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Peer was sitting at the writing-table in his study when Klaus came in. "I'm just sealing up the letter with the money for Martin Bruvold," he said, setting the taper to a stick of sealing wax. "I've signed it: 'From the shark fishers." "Yes, it was a capital idea of Ferdinand's. What d'you think the poor old fellow'll say when he opens it and the big notes tumble out?"
Boys are never so busy as when they are up to some piece of mischief, and evidently the pair had business of this sort in hand. Peer Troen, fair-haired and sallow-faced, was pushing a wheelbarrow; his companion, Martin Bruvold, a dark youth with freckles, carried a tub. And both talked mysteriously in whispers, casting anxious glances out over the water. Peer Troen was, of course, the ringleader.
And then perhaps with all my money I can build a church that no one ever saw the like of. And the first couple I'll marry there shall be Martin Bruvold and little sister Louise if only he'll have her. Just wait and see! A few days later he wrote to his father, asking if he might come into town now and go to school.
His old foster-parents were dead, and Peter Ronningen too; but Martin Bruvold was there still, living in a tiny cottage with eight children. "Poor devil!" said Klaus. Ferdinand Holm had sat down again, and now he nodded towards the moon. "An old chum of yours? Well, why don't we send him a thousand crowns?" There was a little pause.
Meanwhile, Martin Bruvold was in terror that the shark would smash the boat to pieces. He drew his knife and took a step forward a flash in the air, and the steel went in deep between the back fins, sending up a spurt of blood. "Look out!" cried the others, but Martin had already sprung back out of reach of the black tail. And now the dance of death began anew.
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