I knew him well. He was over fifty, tall and large-limbed, with a
hoary shock of hair and a snub nose. I knew he had a host of
children--I had been at his door once, and they had run, pattered,
waddled, crept, and rolled through the doorway to gape at me. It had
seemed as hopeless to try to count them as a large flock of sheep. I
knew there was no income except what the old man and woman--and
possibly the elder children--managed to earn from day to day. My
employer in Copenhagen had strictly forbidden us to give credit to
such--and of course he now owed us more than he would ever be able
to pay.

He does not even knock--the old ruffian, I said to myself.

From his appearance, something was wrong. His face was unnaturally
purplish, his eyes strangely shiny--yet dull withal. It even seemed
to me that his legs shook under him.

Can it be that the old devil is tipsy--at the height of the haying
season--and dry weather at that? I mentally queried.

The doctor evidently could not recall who he was.

Good-day to you, my man, he said, and what matter have you in hand?

I merely came to get those four crowns.

Which four crowns? asked the doctor.

Thordur raised his voice: The four crowns you owe me.