Everything became quiet; Secretary Oldhusen had the largest floor
and was the finest tenant of the house. He was dressed in a long
tight-fitting frock coat and carried under his arm a worn leather
portfolio. When he had come down the steps he stood still and took a
pinch of snuff. Thereupon he walked slowly out through the gate with
the preoccupied and troubled mien of a statesman.
Martin and Ida slipped out into the street hand in hand. They ventured
on for a few steps beyond the gate, then they stood in the street and
blinked at the sun.
The street was lined with wooden houses and tile roofs and green
trees. The house where Martin lived was the only large stone house on
the street. Long Row, diagonally across from it, lay in shadow; a
low, dirt-gray range of houses. Only really poor people lived there,
Martin’s mother said. Only scum, said Mrs. Lundgren. At the dye-house a
little farther down the street there was no hurrying; the dyer stood at
his gate in slippers and white linen jacket and chatted with his wife
in the warehouse. Even outside the corner tavern things were quiet. A
brewery wagon had stopped in front of it, and the horse stood with his
forefeet tied, eating oats out of a nosebag that hung on his muzzle.
The clock in the near-by church struck ten.