Egholm and his God

Egholm and his God
Translated from the Danish of Johannes Buchholtz By W. W. Worster
New York Alfred · A · Knopf 1922

EGHOLM AND HIS GOD
Sivert stands leaning his elbows on the window ledge, digging all ten fingers into his curly hair, and looking down at the muddy court below.
Not a soul.
He looks at the wet roofs, and the raindrops splashing tiny rings in the water all along the gutter.
Not so much as a sparrow in sight. Only the sullen November drizzle, flung now and then into gusts, and whipping the panes with a lash of rain.
But that is enough for Sivert. He looks out into the grey desolation, highly amused at it all.
Now he purses up his lips and whispers something, raises his eyebrows, mutters something in reply, and giggles.