Ulrik Frederik laughed and poked his side, crying: “Oh, you sacred knave! Would you put me to confusion, you plaguy devil, and make me out a wretched braggart who lacks parchments to prove his boasting? Fie, fie, out upon you! Is that just? Have I not a score of times praised your wit before this noble lady, till she has time and again expressed the greatest longing to see and hear your far-famed drolleries? You might at least give us the blind Cornelius Fowler and his whistling birds, or play the trick—you know—with the sick cock and the clucking hens!”
Marie now added her persuasions, saying that Colonel Gyldenlöve was quite right, she had often wondered what pastime, what fine and particular sport, could keep young gentlemen in filthy ale-houses for half days and whole nights together, and she begged that Daniel would oblige them without further urging.
Daniel bowed with perfect grace and replied that his poor pranks were rather of a kind to give fuddled young sparks added occasion for roaring and bawling than to amuse a dainty and highborn young maiden. Nevertheless, he would put on his best speed to do her pleasure, for none should ever say it of him that any command from her fair ladyship had failed of instant obedience and execution.
“Look ’ee!” he began, throwing himself down by the table and sticking out his elbows. “Now I’m a whole assembly of your betrothed’s honorable companions and especial good friends.”
He took a handful of silver dollars from his pocket and laid them on the table, pulled his hair down over his eyes, and dropped his lower lip stupidly.
“Devil melt me!” he drawled, rattling the coins like dice. “I’m not the eldest son of the honorable Erik Kaase for nothing! What! you’d doubt my word, you muckworm? I flung ten, hell consume me, ten with a jingle! Can’t you see, you dog? I’m asking if you can’t see?—you blind lamprey, you! Or d’ye want me to rip your guts with my stinger and give your liver and lungs a chance to see too? Shall I—huh? You ass!”
Daniel jumped up and pulled a long face.
“You’d challenge me, would you?” he said hoarsely with a strong North Skaane accent, “you stinkard, you! D’you know whom you’re challenging? So take me king o’ hell, I’ll strike your—Nay, nay,” he dropped into his natural voice, “that’s perhaps too strong a jest to begin with. Try another!”
He sat down, folded his hands on the edge of his knees as though to make room for his stomach, puffed himself up, fat and heavy jowled, then whistled firmly and thoughtfully but in an altogether too slow tempo the ballad of Roselil and Sir Peter. Then he stopped, rolled his eyes amorously, and called in fond tones:
“Cockatoo—cockadoodle-doo!” He began to whistle again, but had some difficulty in combining it with an ingratiating smile. “Little sugar-top!” he called, “little honey-dew, come to me, little chuck! P’st! Will it lap wine, little kitty? Lap nice sweet wine from little cruse?”