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"And how old are you?" "Te! He! 'Deed ah don' know how ol' ah is; ah gone los' mah age paper." "Is he married?" "Can he read?" "What kind of work does he do?" "Yes, naturally. But what kind of work does he do. Is he a laborer?" Oh, no, mah sweet mahster, he jes' shovel away de dirt befo' de steam shovel." "All right. That 'll do for 'Rasmus. Now your name?" "Mah name Mistress Jane Iggleston."
"Well, are you two quarreling again?" he shouted jovially. "What's wrong now Martha, I suppose?" Rasmus Olsen was silent, and shuffled off towards the beach. But his wife was not afraid, and turned her wrath on to the inn-keeper. "What's it to do with you?" she cried. "Mind your own business!" The inn-keeper passed on without taking any notice of her, and entered the house.
They also found both the pewter jug and the lantern down in the store-house. The pewter jug had been beaten flat against the goblin's skull, and the goblin had smashed the lantern when Rasmus escaped.
To his disappointment, it was incomplete. Only one other letter could be found which referred to the affair of Mag Nicolas Francken. It was from the Bishop Jörgen Friis to Rasmus Nielsen.
At Flekkerö, near Christiansand, where we kept our dogs for several weeks before taking them on board, Rasmus had got loose, and was impossible to catch. He always came and slept with his two friends, unless he was being hunted. We did not succeed in catching him until a few days before we took them on board, and then he was practically wild.
'Rasmus was the unmistakable son of his father. "And it ain't no got-up ark, neither!" he yelled at me, in a tone which pierced through the distance and the darkness, and every intervening obstacle. "It's the reg'lar old Ark! It's what Noer, and the elephant, and them fellows come over in!"
Then we stopped, and I crawled out like one in a dream. There was no light at the Ark to make it a distinguishable feature of the gloom. 'Rasmus found the door and knocked loudly. I became dimly conscious of the knocking, and followed 'Rasmus. "I reckon they're to bed," said he, and knocked louder.
To the right was a small hut, neat and well cared for, outside which Rasmus Olsen, the fisherman, stood shouting in through the window. His wife had turned him out it always sounded so funny when he had words with his wife, he mumbled on loudly and monotonously as a preacher it made one feel quite sleepy. There was not a scrap of bad temper in him.
When the jug was full, and he was just meditating putting it to his lips, he saw, over the beer barrel, lying with its body in the shadow, where all the barrels stood in a row, a terribly big, broad, dark form, from which there came an icy breath, as if from a door that stood open; it blinked at him with two great eyes like dull, horn lanterns, and said: "A thief at the Christmas ale"! But Rasmus did not neglect his opportunity.
On my proposing to make it lucrative, he immediately called, in a loud voice, to one of the playful occupants of the dépôt: "Hi, thar! 'Rasmus! 'Rasmus! Here's a lady wants to be conveyed down to Wallencamp; you run home and tackle, now! You be lively, now!" 'Rasmus was lively.
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