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Updated: May 21, 2025
The sun was shining warmly, and it was wonderful to see, far in the distance, a smoke that undulated, yet was clearer than the air one could see through it: it was as if rays of light were rolling and dancing over the heath. "It is the Lokéman, who is driving his sheep," was told Jörgen, and that was enough for him.
The windlass squeaked horribly, and in between the squeaking one could hear Master Jorgen Kofod, in a high falsetto, disputing with his son. "You're a noodle, a pitiful simpleton whatever will become of you? Do you think we've nothing more to do than to go running out to prayer-meetings on a working day? Perhaps that will get us our daily bread?
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.
The clergyman read a prayer, and then said that, as God had locked the doors of that holy house, they must go elsewhere and erect another for His service. They sang a psalm, and retired to their homes. Jörgen could not be found either at Skagen or amidst the sand-hills, where every search was made for him.
It's really a shame so dainty as she is too, in every way. Ah, it ought to have been in my young days, I can tell you!" "You are still young enough, Uncle Jorgen!" laughed Master Andres. "Well, a man could almost bring himself to it when he considers what a dreadful injustice is going on under his own eyes.
At all events, there stood Jeppe and Brother Jorgen, and they could not look one another in the face; an immovable burden weighed upon them. And it meant a void as when the clock in a room stops ticking. The faithful sound of his crutch no longer approached the workshop about six o'clock. The young master grew restless about that time; he could not get used to the idea of Bjerregrav's absence.
Jeppe stuck to it that there was something uncanny about it the idea of a machine making boots was enough to haunt him. He kept on returning to it. "They'll be making human beings by machinery too, soon!" he exclaimed angrily. "No," said Baker Jorgen; "there, I believe, the old method will survive!"
Here was plenty to eat and drink the nicest fat eels; and it was necessary to drink brandy-snaps after eating them, "to keep them down," the eel-man had said; and his words were acted upon here with all due honour. Jörgen was in, and Jörgen was out. By the third day he felt himself as much at home here as he had done in the fisherman's cottage, where he had lived all his earlier days.
A hundred years afterwards this prediction was fulfilled, for the German Ocean rushed in, and the tower fell; but the then owner of the property, Prebjörn Gyldenstierne, erected a habitation higher up, and that stands now, and is called Nörre-Vosborg. Jörgen, with his foster-parents, had to pass this place.
Old Jeppe was talking about Malaga "when I ran ashore at Malaga!" but Baker Jorgen was still lamenting his want of an heir, and sighing: "Yes, yes; if only one could see into the future!" Then he suddenly began to talk about the Mormons. "It might really be great fun to see, some time, what they have to offer you," he said.
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