When he came to the end of the bridge, where a number of cottages are dotted over the hill, he met a bent figure in a faded overcoat and fur cap, with a toothless mouth and a pair of gold spectacles upon a prominent red nose. Wangen stopped, opened his bag, and took out a bottle wrapped in paper. It was a commission he had had in town. The man with the spectacles smiled at the bottle as at something very precious, and put it under his arm.
“I say!” he said with a smile, “I’ve got a little piece of news for you.”
But Wangen was gone. He was thinking of his wife, who was expecting their fourth child. Could she bear what he had to tell her?
The other followed him, however, and took hold of his arm.
“Oh, but you must wait and hear the news!” he said, and laughed a little spitefully. “Come in a moment, and taste the purchase.”
“No, I can’t just now,” said Wangen, hurrying on. Wangen had unfortunately more than once allowed himself to be tempted by this inebriate consul from Christiania, whose relations boarded him here in the country; but now he was determined to be thoroughly sober when he got home. The elder man still hung upon his arm, however, and spoke so persuasively that he at length allowed himself to be drawn into his little house.
At the window of the low room they entered, which smelt of whisky and tobacco, sat a lean, tailor-like figure, playing patience. This was the third member of the whisky-drinking trio, an old lawyer, crippled with rheumatism, and long since past work. He went by the name of “the late future prime minister.”
“Sit down!” said the consul, but Wangen remained standing with his bag in his hand.
“Shall we have a game at cards?” said the man at the window, smiling in his white beard.