The room was filled with his good-humored chuckles.

As quick as lightning one of the girls grasped a bundle and threw it at him. He only just escaped it by bending his head, and the thing brought up against the door-post. It was cotton-wool covered with blood and matter--from the hospital dust-bins. He knew that there was a trade in this in the Capital. "Puh!" he said in disgust, and hurried out. "Filthy, pish!" A shout of laughter went up from the girls.

From the head-office a little spectacled gentleman came tripping towards him. "What--what are you doing here?" he barked from afar, almost falling over himself in his eagerness. "It--it's no business of yours prying in here!" He was dreadfully dirty and unshaven, his collar and frock-coat looked as if they had been fished up from a ragbag. No, the trade never made Lars Peter as dirty as that; why, the dirt was in layers on this old man. But of course--this business was ever so much bigger than his own! Good-naturedly, he took off his hat.

"Are you Mr. Levinsohn?" asked he, when the old man had finished.

"I've got some goods."

The old man stared at him speechless with surprise that any one could be so impudent as to take him for the head of the firm. "Oh, you're looking for Mr. Levinsohn," he said searchingly, "indeed?"

"Ay, I've got some goods I want to sell."

Now the old man understood. "And you must see him, himself--it's a matter of life and death--eh? No one else in the whole world can buy those goods from you, or the shaft'll break and the rags'll fall out and break to pieces, and Heaven knows what! So you must see Mr.

Levinsohn himself." He looked the rag and bone man up and down, almost bursting with scorn.

"Well, I shouldn't mind seeing him himself," Lars Peter patiently said.

"Then you'd better drive down to the Riviera with your dust-cart, my good man."

"What, where?"

"Yes, to the Riviera!" The old man rubbed his hands. He was enjoying himself immensely. "It's only about fourteen hundred miles from here--over there towards the south. The best place to find him is Monte Carlo--between five and seven. And his wife and daughters--I suppose you want to see them too? Perhaps a little flirtation? A little walk--underneath the palm-trees, what?"

"Good Lord! is he a grand sort like that," said Lars Peter, crestfallen. "Well--maybe I can trade with you?"

"At your service, Mr. Jens Petersen from--Sengelose; if you, sir, will condescend to deal with a poor devil like me."

"I may just as well tell you that my name is Lars Peter Hansen--from Sand."

"Indeed--the firm feels honored, highly honored, I a.s.sure you!" The old man bustled round the cartload, taking in the value at a glance, and talking all the time. Suddenly he seized the nag by the head, but quickly let go, as Klavs snapped at him. "We'll drive it down to the other yard," said he.

"I think we'd better leave the goods on the cart, until we've agreed about the price," Lars Peter thought; he was beginning to be somewhat suspicious.

"No, my man, we must have the whole thing emptied out, so that we can see what we're buying," said the old man in quite another tone.

"That's not our way."

"And I don't sell till I know my price. It's all weighed and sorted, Lars Peter's no cheat."

"No, no, of course not. So it's really you? Lars Peter Hansen--and from Sand too--and no cheat. Come with me into the office then."

The rag and bone man followed him. He was a little bewildered, was the man making a fool of him, or did he really know him? Round about at home Lars Peter of Sand was known by every one; had his name as a buyer preceded him?

He had all the weights in his head, and gave the figures, while the old man put them down. In the midst of this he suddenly realized that the cart had disappeared. He rushed out, and down in the other yard found two men engaged in unloading the cart. For the second time today Lars Peter lost his temper. "See and get those things on to the cart again," he shouted, picking up his whip. The two men hastily took his measure; then without a word reloaded the cart.

He was no longer in doubt that they would cheat him. The cursed knaves! If they had emptied it all out on to the heap, then he could have whistled for his own price. He drove the cart right up to the office door, and kept the reins on his arm. The old fox stood by his desk, looking at him out of the corners of his eyes. "Were they taking your beautiful horse from you?" he asked innocently.

"No, 'twas something else they wanted to have their fingers in,"

growled Lars Peter; he would show them that he could be sarcastic too. "Now then, will you buy the goods or not?"

"Of course we'll buy them. Look here, I've reckoned it all up. It'll be exactly fifty-six crowns--highest market price."

"Oh, go to the devil with your highest market price!" Lars Peter began mounting the cart again.

The old man looked at him in surprise through his spectacles: "Then you won't sell?"

"No, that I won't. I'd rather take it home again--and get double the price."

"Well, if you say so of course--Lars Peter Hansen's no cheat. But what are we to do, my man? My conscience won't allow me to send you dragging those things home again--it would be a crime to this beautiful horse." He approached the nag as if to pat it, but Klavs laid back his ears and lashed his tail. This praise of his horse softened Lars Peter, and the end of it was that he let the load go for ninety crowns. A cigar was thrown into the bargain. "It's from the cheap box, so please don't light it until you get outside the gate," said the impudent old knave. "Come again soon!"

Thanks! It would be some time before he came here again--a pack of robbers! He asked the way to an inn in Vestergade, where people from his neighborhood generally stayed, and there he unharnessed.

The yard was full of vehicles. Farmers with pipes hanging from their lips and fur-coats unb.u.t.toned were loading their wagons. Here and there between the vehicles were loiterers, with broad gold chains across their chest and half-closed eyes. One of them came up to Lars Peter. "Are you doing anything tonight?" said he. "There's a couple of us here--retired farmers--going to have a jolly evening together.

We want a partner." He drew a pack of cards from his breast-pocket, and began shuffling them.

No, Lars Peter had no time. "All the same, thanks." "Who are those men?" he asked the stable-boy.

"Oh, they help the farmers to find their way about town, when it's dark," answered the man, laughing.

"Are they paid for that then?" asked Lars Peter thoughtfully.

"Oh, yes--and sometimes a good deal. But then they fix up other things besides--lodging for the night and everything. Even a wife they'll get for you, if you like."

"Well, I don't care about that. If they'd only help a man to get hold of his own wife!"

"I don't think they do that. But you can try."

No, Lars Peter would not do that. He realized these were folk it was better to avoid. Then he sauntered out into the town. At Hauserplads there was an inn kept by a man he knew--he would look him up. Maybe he could give him a little help in managing the affair.

The street-lamps were just being lit, although it was not nearly dark; evidently there was no lack of money here. Lars Peter clattered in his big boots down towards Frue Plads, examining the houses as he went. This stooping giant, with faded hat and cape, looked like a wandering piece of the countryside. When he asked the way his voice rang through the street--although it was not loud for him. People stopped and laughed. Then he laughed back again and made some joke or other, which, though he did not mean it, sounded like a storm between the rows of houses. Gradually a crowd of children and young people gathered and followed in his wake. When they shouted after him he took it with good humor, but was not altogether at his ease until he reached the tavern. Here he took out his red pocket handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

"Hullo! Hans Mattisen," he shouted down into the dark cellar. "D'you know an old friend again, what?" His joy over having got so far made his voice sound still more overpowering than usual; there was hardly room for it under the low ceiling.

"Not so fast, not so fast!" came from a jolly voice behind the counter, "wait until I get a light."

When the gas was lit, they found they did not know each other at all. Hans Mattisen had left years ago. "Don't you worry about that,"

said the inn-keeper, "sit down." After Lars Peter had seated himself, he was given some lobscouse and a small bottle of wine, and soon felt at peace with the world.

The inn-keeper was a pleasant man with a keen sense of humor. Lars Peter was glad of a talk with him, and before he was aware of it, had poured out all his troubles. Well, he had come down here to get advice; and he had not gone far wrong either.

"Is that all?" said the inn-keeper, "we'll soon put that right.

We've only to send a message to the Bandmaster."

"Who's that?" asked Lars Peter.

"Oh, he has the cleverest head in the world; there's not a piece of music but he can manage it. Curious fellow--never met one like him.

For example, he can't bear dogs, because once a police-dog took him for an ordinary thief. He never can forget that. Therefore, if he asks, you've only to say that dogs are a d.a.m.ned nuisance--almost as loathsome as the police. He can't stand them either. Hi! Katrine,"

he called into the kitchen, "get hold of the Bandmaster quick, and tell him to come along--give him plenty of drink too, for he must be thawed before you get anything out of him."

"No fear about that," said Lars Peter airily, putting a ten-crown piece on the table, which the inn-keeper quickly pocketed. "That's right, old man--that's doing the thing properly," said he appreciatively. "I'll see to the whiskey. You're a gentleman, that's certain--you've got a well-filled pocketbook, I suppose?"