Falkenberg was right; the people at the next farm would not be outdone
by their neighbours; their piano must be seen to as well. The daughter
of the house was away for the moment, but the work could be done in her
absence as a little surprise for her when she came home. She had
often complained that the piano was so dreadfully out of tune it was
impossible to play on it at all. So now I was left to myself again as
before, while Falkenberg was busy in the parlour. When it got dark he
had lights brought in and went on tuning. He had his supper in there
too, and when he had finished, he came out and asked me for his pipe.
“Which pipe?”
“You fool! the one with the clenched fist, of course.”
Somewhat unwillingly I handed him my neatly carved pipe; I had just got
it finished; with the nail set in and a gold ring, and a long stem.
“Don't let the nail get too hot,” I whispered, “or it might curl up.”
Falkenberg lit the pipe and went swaggering up with it indoors. But he
put in a word for me too, and got them to give me supper and coffee in
the kitchen.