.

The waiting began to seem endless to Lars Peter. Then at last

Johannes returned, with a full load and singing at the top of his

voice. To the back of the cart was tied an old half-dead horse, so

far gone it could hardly move.

"Well, you seem to have bought something young!" shouted Lars Peter

scoffingly. "What've you got under the sacks and hay?"

Johannes drove the cart into the porch, closed the gates, and began

to unload. A dead calf, a half-rotten pig and another calf just

alive. He had bought them on the neighboring farms, and had still

some money left.

"Ay, that's all very well, but what are you going to do with it

all?" broke out Lars Peter amazed.

"You'll see that soon enough," answered Johannes, running in and

out.

There was dash and energy in him, he sang and whistled, as he

bustled about. The big porch was cleared, and a tree-stump put in as

a block; he lit a wisp of hay to see if there was a draught

underneath the boiler. The children stood open-mouthed gazing at

him, and Lars Peter shook his head, but did not interfere.

He cut up the dead calf, skinned it, and nailed the skin up in the

porch to dry. Then it was the sick calf's turn, with one blow it was

killed, and its skin hung up beside the other.

Ditte and Kristian were set to clean the guts, which they did very

unwillingly.

"Good Lord, have you never touched guts before?" said Johannes.

"A-a-y. But not of animals that had died," answered Ditte.

"Ho, indeed, so you clean the guts while they're alive, eh? I'd like

to see that!"

They had no answer ready, and went on with their work--while

Johannes drew in the half-dead horse, and went for the ax. As he ran

across the yard, he threw the ax up into the air and caught it again

by the handle; he was in high spirits.

"Takes after the rest of the family!" thought Lars Peter, who kept

in the barn, and busied himself there. He did not like all this,

although it was the trade his race had practised for many years, and

which now took possession of the Crow's Nest; it reminded him

strongly of his childhood. "Folk may well think us the scum of the

earth now," thought he moodily.

Johannes came whistling into the barn for an old sack.

"Don't look so grumpy, old man," said he as he passed. Lars Peter

had not time to answer before he was out again. He put the sack over

the horse's head, measured the distance, and swung the ax backwards;

a strange long-drawn crash sounded from behind the sack, and the

horse sank to the ground with its skull cracked. The children looked

on, petrified.

"You'll have to give me a hand now, to lift it," shouted Johannes

gaily. Lars Peter came lingeringly across the yard, and gave a

helping hand. Shortly afterwards the horse hung from a beam, with

its head downwards, the body was cut up and the skin folded back

like a cape.

Uncle Johannes' movements became more and more mysterious. They

understood his care with the skins, these could be sold; but what

did he want with the guts and all the flesh he cut up? That evening

he lit the fire underneath the boiler, and he worked the whole

night, filling the place with a disgusting smell of bones, meat and

guts being cooked.

"He must be making soap," thought Lars Peter, "or cart grease."

The more he thought of it the less he liked the whole proceeding,

and wished that he had let his brother go as he had come. But he

could do nothing now, but let him go on.