A man landed here this morning--come to paint the house. But Old
Gunhild, being very old indeed, and perishing with gout most times, gets
him to cut up a few days' firewood for her cooking before he starts.
I've offered many a time to cut that wood myself, but she thinks my
clothes too fine, and would not let me have the ax on any account.
This painter, now, is a short, thick-set fellow with red hair and no
beard. I watch him from behind a window as he works, to see how he
handles the ax. Then, noticing that he is talking to himself, I steal
out of the house to listen. If he makes a false stroke, he takes it
patiently, and does not trouble himself; but whenever he knocks his
knuckles, he turns irritable and says: “_Fan! Fansmagt_!” [Footnote:
“The Devil! Power of the Devil!”]--and then looks round suddenly and
starts humming a tune to cover his words.
Yes; I recognize that painter man. Only, he's not a painter at all,
the rascal, but Grindhusen, one of the men I worked with when I was
roadmaking at Skreia.