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Updated: May 10, 2025
It suffered from intestinal hernia; it had been given to Lars Peter by a farmer who wanted to get rid of it. It was not a pretty sight, but under the circumstances had thriven well, he thought, and would taste all right when salted. Perhaps it was this Sörine wanted? The snow lay deep on the fields, but he recognized every landmark through the white covering.
"Yer can give away a quid like it was nothin' an' yer've got more an' yer goin' to do THAT jes cos yer 'ad a bit too much lars night an' there's a fog this mornin'! You take it straight from me don't yer do it. I give yer that tip for the suvrink." She was, for her years, so ugly and so ancient, and hardened in voice and skin and manner that she fascinated him.
Over the glasses Sylvester chatted pleasantly about matter of no import, and then brought the conversation round to the real object of his visit to get certain information for Lars Larssen. "Your name seems familiar to me, somehow," he ventured. "Aren't you a scientist, Mr Rivière?" "I do a little private research work," was the guarded admission.
He was a small, comfortable little man, who had always a twinkle in his eye; he came from the coal country. Pelle had helped him at one time to get his organization into working order, and he knew that he could count on him and his men. "Do you remember still, how I once showed you that you are the most important workers in the city, Lars Hansen?" The president nodded.
He wrote a long letter to Lars Larssen explaining that John Rivière apparently knew nothing of the disappearance of Clifford Matheson, and detailing the story of Elaine and the vitriol outrage. With the letter he enclosed a bromide print of the snapshot. Inside a room, closely shuttered to keep out the light, Rivière was talking earnestly with Elaine a few days later.
To the back of the cart was tied an old half-dead horse, so far gone it could hardly move. "Well, you seem to have bought something young!" shouted Lars Peter scoffingly. "What've you got under the sacks and hay?" Johannes drove the cart into the porch, closed the gates, and began to unload. A dead calf, a half-rotten pig and another calf just alive.
"Ay, they behave as if I were dirt," thought Lars Peter. And what were they after all? Most of them did not even own enough ground to grow a carrot in. A good thing he owed them nothing! Even the cottagers from the marsh, whom he had often helped in their poverty, followed the others' example and looked down on him today. There was no chance now of getting anything more out of him.
The bird that lived on their roof could be none other than the stork, for before long Hansine confided in Lars Peter that she was with child. It was the most glorious news he had ever had in his life, and if he had worked hard before he did even more so now. His evenings were spent in the woodshed; there was a cradle to be made, and a rocking-chair, and small wooden shoes to be carved.
I thought and reckoned it out; for Fruen's sake I would not write directly to the Captain, and risk causing her unpleasantness as well; no, I would send a line to my comrade, Lars Falkenberg, to keep an eye on the machine. That night I had another visit from the corpse that miserable old woman in her night-shift, that would not leave me in peace on account of her thumbnail.
I sketched the oldest, ugliest and dirtiest of them, as a specimen, but regretted it afterwards, as his gratitude on receiving a trifle for sitting, obliged me to give him my hand. Hereupon another old fellow, not quite so hideous, wanted to be taken also. "Lars," said a woman to the former, "are you not ashamed to have so ugly a face as yours go to America?"
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