"Father? father?
H'm--that's not a thing any one can be so sure about. Hahaha!" And
"hahaha" echoed the old man, still sitting with the awl in his hand.
This was the sort of joke he could appreciate.
Then the visitor went out and strolled about the place, with his
hands under his coat tails, and looked at the sky, and the fjord, and
murmured, "Well, well--well, well," and Peer followed him about all
the while, and gazed at him as he might have gazed at a star. He was to
sleep in a neighbour's house, where there was a room that had a bed with
sheets on it, and Peer went across with him and carried his bag. It was
Martin Bruvold's parents who were to house the traveller, and people
stood round staring at the place. Martin himself was waiting outside.
"This a friend of yours, Peer? Here, then, my boy, here's something to
buy a big farm with." This time it was a five-crown note, and Martin
stood fingering it, hardly able to believe his eyes. Peer's father was
something like a father.
It was a fine thing, too, to see a grand gentleman undress. "I'll have
things like that some day," thought Peer, watching each new wonder that
came out of the bag. There was a silver-backed brush, that he brushed
his hair and beard with, walking up and down in his underclothes and
humming to himself. And then there was another shirt, with red stripes
round the collar, just to wear in bed. Peer nodded to himself, taking
it all in. And when the stranger was in bed he took out a flask with a
silver cork, that screwed off and turned into a cup, and had a dram for
a nightcap; and then he reached for a long pipe with a beaded cord, and
when it was drawing well he stretched himself out comfortably and smiled
at Peer.
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