One more disaster, and he would hardly be able to finish within the contract time. And that once exceeded, each day’s delay means a penalty of a thousand crowns.
It is getting darker.
At last there is nothing to be seen on the way but a shapeless mass of snow struggling with bowed head against the storm, wading deep in the loose drifts, wading seemingly at haphazard—and trailing after it an indefinable bundle of white—dead white. Behind, a human being drags along, holding on for dear life to the rings on the sleigh. It is the post-boy from the last stage.
At last they were groping their way in the darkness towards the shore, where the electric lights of the station showed faintly through the snow-fog. And hardly had Peer got out of the sleigh before the snow stopped suddenly, and the dazzling electric suns shone over the place, with the workmen’s barracks, the assistants’ quarters, the offices, and his own little plank-built house. Two of the engineers came out to meet him, and saluted respectfully.
“Well, how is everything getting on?”
The greybeard answered: “The men have struck work to-day.”
“Struck? What for?”
“They want us to take back the machinist that was dismissed the other day for drunkenness.”
Peer shook the snow from his fur coat, took his bag, and walked over to the building, the others following. “Then we’ll have to take him back,” he said. “We can’t afford a strike now.”
A couple of days later Peer was lying in bed, when the post-bag was brought in. He shook the letters out over the coverlet, and caught sight of one from Klaus Brook.