“Egholm, do be calm....” But his wife’s well-meaning effort only made him the more furious. He picked up his stick and struck the table with a crash.
“You should be struck down and smitten to earth—you have brought a curse upon my house!”
“Egholm, do be careful. It’s not for my own sake I say it, but remember the state I’m in....”
“What have I to do with the state you’re in?” he thundered inconsequently, but laid down his stick. “Out with the money this minute! Do you hear? The money, the money you took!”
“But you know yourself we used all we had for the rent, or I wouldn’t have touched the other. I can’t dig up money out of the ground.”
“Then give me the silver spoon.”
This was a little child’s spoon, worn thin, and bearing the date of Fru Egholm’s christening.
“Take it, then,” she said, weeping.
The children had been looking on with frightened eyes. Sivert, in his confusion, now began sawing again.
“What—you dare—at such a time! Stop that at once!” cried his father. And by way of securing immediate obedience, he twined his fingers in the boy’s hair and dragged him backwards out of his chair, till his wooden shoes rattled against the flap of the table.