Many, many years it is now since we were roadmenders together,
Grindhusen and I; we were youngsters then, and danced along the roads in
the sorriest of shoes, and ate what we could get as long as we had
money enough for that. But when we'd money to spare, then there would
be dancing with the girls all Saturday night, and a crowd of our
fellow-workers would come along, and the old woman in the house sold us
coffee till she must have made a little fortune. Then we worked on heart
and soul another week through, looking forward to the Saturday again.
But Grindhusen, he was as a red-headed wolf after the girls.
Did he remember the old days at Skreia?
He looks at me, taking stock of me, with something of reserve; it is
quite a while before I can draw him out to remember it at all.
Yes, he remembers Skreia well enough.
“And Anders Fila and 'Spiralen' and Petra?”
“Which one?”
“Petra--the one that was your girl.”
“Ay, I remember her. I got tied up with her at last.” Grindhusen falls
to chopping wood again.
“Got tied up with her, did you?”
“Ay, that was the end of it. Had to be, I suppose. What was I going to
say, now? You've turned out something fine, by the look of things.”
“Why? Is it these clothes you're thinking of? You've Sunday clothes
yourself, now, haven't you?”
“What d'you give for those you've got on?”
“I can't remember, but it was nothing very much. Couldn't say exactly
what it was.”
Grindhusen looks at me in astonishment and bursts out laughing.
“What? Can't remember what you paid for them?”
Then he turns serious, shakes his head, and says: “No, I dare say you
wouldn't. No. That's the way when you've money enough and beyond.”
Old Gunhild comes out from the house, and seeing us standing there by
the chopping-block wasting time in idle talk, she tells Grindhusen he'd
better start on the painting.
“So you've turned painter now?” said I.
Grindhusen made no answer, and I saw I had said a thing that should not
have been said in others' hearing.