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Updated: May 24, 2025
"Suppose Bjerregrav has just sat himself down in the nettles?" "Why? But what else could I have done?" said the old man uneasily. "The devil knows it won't be long before he's bankrupt. He's a frothy old rogue," murmured the master. "Has Bjerregrav got a note of hand?" The old man nodded; he was quite proud of himself. "And interest? Five per cent.?" "No, no interest.
"Can you stand it, wandering so much?" asked Bjerregrav anxiously. Wooden-leg Larsen looked contemptuously at Bjerregrav's congenital club-foot he had received his own injury at Heligoland, at the hands of an honorable bullet. "If one's sound of limb," he said, spitting on the floor by the window.
"I can't compare myself with them. A crippled tailor well, even he has got his full strength of body." "A tailor is as fine a fellow as a black-bread baker!" stammered Bjerregrav nervously. "To bake black bread why, every farmer's wife can do that!" "Fine! I believe you! Hell and blazes! If the tailor makes a cap he has enough cloth left over to make himself a pair of breeches.
"Yes, because he's ashamed of humanity; he wants to make the world more beautiful!" Bjerregrav blushed with embarrassment when he had said this. But Jeppe was beside himself with contempt. "So gaol-birds are ashamed of honest people! So that's why he takes his walks at night! Well, the world would of course be a more beautiful place if it were filled with people like you and Dampe!"
Eight at the back of the procession came Tailor Bjerregrav with his crutch; he always followed every funeral, and always walked light at the back because his method of progression called for plenty of room.
They heard him going from house to house, all along the street. Bjerregrav dead!
That is quite plainly written. Consequently what you read there is false teaching." "It's at the North Pole, God's truth it is!" said the master, who was inclined to be a free-thinker; "God's truth, I tell you! The other's just a silly superstition." Bjerregrav maintained an angry silence. He sat for some time bending low in his chair, his eyes roaming anywhere so that they did not meet another's.
Jeppe retorted contemptuously, "Who's going to lend a poor mate's widow three hundred kroner? He might as well throw it into the sea right away." But Baker Jorgen gave Bjerregrav a great smack on the back. "You've given her the money, it's you has done it; nobody else would he such a silly sheep!" he said threateningly. "You let me be!" stammered Bjerregrav. "I've done nothing to you!
That's why tailors are always dressed so fine!" The baker was talking to the empty air. "Millers and bakers are always rogues, everybody says." Old Bjerregrav turned to Master Andres, trembling with excitement. But the young master stood there looking gaily from one to the other, his lame leg dangling in the air.
People appealed to organized charity; there was Bjerregrav's five thousand kroner in the bank. But no, they were not there. Ship-owner Monsen declared that Bjerregrav had recalled the money during his lifetime. There was no statement in his will to the contrary. The people knew nothing positively; but the matter gave plenty of occasion for discussion.
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