round the unfortunate man, while some one cried: "How many inns
are there between this and Sweden?"

"Yes, it's too easy to get hold of liquids out there, that's the
worst of it," the pilot went on. "But for that any booby could
manage a ship. He's only got to keep well to the right of Mads
Hansen's farm, and he's got a straight road before him. And the
deuce of a fine road! Telegraph-wires and ditches and a row of
poplars on each side--just improved by the local board. You've just
got to wipe the porridge off your mustache, kiss the old woman, and
climb up on to the bridge, and there you are! Has the engine been
oiled, Hans? Right away, then, off we go; hand me my best whip!" He
imitated the peasants' manner of speech. "Be careful about the inns,
Dad!" he added in a shrill falsetto. There were peals of laughter,
that had an evil sound in the prevailing depression.

The farmer sat quite still under the deluge, only lowering his head
a little. When the laughter had almost died away, he pointed at the
pilot with his whip, and remarked to the bystanders--

"That's a wonderful clever kid for his age! Whose father art thou,
my boy?" he went on, turning to the pilot.

This raised a laugh, and the thick-necked pilot swelled with rage.
He seized hold of the body of the cart and shook it so that the
farmer had a difficulty in keeping his seat. "You miserable old
clodhopper, you pig-breeder, you dung-carter!" he roared. "What do
you mean by coming here and saying 'thou' to grown-up people and
calling them 'boy'? And giving your opinions on navigation into the
bargain! Eh! you lousy old money-grubber! No, if you ever take off