He drew forth the brass tap, and tried to make out his own reflection swimming unsteadily in the polished metal.
Perhaps he had spoken aloud. For suddenly his father appeared in the open door. The first astonishment in his face changed to inflamed fury, and he swung back his boot ready for a blow.
Sivert, terrified, held up the brass tap like a crucifix above his head, as if to guard.
His thoughts were scattered in flight like sparrows at a shot, but some instinct came to his aid, and he cried out in his cracked voice, echoing through the house:
“Oh, Lord my God, I’ve brought your brass tap.”
Sivert’s ideas as to his father on earth and his Father in heaven had always been somewhat vague; now, they seemed fused into one.
The effect of his words was beyond comprehension. The threatened kick did not fall; his father snatched up the tap instead, and said:
“Wherever did you find it? I’ve been wanting it all the time.”
“In the cellar,” said Sivert. “But it wasn’t me that didn’t bring it along.”
And with an idiot laugh he collapsed in his mother’s arms.