“A lie? No, indeed it’s not; it’s as true as I’m standing here!” said the smith, thinking of his flour.
But now the old man recollected the man on ski.
“Did you tell that man about Wangen?” he asked.
“Yes, indeed I did,” said the smith. “Ah, they’re bad times these!”
Norby wiped the perspiration from his face, removing his cap and wiping the crown of his head, as he turned and gazed after the man on ski, who was now gaily scudding down towards the fjord, raising a cloud of snow as he went. And that story was flying down with him!
Knut Norby stood there utterly helpless, gazing after him.
“It’s no use now my making a fool of myself either to the smith or the men,” he said to himself; “for the devil himself’s gone off with the report, and I’m in a pretty fix!”
“You were calling to me, weren’t you?” said the smith. “Was there anything you wanted?”
“Yes, there was!” cried the old man, turning upon him angrily. “Confound you! You’ve promised for months past to come and fix up my sledges; but you’re a rascal, that’s what you are! You owe me money and you won’t pay. I’ll set the bailiff upon you this very day!” And Norby set off homewards, leaving the smith standing with his sack on his back, staring after him.
“This forgery must have made him daft!” he thought, as he turned and went slowly on his way.