Karlsen went about, so to speak, with his pockets full of texts, which he used, now to smite the head of an unruly disciple, now to scatter like golden largesse among the poor. He had, too, long extracts from Revelations, which could be flung like lassos to entangle the ungodly, cooling draughts from the Sermon on the Mount, and blood and fire from the Mosaic portions of the Old Testament. But it always took a certain degree of opposition before he could be brought to use them.
Egholm asked in a very general way how the Brotherhood was getting on.
“First-rate,” said Karlsen, with an absent yawn—“first-rate,” and relapsed into silence.
Egholm could not keep away from the scene of the crime. He stammered out:
“Karlsen, you mustn’t regard my attack—my somewhat over-zealous attack, perhaps—that evening, you know, as—as evidence of enmity towards the Brethren. Not in the least. There was much in the Brotherhood that I greatly appreciated. A certain simplicity.... No; if hard words were said, they were due to a momentary indignation over the refusal to give me a plain, straightforward answer to my definite question, regarding that text in the Epistle to the Hebrews, which—at any rate to my humble mind—expressly annuls all giving of tithes.”
Karlsen gloated awhile over Egholm’s downcast eyes and the tip of his tongue creeping over dry lips. He wrinkled up his forehead deeply, and said, with that crafty, ingratiating smile that was so thoroughly his own:
“An answer, my dear friends—why, of course. Nothing easier. You shall have it to-day. I’ve a big fat book here in my bag; you can read it there to your heart’s content....”
“A book?...”
“Yes. Half a minute, I’ll show you. Six kroner’s the price of it, but there’s edifying reading for more than twice the money. Guaranteed. A big fat book, bound cloth boards. Let me show you.”
“No, no. I’ll take your word for it. No doubt it’s excellent. But ... er ... well....”