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Updated: May 21, 2025
"Then it would be all over with me, and with Morten at the same time." This thought came across Jörgen's mind out at sea, where his foster-father had been taken suddenly ill: he was in a high fever. This was just a little way from the outer reef. Jörgen sprang up.
Baker Jorgen was the only one of them who had anything to do. Things would have to be bad indeed before the people stopped buying his black bread. He even had more to do than usual; the more people abstained from meat and cheese, the more bread they ate. He often hired Jeppe's apprentices so that they might help him in the kneading. But he was not in a happy frame of mind.
Jörgen could not comprehend what they wanted, but considered it would be best to go back, and even took one of the oars to row the faster. The moment the boat neared the shore, people sprang into it, and before he had an idea of what they were going to do, they had thrown a rope round his hands, and made him their prisoner. "Your evil deed will cost you your life," said they.
I'm inclined to think they are the Antichrist the Bible foretells." "Ah, but what do they really want?" asked Baker Jorgen. "What is their madness really driving at?" "What do they want?" Wooden-leg Larsen pulled himself together.
God knows, I told myself, no little Jorgen has come to carry on your name, and the boy's a weakling, and you've no one else to build on! It's all very well going about with your nose in the air all the days God gives you everything will be swept away and be to no purpose. And everything of that sort you know how I get thinking when ideas like that get the upper hand with me.
The sand and the small stones dashed against his face, and whirled around him. He went towards the church; the sand was lying banked up against the walls, and half way up the windows; but the walk up to the church was freer of it. The church door was not locked, it opened easily, and Jörgen entered the sacred edifice.
"Am I in the way?" asks old Jorgen. "No, God forbid stay where you are!" And his arms fly out again, and the butt of the bodkin touches the baker with a little click. "I'm certainly in the way," says Jorgen, and moves a few inches. "Not in the least!" replies Garibaldi, stitching away. Then out fly his arms again, but this time the point of the bodkin is turned toward the baker.
"Now, good Lord, I can see I'm in the way!" says Jorgen, rubbing himself behind. "Not at all!" replies Garibaldi courteously, with an inviting flourish of his hand. "Pray come nearer." "No, thank you! No, thank you!" Old Jorgen gives a forced laugh, and hobbles away. Otherwise Garibaldi lets them come and stare and go as they like.
But he was not taken; the thread of life would not break, though memory was swept away, and all the powers and faculties of his mind were gone. It was a frightful change. A living body was left a body that was to regain health and go about again. Jörgen remained in the trader Brönne's house.
Croix, where we have the plantation, is just as bad. Part of the time we live there, part of the time at Charlotte Amalie in St. Thomas. But there is little difference. I hope Jorgen is able to sell. At least I should like to live a part of the year in the States." "Would he like that, too?" "Many of us would," she replied, quickly. "For many years things have been getting worse with us.
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