Part 28 (1/2)

At last, having ploughed his way conscientiously through the invitation, Berg looked up, with a searching glance at Old Nick, who faced him without moving a muscle.

”H'm. H'mmm--look here, you know, Nickelsen, don't you think we could find some one else to give a banquet for instead of Prois?”

”Well, no, I can't see that we could. I don't know anyone else that's been on the Rates Committee for twenty-five years.”

”He'd have been more use to the place if he hadn't been on it at all,” grumbled the other.

”Oh, well, if you don't feel inclined to join with the leading people in the town on such an occasion, why....” Old Nick began folding up the list, but very slowly.

”Of course I'll come in--only I can't see what he's done to deserve it, hang me if I can.”

”Look here, Halvor Berg, you can surely understand that when the parson, the doctor and myself go in for a thing like this, we've some reason for it.”

”All right, all right! Hand me the list, then.”

And he wrote with big, sprawling letters ”H. Berg,” at the same time inquiring whether an after-dinner toddy was included in the four s.h.i.+llings.

On leaving Halvor Berg's, Old Nick regarded the matter as settled; when this cautious old card had put his name, the rest of them would soon follow after.

Sukkestad, the dealer, was inclined to hesitate, and could not make out what Prois had really done either, but since Halvor Berg was in it, why, he might as well put down his four s.h.i.+llings too.

Apothecary Peters, who had only been a week in the place, was most grateful for the honour done him in inviting him to be present, and insisted on paying down his four s.h.i.+llings on the spot--at which Old Nick was incautious enough to remark that it was not wise to skin your beast before you'd killed him--Old Prois being the beast.

The rest followed as one man, and by the evening the list counted over sixty names, from all cla.s.ses of society. Even old Klementsen, who had been parish clerk for fifty years, without getting so much as a silver spoon for his trouble, set down his name with a smile, albeit with an inward gnas.h.i.+ng of teeth.

Thor Smith sat up in the magistrate's office, sweating over a taxation case. In the inner office was the old magistrate himself, with his wig awry, smoking his coa.r.s.e-cut tobacco.

”Filthy hole of a place this is,” soliloquised Smith. ”Hang me if it isn't enough to make a man weep. I wonder how Old Nick's getting on with that list now? Oh, it's no good, I know; things never do go right.” He glanced out of the window and up along the street, in case Old Nick might be coming along.

But--what on earth--a green tartan frock, and a toque with a white feather--she herself! He placed himself in the window, as if by accident--aha, she catches sight of him. And such a blush--and then she looks down. Won't she look up again? Yes, just once.

A smile of understanding, and she hurries away, as if from some deed of guilt. Thor Smith flattened his nose against the pane, staring after her as long as he could still see a thread of the green skirt, and for some time after.

He was awakened from his reverie by the magistrate himself, who came up behind and looked over his shoulder inquisitively.

”Well, and what are we looking out at, eh?”

”Oh, only those two funny old women over in the woollen shop; I never saw such queer things as they are.”

”Nothing to look at in them that I can see,” said the magistrate, who was by no means a woman-hater. And, taking his hat and stick, he bustled out.

A moment later Old Nick entered, flushed and out of breath. ”Old man in?”--”No.”--”Good!” He flung himself down in a chair and handed the list across to Smith.

”Puh! Devil take it, but this is hard work. And all for you and your lady-love. You don't deserve it.”

Smith took the list and began counting the names. ”Seventy-two--why, that's splendid, Nickelsen; you're a trump.”

”Yes; don't you think I deserve a medal for it, what? Oh, by the way, though, we must hurry up and get hold of Prois himself now, or we'll have somebody else telling him all about it beforehand.”

The esteemed fellow-citizen was busy down at the waterside, with a big pile-driver repairing the landing-stage. The men hauled at the ropes, while he stood by, calling the time in approved sing-song: ”And one ohoy, and two ohoy, and three....” he stopped short at sight of Smith and Nickelsen approaching. He looked by no means pleased as he handed over command to Pilot Iversen, and told him to carry on with the pile-driving.