“Well, why don’t you speak, woman?” broke inEgholm, when she had been reading a few seconds. “Are you asleep?—or, perhaps it doesn’t interest you? Eh? Now, then, what is it you’re reading?—what do you make of it? Eh?”
“Yes, yes, I see,” stammered Fru Egholm, her eyes flitting to another part altogether in her confusion—“something about the Tabernacle....”
“Is the tithe abolished?—that’s what I want to know,” said Egholm insistently. “Does it say there, or does it not, that the tithe is weak and unprofitable?”
“Why, yes—but that’s what I’ve always said,” answered she, with marvellous presence of mind. “Was it only that you wanted me to see?”
Egholm looked her up and down contemptuously.
A moment later he was tearing down the street with the big family Bible all uncovered under one arm.
Oh, but this was the most wonderful day of his life! The Bible itself had revealed its darkest secrets to him—to him alone. What would they say, all those whose minds were yet in darkness? what would old Angel Karlsen say? what would young Evangelist Karlsen look like with his wrinkled face—when they heard that the Community of the Brethren of St. John was built on sand—nay, upon a swamp, into the bottomless depth of which their money sank never to be seen again?He, Egholm, was a new Luther, wielding the Bible as a mighty club againstheresy and false doctrine. They would have to make him Angel, ay, Archangel, after this. In every land where the Brethren of St. John were known, his name would be named with honour. He would write a new Book of Laws for the Brotherhood, and it should be translated into seven tongues. Into seven tongues! Almost like a new Bible.
Karlsen’s shop was at a corner of the market square. It was a very old house, with a steep red roof. At the bottom two small windows had been let in to make it look like a shop, and through them one could discern, in spite of a thick layer of cobwebs and dust, the rows of shelves with yellow jars in all sizes. The modest store was suited to the taste of the peasant customers. They could stand for ages pondering over the choice of a shovel or rake, and weighing it in the hand. Karlsen was understood to be a wealthy man.
Egholm inquired of a chilblainy youth if he could speak with Angel Karlsen.
H’m. He didn’t know. Would go in and ask.
“Say it’s something of importance,” said Egholm.
As the door in the corner was opened, Egholm heard a sound of voices in dispute from the office beyond. Two voices—and he could not recognise either. Or was it—yes, surely that was old Karlsen’s, after all? Egholm listened in wonder, as one might listen to a familiar air played out of time or at a different pace.
“Call me a scoundrel if you like,” shouted the one, a nasal trumpeting voice with a twang of city jargon—“call me a thief, a convict, or anything you damn well please, but I won’t be called a fool!”
“But the contract, the contract, the contract!” screamed out the angelic voice of Karlsen the Elder.
No, the young man was sorry, Hr. Karlsen could not possibly see him just now. He was engaged with one of the travellers.
“Well, I must see him, anyhow,” said Egholm more soberly.
They were at it again inside, and his knock was unheeded. Then suddenly the whole seemed to collapse in a cascade of laughter.
He knocked again, and walked in. There was old Karlsen, his face unevenly flushed, with a fat cigar sticking out of his beard, and before him a bright-eyed, elegantly dressed commercial traveller, who slapped the Angel’s outstretched hand repeatedly, both men laughing at the top of their voices.
“Beg pardon, Hr. Karlsen—er—would you kindly read this?...” Where was it now? Egholm began helplessly turning the pages of his Bible.
“Hullo, here’s somebody wants to save our souls, by the look of it,” said the elegant one, with a tentative laugh.
“Didn’t my young man out there tell you I was engaged?” said old Karlsen angrily, turning aside.
“But it’s a discovery I’ve made—it’s of theutmost importance. A wonderful find—here in the Holy Scripture itself. Read it, here—it’s only a few lines. I can hardly believe my own senses. Read it—there!”
“But, my dear friend,” said the Angel, “you can see for yourself I’m engaged. We’re in the middle of important business.”
“Let me read just three words to you.”
“No, no, no, I won’t have it, I say.”
Egholm stood with hectic cheeks; his former respect for the Angel still checked any actual outburst of fury, but from the look of him, it was doubtful what might happen next.
“This is not the proper place to discuss the word of God, nor the proper time, nor the mood for it, either. Come round again this evening, my dear Egholm. At eight, say, and then we can talk over whatever it is that’s troubling you.”
The commercial plucked him by the sleeve. “I thought you were coming round to the hotel—Postgaarden, you said.”
“Er—well, we might sayto-morrowevening at eight,” corrected the Angel. “Yes, come round to-morrow, Egholm; that will do.”
Egholm drew himself up and shot sparks, but said nothing. He shut up the clasp of his Bible with a snap.
“Have a cigar, won’t you?” said the Angel, offering the box.
“No, thank you.”
“Yes, yes, do. They’re none so bad—what, Hr. Nathan?”
Hr. Nathan uttered a curious sound—an articulate shudder, as it were—and looked quizzically at the box.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Well, then, a glass of port?”
“I’ve other things to think about than drinking wine. The fate of the Brotherhood lies in my hand. Inmyhand. I’m going round to the Deacon now.”
“No, really? He he! Are you really? Well, well,” said Karlsen, with that strangely jovial angel voice of his, that Egholm knew so well, and yet found strange....
But Egholm was so shaken by his interview with the Angel that he did not go round to the Deacon after all. The Deacon was a pottery worker, living at a village just outside the town.
He went back home to look again and make sure it was right. He clutched the Bible tightly under his arm as he walked, as if in dread lest the all-important text might drop out.
Yes, there it was. He read through the passage again in wonder, and fell to musing anew.
That same evening Evangelist Karlsen came round.
Egholm shook his head nervously.
“It’s no good, Karlsen. No. I’m not going to give in.”
Young Karlsen stood staring open mouthed.
“No. I’ve settled up with myself once and for all. I won’t give in. I know well enough what you’ve come for.”
“But, my dear friends, what on earth are you talking about? Anything wrong?”
“Karlsen, you know as well as I do it’s your father sent you round,” said Egholm almost pleadingly.
“I swear I know nothing of the sort. I’ve only just got back this evening. From Veile. Know Justesen, the horsedealer, there? Been seeing him. And then on the way—I’ve been dragging my bag along, and it’s heavy. I thought I’d just look in for a breather.”
“Let Sivert carry it for you,” said Fru Egholm.
“No, thanks, it’s all right outside on the stairs. I never like to leave it very long.”
Egholm put his hand to his eyes; the cracked and furrowed countenance of the Evangelist always distracted his attention. Then he began telling of his discovery—first, in mysterious roundabout hints, then suddenly breaking out into fiery declamation, with the open book before him, and his finger-nail underlining the words.
Karlsen was thunderstruck. And he thoughtheknew his Bible.... Never in his life had he come across that place. He stamped about the room, spitting into all four corners.
Egholm went further; he drew up an outline of the new laws, the entire reorganisation....
“It’ll be a hard struggle for me, I know. But I’ll....”
“Oh, we’ll manage it all right,” said Karlsen cheerfully.
“Eh? D’you mean to say ... you’re on my side?”
“Oh, I’m on the side of the Bible, of course.”
And there was Egholm with the enemy’s leading general won over, without a blow!
“It’s the only thing to do, anyway,” explained Karlsen, “as things are now. There’s been some talk about you having my place when I moved up. But I don’t know what they’ll say to that now....”
“Me! Evangelist!” Egholm turned stiff all over.
“Yes,” said Karlsen quietly.
“I’ve never heard a word about it before.”
“Well, the Elders have gathered together.... But it was to be a surprise, you understand?”
“Yes, yes,” murmured Egholm faintly. Again it overwhelmed him for the moment, but he recovered himself, and said, with a laugh:
“Who knows, they might make me Angel now.”
“Almost sure to, I should say,” opined the dark Evangelist.
Egholm felt calm and strong now, no longer dizzy as he had been during the morning. And Karlsen was really a jolly sort, after all. Here he was, actually gloating over the face his respected father, the Angel, would set up when the bombshell burst.
The upshot of it was that they worked out a plan together.
Egholm was to prepare a grand speech for the meeting next Wednesday. Karlsen knew—now hecame to think of it—quite a lot of first-rate texts that could be used, in support of the new discovery.
“But don’t you think”—Egholm lowered his voice confidentially—“wouldn’t it be better if I went round to the Brethren, and just let them know how it stands?”
Karlsen pondered.
“H’m. I should say, the best way’s to take the whole congregation by surprise, all at once. Better effect, you know, when you can stand there and throw out a hand and there it is! And you’ve quite a decent platform manner, to my mind.”
“Yes,” agreed Egholm, beaming.
“Anyhow, I’ll trot round and tackle a few of the thickest heads myself. I’ve a certain amount of influence, you know, and authority, and all that. I know how to manage them.”
“Why, then, it’s as good as done!” Egholm’s voice was almost a song.
“Easy as winking,” said Karlsen confidently.
“You don’t know how glad I am you came over to the right side at once.”
“Oh, never mind about that. You can always do me a little service some time in return.”
They stayed up till nearly midnight. Egholm strode up and down, filling the room with words. Possibly he was already rehearsing for the coming Wednesday. Karlsen smoked, and drank many cups of black coffee. The children hung over the table,limp and heavy with drowsiness, casting greedy glances at the settee. Their mother tore at her sewing more violently than usual, and sighed aloud.
At last Karlsen took his leave. Egholm could not bear to break off even then, but went out with him. He waved his arms in the air, and tripped about, now and then actually circling round his companion as they walked.
Did he think, now, the Bible Society would care to have a dissertation on the two conflicting points? There ought, at any rate, to be some kind of indication, an asterisk, say, in the first place, to save others from confusion.
Karlsen thought they very likely would.
The street lamps glowed red in the fog. A policeman appeared at a corner, waved to them cheerfully, and said sympathetically: “Get along home; that’s the best place for you.”
“Thinks we’re drunk,” said Egholm, and stopped for breath. “But—we’ve been talking, and never thought ... your bag. We’ve forgotten all about it.”
“Bag? Oh yes.... No; that’s all right. I spotted the old man’s cart just outside the station, and sent it home by that.”
“Good! Then that’s all right.” Egholm’s thoughts were at once occupied with something else. His brain was fluttering with innumerable winged thoughts.
“Well, better say good-night.”
“Good-night, Karlsen. And thanks, thanks. You shall be Angel, if I can put in a word.”
Egholm looked round, confused. Where had they got to now? These big houses ... it wasn’t the way....
“I’ll see you right home,” he offered.
“Well—er—I’m not exactly going home just yet,” said the Evangelist, with some embarrassment. “Just a hand at cards with a few friends, that’s all.” He sighed guiltily. “But if I do win akroner, say, it means tenøreto the Brethren.... Oh, I forgot, that’s all over now, of course.”
“But—d’you mean to say there’s anybody up at this time of night?” asked Egholm in astonishment.
“Only a couple of friends—Brethren in the Lord.”
“But where?”
“In the red room at the HotelPostgaarden,” said Karlsen innocently.
Going round to the meeting on the following Wednesday, Egholm was surprised to find the hall already full, though it was not yet eight o’clock. He was also surprised, and agreeably so, to perceive that his entry created some stir. Evidently, Karlsen had let fall a word of what was to happen. Unless, indeed, it were the Lord Himself that had given hint of it to each individually. Anyhow, it was just as well to have plenty of witnesses in a case like this.
But where—where were the Elders of the flock?
Egholm sat down at the back of the hall, by the stove; it was a pious impulse that had come to him, having in mind the promise that whoso humbleth himself shall be exalted. And it was a good idea in other ways, he thought. The little group of paupers would form an excellent background.
“Angel Karlsen—hasn’t he come yet?” he whispered to a shawl-wrapped crone at his side.
The woman looked round, showing a face weather-worn and overgrown like a relic of the past. A single tooth showed like a stone wedge in her half-open mouth. She made no answer.
Egholm repeated his question, with no more result than before. Oh, but, of course, it was Deaf Maren. He had forgotten for the moment. But how ugly she looked to-night—and what a malicious glance she gave him. And the others, too, all with the same forbidding look—why couldn’t they answer? It was plain to see they had heard his question, and that they knew enough to tell him if they would. But every one of them turned away, or looked down at the floor—until at last Madam Strand, the gipsy woman, who was sitting on a bench at the extreme left, crept up to him with a submissive curtsey.
“They’re in there—all of them,” she said, with a shake of her thin grey locks. “All the God-fearing lot—the Angel, and the Prophet from Copenhagen—bless ’em—and the Deacon and young Karlsen. Talking and talking and making their plans. Such a fuss they’re making to-night—enough to make a body quake all over.”
She passed her wrinkled skinny hand over his wrist as she spoke.
Egholm felt his heart beat faster. He glanced over towards the door Madam Strand had indicated; it led to a little anteroom that was used, among other things, as a dressing-room for the gymnasium class. He fancied he could hear voices. A moment ago he had felt something like pity for all these people, whose conviction he would now be called upon to shatter and replace by another. But already hefound himself in need of courage, seeking comfort from the fact that, after all, the weapon was in his hand. What did it matter if there were many who came up against him? And young Karlsen, no doubt, would help to bear the brunt of it.
This last was merely a sort of aside to himself. But Egholm felt his doubts of the Evangelist’s honesty suddenly grown stronger than ever.
Those artful round eyes of his—and the queer look in them when he had said good-night that evening outside HotelPostgaarden. What could one expect from a man who went off to play cards at twelve o’clock at night at hotels? And what sort of companions could he find for the same? “Brethren in the Lord,” indeed! It was an expensive place, too, that one could hardly expect the poorer Brethren to frequent. Wait a bit, though:Postgaarden... wasn’t it there the commercial traveller man was going to meet old Karlsen that same evening?... To sum up, then, nothing more nor less than a neat piece of spying, and carrying the whole tale to his father immediately after! After which, of course, he had simply been sent round to all these simple souls, to set their minds against him, Egholm....
It would be a hard fight now.
Fru Westergaard and Mirre, the dog, passed by. Egholm rose and bowed, but received only a half-glance in return. Fru Westergaard made her way through to her privileged chair, and sat downcarefully, arranging her skirts about the dog’s head.
Her arrival was like that of the bride at a wedding, the signal for proceedings to begin. At the same moment, the door of the little room opened, and a little troop of men—looking, to tell the truth, more like mutes at a funeral than anything to do with weddings—marched in close order up on to the stage. At their head the Angel, wrapped in his beard, which seemed alive with electric tension. After him marched the Prophet from Copenhagen—a quondam priest by the name of Finck—together with the Deacon, Potter Kaasmose, whose long hair was plastered down and cut as if to the rim of one of his own pots. Of the remaining five, Egholm knew only two—Dideriksen, the Apostle, and Karlsen, the Evangelist. Dideriksen was a very pious man, as was apparent, for instance, in his habit of constantly stroking downwards over his face. Karlsen had put on a glaring red tie, which gave him a martial touch. He looked as if he were gloating over some great disaster. The stairs had been widened with a further consignment of beer boxes, so that the procession could mount the platform in something like order.
A breathless silence reigned among the congregation when Angel Karlsen began to pray, while the remaining Elders seated themselves in a half-circle. The Copenhagen Prophet, evidently on easy andfamiliar terms with platforms, thrust his coat-tails carelessly aside, polished his gold pince-nez with a handkerchief of brilliant whiteness, and did other things hitherto unknown in those surroundings. Young Karlsen, for instance—not to speak of Potter Kaasmose—would have been utterly unable to imitate the elegant movement with which he flung one leg over the other, after first pulling up the legs of his trousers. He had chosen his seat on the extreme right, like the first violin in an orchestra. His interesting appearance could hardly fail to draw off some attention from the prayer, but was no doubt edifying in itself.
“Amen,” said Angel Karlsen.
“And having now concluded this prayer which Thou Thyself hast taught us, we further pray that this our ancient congregation, founded by St. John the Apostle, and lasting even unto this day in despite of the deluge of sin and the drought of indifference, may likewise henceforward so prevail against the ravages of the wolf that steals abroad by night, that neither sheep nor lamb may fall a prey.
“All ye who were present here last evening know what I mean. But for those others who do not, I will briefly set forth the matter which has called us Elders to gather in conclave here to-night.”
Egholm sat gasping as if half stunned. “Present herelast evening!...” Then they had called a meeting, without his knowledge—a meeting wherethey had betrayed him and his great cause, and sowed the seed of hatred against him in all the hearts of those who had no judgment of their own. In the midst of his anger, indignation, and fear, Egholm yet tried to frame a prayer for strength and courage. But he could do no more than mumble helplessly: “I’m in the right, you know I am. Lord God, you know I’m in the right.”
Meanwhile, old Karlsen was reciting a pretty parable about the wolf that took upon itself sheep’s clothing, that it might deceive the unwary—ay, even the shepherd himself, that he might open the door of the fold and let that monster enter in, with kindly words: “Enter, poor strayed sheep, and be refreshed with the grass of this pleasant fold.” But then one day the shepherd looked into the eyes of that wolf in sheep’s clothing, and lo! they were eyes of fire. And another day he looked at its teeth, and lo! they were the teeth of a wolf. But the monster believed itself still safe and unsuspected—even until to-night. “And so it comes here amongst us at this moment, and says to the sheep: ‘Follow me. I know a place where the grass is richer and more pleasant; make haste and leave that evil shepherd, who shears you of your fleece. I will lead you; I will be your shepherd!’”
When the Angel had finished, Egholm rose, pale and ill at ease, and begged leave to speak. But his seat was so far back, and his voice so weak, that thoseon the platform might be excused for overlooking him. All heard, however, when young Karlsen called out the number of a hymn, and though Egholm repeated his request in a slightly louder voice, the congregation began singing:
“‘Up, ye Christians, up and doing,Warriors of the Lord, to arms!Lo, the foeman’s host pursuing,All the power of war’s alarms.Draw and smiteFor the right,Hell is arming ’gainst the Light.Follow in your leader’s train,Trusting in his strength to win,Satan hopes the day to gain,Up, and smite the host of sin!Here at handStill doth standOne who can all powers command!’”
“‘Up, ye Christians, up and doing,Warriors of the Lord, to arms!Lo, the foeman’s host pursuing,All the power of war’s alarms.Draw and smiteFor the right,Hell is arming ’gainst the Light.
Follow in your leader’s train,Trusting in his strength to win,Satan hopes the day to gain,Up, and smite the host of sin!Here at handStill doth standOne who can all powers command!’”
Egholm had lost patience. As the hymn concluded, he sprang up and roared across the hall:
“Look here, do you mean to sayI’mSatan?”
There was a stir as all in the hall turned round. Fru Westergaard’s chair rocked suddenly, and a bench crashed down, but after that followed a moment of icy silence, cleft immediately by Karlsen’s angel trumpet:
“Guilty conscience, Egholm?”
A new silence, Egholm stammering and gurgling, but finding no appropriate answer. Then the Evangelist let loose a shower of insulting laughter.Strangely enough, this had the effect of bringing Egholm to his senses.
“I was the first to ask; it’s your place to answer. D’you mean to say I’m Satan?”
And before any of the Elders on the platform could pull themselves sufficiently together, he went on:
“Do you know this book here? It’s an old one, and the title-page is missing. You think, perhaps, it’s St. Cyprian, but I can tell you, it’s the Holy Scripture. Yes, that’s what it is. And what I have to say to you now is just the words of the Scriptures, and no more. Holy Scripture, pure and undefiled. I’ll read it out, and you can judge for yourselves. I tell you, you haven’t got a shepherd at all; you’ve abutcher!”
At the first exchange of words, the congregation had been confused and uneasy, quivering this way and that like a magnetic needle exposed to intermittent current. Now, Egholm had, it is true, most of them facing his way, but many looked up to the Elders, and especially to the Angel, partly to see the effect of Egholm’s words, and partly to gain some hint as to which way their own feeling should tend. The congregation was thus divided, but Egholm wanted it united. Accordingly, he left his place between Deaf Maren and the stove, and advanced by jerks, still speaking, up towards his foes.
Yes, he knew it was a serious thing to call AngelKarlsen—Egholm shook a little at the venerable words—a butcher. But it was plain to him now, after what had passed, that Angel Karlsen was not acting in good faith as regards the point in dispute: whether tithe should be paid, or if tithe had been abolished by God’s own word, and was consequently foolish—nay, wicked. But if the Angel knew God’s will, and did not act upon it, and open the eyes of the Brotherhood to the same, then no words could be too strong.
Egholm spoke for twenty minutes. He had got right to the front, and stepped up on to the first of the beer boxes, making, as it were, an act drop of his body in front of those on the platform. The audience could only see their shadows, and hear a slight sound when the Copenhagen Prophet cleared his throat. Once young Karlsen tried his devilish laugh, but was sternly suppressed by his venerable sire. There was no real disturbance of any sort; the congregation made but one listening, eager face. The Elders were exorcised already. Victory—victory!
But at the very moment when the thought first thrilled him, Egholm’s eloquence suddenly ran dry. With a spasm of dread he realised that he could say no more. The source within him, that he had imagined endless, had ceased. He had not firmness enough to begin again, and the texts and parables he had chosen for his purpose had been rehearsed sooften in his mind for the occasion that he could not now remember what he had actually said and what he could still use.
The emptiness that followed was almost physically oppressive—Egholm gasped once or twice as if the very air about him were gone. Then came the voice of the Angel, calm and firm:
“Have you any more to say?”
“No,” said Egholm, paling as he spoke. “I hope now you have understood.”
And with that he stepped down from his elevation, sighed, wiped his forehead nervously, and leaned up against the wall at the side.
Old Karlsen delivered a prayer longer and more powerful than ever before. It gathered like a cloud above the congregation, gradually obscuring all that Egholm had said. Not until he noticed that the cloud had condensed here and there to a mild rain of tears did the Angel pass over imperceptibly to mention of Egholm’s onslaught.
“And now, now—well, you have heard the leader of your flock, the shepherd and Angel of the Brotherhood, referred to as a butcher. Here, in our own house, and out of the mouth of one whom we regarded as a brother. Why do I not lift up my hand against him, and drive him forth, even as the Master drove out those from the Temple who defiled its holy places? No! For it is written:Blessed are the meek.”
The Angel’s prayer had opened the hearts of the flock. Thereupon Finck the Prophet stepped forward. He wore a reddish-brown beard, his eyebrows were bushy, and his eyes glittered behind his glasses. It seemed as if he had hitherto affected lordly indifference, but was now so moved that he could no longer control his emotion, and his anger burst forth in a torrent.
“In days gone by,” he began, “when I realised that the Established Church of Denmark was being suffered to drift like a ship without a compass, I declined to stay on board. And before leaving, I warned my fellow-travellers, and the captain and the mate. I told them in plain, bold words that they were drifting towards shipwreck. Many believed that my words were over-bold. A conflict raged about my name, as some of you may perhaps remember. But, now, we have heard a man whose words were not bold, but only brutal and coarse—a man who, I think I am qualified to say, lacks the very rudiments of ability to understand what he reads. This ignoramus takes upon himself to pick out a verse here and a verse there, and then adds them together in a fashion of his own. We may compare him with the man who read one day in his Bible: ‘Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him’—and the next: ‘Go thou and do likewise.’...”
The sum and essence of Finck’s oration was thatthe rendering of tithe was a jewel of price reserved for the Brotherhood of St. John apart from all others. To cast away that jewel now would be sheer madness.
Egholm stood quivering with impatience to answer. His mind was clear now as to what he should say. And as soon as Finck had ended, he sprang forward.
“It seems to me that Hr. Finck, the Prophet, in spite of all his claims to learning, and his libellous attack....”
“Silence, man!” roared Finck, his voice echoing roundly from the walls. “We will hear no more. You have said your last word here. Go!”
“My turn now,” said young Karlsen, with a swaggering fling of his shoulders.
But the venerable Angel could not find it in his heart to deny Egholm a last word. He found it preferable to let him wreak his own destruction. And with his keen perception of the feeling among the congregation, he was confident that this would be the result.
“Beloved Brethren,” he said, “there is but a quarter of an hour left us—one poor quarter of an hour. I had endeavoured to secure the hall for another hour, but other and more worldly matters intervened. I think, then, we should let Egholm say what his conscience permits him, and then conclude with the old hymn: ‘All is in the Father’s hand.’”
“I should just like to ask Prophet Finck,” said Egholm furiously, “howhewould interpret and explain....”
“What’s that?” said Finck loftily.
“The leading point, the essence of the whole thing, namely, the text found by me in the Epistle to the Hebrews—you have not said a word about that, really. I am firmly convinced that I am right, but, all the same, I should like to hear how you propose to explain away....”
“Write it down,” broke in Finck sharply.
Egholm obeyed involuntarily. He found a stump of lead pencil in his waistcoat pocket, and began scrawling on the faded paper at the back of his Bible. He was a facile writer ordinarily, but in his present state of emotion he could hardly frame his question. Two or three times he struck out what he had written and began again. Suddenly he heard young Karlsen clearing his throat, and then:
“Now, then, we’d better....”
“No, no!” cried Egholm.
“Throw that man out,” commanded Finck.
“You cowards, you’re afraid to let me speak!”
“Oh, go and heave him out, Johannes,” called young Karlsen, leaning over the footlights.
But Johannes, the postman, was paralysed already by the unwonted tumult, and did not move. There were others in the hall, however, who seemed eagerenough to respond to the invitation, seeing that Karlsen himself was to be responsible.
“You miserable traitor,” hissed Egholm, “give me back my tithes, give me my money, and I’ll go. But not before. Give me my four hundredkroner.”
“Turn him out, the wretch!”
“‘All is in the Father’s hand,All things answer His command....’”
“‘All is in the Father’s hand,All things answer His command....’”
The Angel made a brave attempt to start the hymn, but the congregation appeared more interested in the conflict, and no one followed his lead.
“My money—give me my money, you thieves!”
“Pot calling the kettle black!” cried the Evangelist, with a sneer.
“Liar, slanderer, scoundrel!” roared Egholm, seeing in this last remark a reference to the manner of his dismissal from the railway service. And, beside himself with fury, he raised the heavy Bible to throw at Karlsen, when a diversion took place which drew off his attention and that of the audience.
A confused but violent noise came from the back of the hall, and then repeated shouts that rose above the din.
“You lanky black beast! You filthy devil! What about the seventh commandment? Yes; it’s you I mean, you filthy, incontinent swine! Youevangelical hypocrite! What about Metha, eh? She’s lying there at home now and asking for you—for you!”
The words were plain and to the point; everyone in the hall stared in amazement at the backsliding photographer, who was standing on a bench and waving clenched fists in the air. It was evident that he had been drinking.
Then they turned to look at young Karlsen. His face was drawn awry.
Egholm was so moved at this unexpected reinforcement that the tears flowed down his cheeks. He found voice again and took up the cry.
“They’re a lot of criminals, all of them. Setting themselves up against God’s laws that I’ve discovered. I’ll have you up, that I will. Give me my money, my money!”
Young Karlsen lost his self-control. He sprang in long leaps down through the hall, and flung himself upon Egholm, thrusting his head forward like a bull about to charge.
“You shut yo’ jaw!” he cried, lapsing into his country dialect.
“Lauritz, be careful!” cried the Angel warningly. But it was too late. Finck came up to take part, and Egholm was borne towards the door, still shouting, and hanging on with arms and legs to the benches as he passed.
A little party of Brethren carried Meilby insimilar fashion to the door. Serve him right, the sneak, always behindhand with his tithes....
The hall was filled with shouts and oaths, cries, and the barking of a dog.
The Histrionics gathered open mouthed about the doorway. It was their dress-rehearsal night for the coming performance ofThe Lovers’ Secret.
Meilby was in difficulties with his dress—his braces had given way—and Egholm was sucking an abrasion on the back of his hand. Nevertheless, each felt a sense of relief, as they walked briskly over the cobblestones, talking loudly and emphatically.
“If the Lord had sent a rain of fire upon their heads ... I was looking for it all the time. I can’t understand that He didn’t. Can you, now?”
Meilby answered, with a self-satisfied smile:
“Wasn’t wanted, that’s about it. He sent me instead.”
“Yes; that’s true. Thanks, Meilby—thanks for your help,” said Egholm, pressing the other’s arm. “But what was it all about, really? I was so excited at the time.... I mean, what was behind it all?”
“Ha ha, yes, what was behind it all! Metha Madsen was behind it all—Metha and her brat. Karlsen’s it was, and they’ve been trying to make out it was mine.”
“Terrible, terrible!”
“No; it’s not. I’m going away, and I’ll be out of it all. The old Angel in his little shop, he fixedit all up, for her to say it was me. Wouldn’t have done for his dear little son, you know, and an Evangelist into the bargain. Kid was born at ten o’clock, and it wasn’t stillborn either.”
“But you could declare on oath....”
“Well, you know, that’s a ticklish business. On oath.... No; I did the only thing there was to be done—came along every evening to the meetings, and glared at them, and threatened to kick up a scandal. But it’s not so easy to make a speech in a crowd like that. Anyhow, I managed it all right this time, didn’t I?”
“Splendidly. And now—you’re going away?”
“To-morrow. First thing to-morrow morning,” whispered Meilby hoarsely. “Come up with me now. I shan’t go to bed to-night.”
“Why, it’s all empty!” said Egholm dismally, looking round the place. There was a travelling trunk in the middle of the studio floor, and that was all.
“Every rag and stick cleared out,” said Meilby triumphantly.
“But you promised me—you promised me for certain....”
“Oh, I’ve fixed it up for you all right. Never meant to do you in, you know. That I swear. Not from the first evening. Here—here’s the pawnticket for some neat little things—that’s yours. I’ve sold the rest. Eh? Oh, don’t mention it, not at all.”
Egholm read the legend on the ticket—for a matter of a fewkronerhe could buy the camera thing outright. He was delighted; he was touched.
“None of your sneaking Angel ways about me,” said Meilby simply.
“And what are you going to do over there when you get there?”
“How should I know? Don’t even know where America is. If I hadn’t got my ticket, I’d never find the way. But I’ve got it all right, thank the Lord! Here, you can see. Looks like business, doesn’t it, what? But it’s a long way, that’s true. Wonder if there’s women there....”
Egholm staggered off homewards.
If only he could go with Meilby. Get away out of this hole, with its hypocrites and scoundrels, its patent-shoed prophets and broadcloth deacons, away to America....
Yes; Egholm felt he must go. Not to America, of course—that was beyond him. But go somewhere. Just a few miles away. Knarreby, for instance, or somewhere thereabout. Meilby’s camera would keep him above water, wherever he chose to commit himself to the waves—himself, that is. As for his family, well, he could always send some money home.
Anna was still up when he got back. He sat down and commenced telling her about the meeting. Also, that he was going away. He grew excited again, but she did not seem to take in all he wassaying. There was something strange about her this evening....
“I knew it all along,” was all she said.
She was still moving about when he rolled himself in the bedclothes and laid his weary head on the pillow. But suddenly a fresh quiver of raw pain went through her. She staggered to the bed and dropped.
“Oh ... Egholm, it’s coming. You’ll have to—go and fetch her now. You know where she lives....”
Beyond her pain and fear, she felt for one brief moment a blessed sense that this washerhour; she was to be the centre of importance for once. It was a victory.
Her husband, on his part, felt no share in anything victorious. He roused her quickly to her senses.
“It’ll have to keep till to-morrow,” he said in an offended tone. “You surely don’t mean to send me running about now in the middle of the night?”
But it would not keep till to-morrow....
Egholm suffered considerably that night. A couple of women whom he did not remember to have seen before came up to assist the midwife, and took possession of the place, relegating him—the master—to the status of a slave. One handed him a bucket, indicating simply that it was to be emptied in the dustbin in the yard. He was not accustomed to such errands, but went down the dark stairs meekly.He had barely returned, when, shaken as he was, they bade him run at full speed to the chemist’s. He looked round helplessly for Hedvig and Sivert, but the children had already been safely lodged with Eriksens’ down below, out of the way. Egholm went. He took it like a man. True, he wept, but he did not scream aloud, as did his wife over her part.
Later on, towards morning, he was ordered to find some tape. As the simplest way of searching, he took his wife’s workbox and tipped it upside down. He found no tape, but he found some crumpled letters, which interested him as soon as he perceived the signature was his own.
Egholm’s features writhed themselves into expressions of disgust as he read the tender words, the ardent longing, with which he had once written to a certain “dearest Anna.”
There were even some verses dedicated to that same Anna—“Dove of my heart....”
The verses in themselves were chiefly in praise of Helsingør, Helsingør.... As through a mist Egholm saw the two women who had played any part in his life—Clara Steen, from Helsingør, and Anna, from Aalborg. Once, the two had been as one in his mind—it was at the time he wrote those letters. The verses to Helsingør, dedicated to Anna, were proof of it. And now—ah, now ... Clara, a silken-soft, delicious dream, and Anna, a heavy, sighing, hollow-eyed reality.
Clara—what of Clara now? No; she was forgotten. All that Egholm remembered was the picture of her on the wall of her father’s office. But he remembered that only too well. Though it was long now since he had seen it of nights....
Egholm, the weary, his night’s rest broken, his hopes trampled under the butcher-boots of Karlsen Junior, his past for years back a ravening hunt for work; Egholm, the miserable, sank down on a chair and buried his face in the litter from the workbox, with the letters under it.
There was a bitterness in his mouth almost of physical disgust....
As it grew light he stole out of the house. The women were making coffee, with a great deal of fussing about. He seemed to remember they had come in once during the night, and showed him a child. He had expected it, and showed no surprise....
The walk out along the frosted roads did him good.
That money for the camera must be found. Tenkroner—after all, it was not a million. And hemusthave them....
He came back home warm and cheerful, to find the house in an atmosphere of rejoicing that fitted well with his mood.
Anna lay there in bed with a splendidly clean nightdress on, and a face younger by years.
“Did you ever see such a blessing of things?” she said, pointing round the room. “What do you think that is?Butter!And there’s soup. Sit down, you poor thing. Hedvig, make haste and dish up a plate of soup. And Mother’s sent tenkroner. Don’t say the day of miracles is past!”
“Why, that’ll pay for the journey!” Egholm exclaimed, with emotion.
“Journey? What journey?”
“Er—well, you remember.... We said before....”
“Oh no!” cried Anna, trembling. “You mustn’t, Egholm. You mustn’t. God’s everywhere. He can help you here as well. I haven’t been able to be much to you lately, I know, but only wait a little, and you shall see. With God’s help, I’ll be up and about again in four days from now. I can generally manage with four, you know.—Yes, I know you always say the gipsies and that sort don’t need to stay in bed at all, but then they’re more like animals than human beings—heathen, at any rate. Don’t go away now, Egholm; you see how I’ll work—oh, you wait and see. And make money, and you’ll get work, too, all right.”
“Never, in this beastly place.”
“Yes, you will. Listen. Last night, when it was over, and the women had gone, I lay thinking of the lovely boy the Lord had sent me. I felt such a relief, and it was all so good and nice. It was aboutfour, I think. And just as I was dropping off again, I saw a man with two bright eyes standing there by the cradle....”
“A spirit, you mean?” said Egholm, with a gasp.
“Yes, yes.—Be careful, you’re spilling the soup. I lay there quite quiet, and looked at him, and he looked at me. I dared hardly breathe, for fear he should vanish again. His eyes were ever so big—and I can’t tell you what a gentle look in them.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He nodded several times, and then he said: ‘That boy is sent to help you.’ Oh, you can’t think how lovely it was. When I woke up I could feel I had been crying.”
“When you woke up—why, then, it was only a dream.” Egholm was deeply disappointed.
“Dream? No; I wasn’t asleep, only just dozing, I tell you. He stood there as plain and alive as you are now.”
But Egholm went on with his soup. And he had his way. He was to go off that very day. Sivert was despatched to the pawnbroker’s for the camera, and while he waited, Egholm was as gentle as could be. His wife could not remember having seen him so kind, not for years past. He took one of the snowdrops from the bedside—Hedvig, with her usual readiness, had stolen them from Eriksens’garden for her mother—and put it in his buttonhole.
“Good-bye, dear, and take care of yourself,” said Egholm, and kissed his wife on both cheeks.
Anna was touched at so much gentleness. The tears flowed from her eyes.
As Egholm came up to the station, he caught sight of young Karlsen. He was pale, and there was a cut on the bridge of his nose, but his temper was of the best.
“Aha!” he said artfully, nudging Egholm with his elbow. “Aha!” And he grinned.
That nudge, that grin, and that “Aha!” said much. They seemed to imply that Karlsen and Egholm had a pleasant—oh, a delightful little secret between them.
“A nice way you treated me last night,” said Egholm. He would have spoken more forcibly, a great deal more forcibly, but his mind was distracted by the thoughts of his journey. He had not yet made his choice of where to go. And the world was wide. “I hadn’t expected that of you—after what you said. You know.”
“Let not the sun go down upon thy wrath. And—er—bless them that curse you, and—er—put up thy sword into its sheath, for.... Well, anyhow. You see, the old man wouldn’t hear of it. It was no earthly good. He said he’d resign first. Put yourself in my place, my dear fellow. And then Ibegan to be doubtful myself, too, afterwards, about it all. Come and have a drink. You look as if you were going off somewhere. What’s on now?”
“Er—I’m going away,” said Egholm nervously. “Going to open a photographic studio.”
“Well, I never,” said Karlsen, with ungrudging wonder. “And where’s it going to be? You never said a word about that before.”
“I had a studio once in Copenhagen—Østergade, a splendid position. And customers accordingly. Made any amount of money. This time I’m going to try—er—Knarreby. Quite a nice little place, don’t you think?”
(There! Now it was said.)
“Knarreby? Oh yes, first-rate.”
They went into the waiting-room. Egholm carried the camera himself, Sivert following behind him with the handbag.
“Skaal,[2]Egholm, and here’s to burying the hatchet. Friends again now, aren’t we? We were both a bit upset last night, and didn’t know quite what we were doing. Turn the other cheek, what?”
“I was going to, only you were holding me behind.”
“Ha ha! That’s good. Taking it literally, as you might say. That’s very good.Skaal!Haveanother of these. Yes; go on. I’m sure you can.”
Egholm joined in the laugh at his own jest. Now that he had finally decided, all was brightness and freedom ahead. Away, away, like a bird that wakes to find its cage suddenly open. He could feel no anger against anyone now.
“Have a cigar,” said Karlsen. There was no end to his amiability to-day.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Don’t you, though? I say, Egholm, I wonder if you’d be above doing me a little favour?” Karlsen bit off the end of his cigar.
“Certainly, certainly.” Egholm dived willingly into his pocket and pulled out a box of matches.
“Thanks—as a matter of fact, it wasn’t matches so much I was thinking of. Another little matter....” The match flared and flared.
Egholm happened to glance at the other’s face. The bright black eyes, with a fan of wrinkles out to the side, reminded him of fluttering cockchafers. Why, the man was nervous himself! His hand was shaking. And suddenly he brought the match too close to his beard....
“Of all the cursed.... H’m. Well, never mind.—Look here, Egholm, you couldn’t manage to fix up another youngster at your place—a baby? You’ve quite a crowd already; it wouldn’t be noticed. It’s not mine—ha ha! No; it’s Meilby’s. I daresayhe’s told you.... Silly thing to do—playing with fire....”
“But why should I....”
“Ah, that’s just where it comes in. In the first place, there’s no one I’d sooner trust with a little angel like that, than you, my dear friends. And, in the second place, it’ll be worth something to whoever takes it, and I’d like you to have the money. It’ll be paid for, and well paid for. See what I mean?”
Egholm was alert in an instant. His heart was bubbling over with gratified malice. He put on a thoughtful expression as he took his ticket.
“Was it Meilby that put you on to me?”
“Well, yes and no. He comes to the meetings, you know, so I’d like to help him if I can. I can’t take the kid myself, you understand. The mother’s in a dairy all day.”
“But about the money,” said Egholm, moving towards the train. “What’s it worth?”
“Oh, any amount,” said the Evangelist. In his delight at finding Egholm so amenable to his plan, he forgot to restrain his play of feature. “Hundred and fiftykronerat the least. Let him pay, the beggar, it’s his own fault, and I’ll give him a talking-to. I went up to his place just now, by the way, but he wasn’t in.”
Egholm was in his seat. The train was ready to start.
“I’ll tell you where he is,” said Egholm, with a smile. “He’s on his way to America by now. I said good-bye to him last night.”
Young Karlsen was not used to being made a fool of. He collapsed as the train moved off; he waved a clenched fist furiously after it, and shouted. Then, turning to go, he discovered Sivert.
“What are you grinning at, you young devil?”
“He’s forgotten his bag,” said Sivert, shaking his white mop of hair with a satisfied smile.
But Karlsen found poor comfort in that.
Sivert stood in the smithy, trembling in every limb each time the hammer clanged on the iron plate. His mother had just gone, and he was alone. The hammer crashed like thunder, and he expected every moment to be struck by lightning.
“Look to your work,” said the blacksmith.
Fru Egholm had shaken her head at first, when she saw there was a boy wanted at Dorn’s smithy. Sivert a blacksmith? Never. But as there was no other job to be found in all Odense, and when Dorn explained that he wasn’t a blacksmith really, but a locksmith and general metal worker, she agreed, albeit with some mistrust.
The boy stood holding a metal plate, his master cutting through it along chalked-out lines. It was to be a weathercock, in the shape of a horse. Suddenly—just at an awkward turn—the plate slipped, and the smith snipped off one lifted foreleg.
For a second or two he seethed like a glowing bar of iron thrust into water. A box on the ears was not enough....
“Here, Valdemar!” he cried to his man. “Takehold of the little beast, and we’ll cut his fingers off. That’s it. So!”
Sivert wriggled and screamed, and even tried to kick. But the man behind only crushed him the harder in his blouse-clad arms, till the boy’s limbs hung limply down and his voice died to a hoarse gasp.
The smith opened the little white-knuckled hand with a grip as if shelling peas, and drew one finger between the shears, but managing carefully so that the boy could wrench it away at the critical moment.
This, of course, prolonged the joke, and made it all the funnier.
The man, too, began to find it interesting; his dull eyes glittered like molten metal newly set. There was a kind of anticipation in his mind—he realised that he would find considerable enjoyment in having Sivert all to himself when they went up to the bedroom they were to share at nights. It was but a vague thought as yet, a blind and pale Proteus moving uncertainly in the secret passages of his mind.
At dinner, while master and man sat over their porridge, Sivert was busy peeling potatoes for the next course. He sat on the wood box out in the kitchen, a tiny place, which was filled with the odour of Madam Dorn. She was the hugest piece of womankind Sivert had ever seen, and full of curious noises. Every other moment there came a threateningrumble from within like an approaching hurricane—perhaps she was hungry, too—then she would clear her throat with a thick, full sound, that seemed to rise from unknown depths. Sivert made the surprising discovery that her posterior part resembled a huge heart when she bent down. Was that perhaps an indication of general kindliness?
Now and again she came over to where he sat, and thrust her fingers down among the potatoes, to see if there were enough done yet.
It was a long, long time before the kitchen door opened, and the two superior beings within said, “Tak for Mad.”[3]Not till then could Sivert fall to upon the crumbs from their richer table—a draggled herring and a few diseased potatoes.
“It’s a funny big world,” thought Sivert, “but seems mainly alike in most things.” His father’s thrashings had been delivered with more solemnity than his present master’s clouts, but then, on the other hand, Father would never have left a whole herring.
He had just finished washing up when the smith woke from his afternoon nap. “Kept up with him that time,” thought Sivert, with some pride.
Evening came, after an endless day. Sivert had had his supper, and was standing with the bucket of leavings out by the pigs’ trough, when he saw thejourneyman striding out through the gate—a sight to see, with his hat down over his eyes and a cigar between his teeth pointing upwards. The boy wept with emotion at seeing him go—that strangling brute. Ah, the day was over now. He would have peace at last. He could go to bed.
The pigs sniffed at the empty bucket, and grunted encouragingly. Sivert was overjoyed with the pigs—he had made friends with them already, after dinner. There were two of them, one black.
He clambered up on the partition, and talked confidentially to them about the events of the day.
“Now, don’t you think I’m crying, because I’m not. Not a bit of it. I promised mother I wouldn’t. I was only wiping my nose, and you thought I was crying—ha ha, I did you there! And I’m not homesick, no; only making a little invisible sound, the same as when you’re homesick. It’s a trick I’ve learnt, and it’s not everybody can do it. Just listen.... No; you’ve got to be quiet. You make worse noises than Madam Dorn. Homesick? What for, I should like to know? Father in Knarreby? I tell you I’m not fretting for him a single bit. Still, he couldn’t do anything to me about the bag; he never said I was to put it in the train.
“Homesick? For Hedvig, perhaps? She’s not really warm to sleep with, you know, and she always pulls the clothes off me. Oh, but of course youdon’t know Hedvig. She’s my sister—a girl, you understand....”
Sivert realised on a sudden that between his knowledge and that of his hearers was a great gulf fixed. He fell to laughing, and then shook his head contemptuously.
“As like as not you don’t even know what sort of thing a girl is at all. Poor silly pigs that you are. Now, I know all the things there are in the world. But I was stupid myself once.”
A little before eleven he clambered up to the attic, his own bedroom, the one thing that had tempted him most of all when his mother had pointed out what he would gain by going out into the world, instead of staying at home.
“And you’ll have your own room, with a big bed you can turn about in whenever you like and as much as you like, with no one to pinch you for being a nuisance. And you can cut out pictures and stick them up on the walls, and on Sundays you can pick flowers and put them in water to last all the week. And then when the mistress comes up to make the bed, she’ll say: ‘Why, what a nice lad we’ve got, now. Picking flowers....’”
He was much puzzled to find that there weretwobeds, and neither of them made. Mistress must have forgotten it. And what on earth was he to do with two beds? Perhaps the boy they had had before used to lie in one of them till it got warm;and then shift over to the other. That way, of course, you could keep them both warm. But.... No. Sivert decided not. Much better to save the wear of them, and only sleep in one. Mistress, no doubt, would appreciate that, and praise him for it.
He noticed, certainly, that there were some clothes on a chair, and a trunk between one bed and the window, but all unused as he was to the ways of out-in-the-world, he thought nothing of it. There were often things lying about at home here and there. After much consideration, he chose one of the beds, and sank to sleep.
Late that night came journeyman locksmith Valdemar August Olsen home, quite appreciably drunk. He stopped singing as he entered the gate, and took off his boots at the foot of the stairs, moved, no doubt, by some vestige of respect from his apprentice days.
He did not seem to need a light, but sat down on Sivert’s bed, talking softly to himself. Suddenly he felt something alive under the bedclothes, and started up, almost sobered by the fright. He fumbled for matches, and a moment later was staring into the face of a pale, whitish-haired boy, who sat up in bed with wide, terror-stricken eyes.
Olsen waved the match till it went out, and threw away the stump. The boy must not see him quake. That bed there—it had been empty for three months past, ever since Boy Sofus ran away.
“Ha, frightened you, what?”
“Yes.”
Olsen called vaguely to mind the interesting episode of the morning; he lit the lamp, and sat down again on the edge of Sivert’s bed.
“No need to be frightened of me. I shan’t hurt you.”
He thrust his hand under the bedclothes, and stroked the child’s knobby spine. It gave him a curious sensation, something promising and yet uncanny. He had felt like that once before, when he had bought a bottle of spirits for the night, but mislaid it.
Drowsy as he was, but still obstinate, he sat like a beast of prey, watching his time. Now and again he sniffed at Sivert’s scalp—he had noticed the smell of it that morning when he was holding him.
“What d’you want to have long hair like that for?” he asked.
Sivert felt it would be dangerous to be at a loss for an answer. And, diving swiftly into the primeval forest growth of his mind, he snatched the first fruit that came to hand.
“That’s for the executioner to hold on by, when he’s cut off the body,” he said.
“Executioner—what the devil!—cut off the body. It’s the head that’s cut off, stupid.”
“Oh,” said Sivert. “Not the body, then?”
But Valdemar August felt strangely confused inhis mind. He tried again and again to see that curious question clearly, but in vain. Then he gave it up, and began talking at random of the days when he was out on his travels, after ending his apprenticeship, some ten years before.
He had passed through no end of towns, lodged in all sorts of places. He told of it all in short, descriptive sentences, always beginning with the words: “And then....”
“And then we came over to Jutland—and then we went down to Kolding—and then my mate said ... and then said I....”
He had set out on his travels with a receptive mind, and had seen and experienced much. It was not just ordinary things such as the position and “sights” of the different towns that had impressed him, but each place was associated with some new and remarkable experience, vicious for the most part, that came to his mind anew as soon as he named the scene.
Sivert dropped off to sleep for a second at a time, between the intervals of Olsen’s recurrent “And then....” He understood but little of it all, but was grateful to find no immediate prospect of thrashing or strangling. If only he weren’t so sleepy, and so horribly cold. And how long was it to last? Olsen was telling now of an inn where they had found a dead rat in a steaming dish of cabbage, and of how they had paid the host in his own coin.
He laughed at the joyous recollection, and nudged the boy in the ribs. His imagination grew more fertile, he used ever stranger words, until at last Sivert began to wake up, and feel amused. Evidently this Olsen was a merry soul, though it was hard to make him out at first.
Suddenly Olsen jumped up, and began dancing about in the half-dark in his ill-mended socks, making the queerest antics. Sivert took advantage of a burst of laughter to bury his tired head among the pillows, but a sudden silence made him open one eye warily and peer out into the room.
Olsen was standing over him, looking wilder and more incomprehensible than ever. Sivert was paralysed with fear. He was about to scream, but thought better of it—perhaps, after all, it was not so bad but that he could turn it off with a grin. And with an utmost effort, he broke into a fine imitation of a hiccuping laugh.
Then Olsen’s rough hand closed over his mouth.