II


A man landed here this morning--come to paint the house. But Old Gunhild,
being very old indeed, and perishing with gout most times, gets him to cut
up a few days' firewood for her cooking before he starts. I've offered
many a time to cut that wood myself, but she thinks my clothes too fine,
and would not let me have the ax on any account.

This painter, now, is a short, thick-set fellow with red hair and no
beard. I watch him from behind a window as he works, to see how he handles
the ax. Then, noticing that he is talking to himself, I steal out of the
house to listen. If he makes a false stroke, he takes it patiently, and
does not trouble himself; but whenever he knocks his knuckles, he turns
irritable and says: "_Fan! Fansmagt_!" [Footnote: "The Devil! Power
of the Devil!"]--and then looks round suddenly and starts humming a tune
to cover his words.

Yes; I recognize that painter man. Only, he's not a painter at all, the
rascal, but Grindhusen, one of the men I worked with when I was roadmaking
at Skreia.

I go up to him, and ask if he remembers me, and we talk a bit.

Many, many years it is now since we were roadmenders together, Grindhusen
and I; we were youngsters then, and danced along the roads in the sorriest
of shoes, and ate what we could get as long as we had money enough for