“Oh, the old chap fell over. He wouldn’t stand there any longer,” said Baklind.
Madam Pirk shrieked and wept and scolded, scolded Baklind, shrieked to us that we should pack ourselves off out of her house. She didn’t wish to see even a shadow of any of us inside her doors ever again. But she wept over all the green-robed shepherds around the walls. It was indeed to be feared that they would never again play their horns in such rosy red light as heretofore.
“Well, it isn’t my fault,” said Baklind. “You wouldn’t let me tie it together.”
At this, all Madam Pirk’s wrath poured out on Baklind’s curly head.
“Is it work for a grown man to traipse around, and do nothing but dance? Well, if you don’t this minute dance out of my house, I shall call both the mayor and the police.”
Nothing would pacify her. We had danced for the last time in Madam Pirk’s big room.
During the two weeks that remained of the course, we had to crowd ourselves together in Baklind’s room at the hotel; and Angemal and I were not allowed to dance the polka mazurka “with bumps” any more.
VI
OUR BONFIRE ON ST. JOHN’S NIGHT
I don’t know anything more delightful than St. John’s Night,—beautiful, bright St. John’s Night.
There are, though, three awfully jolly days in the year: Christmas, my birthday, and St. John’s or Midsummer Day.