“But how about the place?” asked Fru Egholm doubtfully. “Is he to have it?”
“Eh? Oh, no. I’ve no use for him. Did you notice he said ‘drawers’? Well, ‘knickers’ is the proper word—at any rate, the one we use in this establishment. A little trap of mine, you know. He he!”
Fru Egholm sighed, purchased resignedly a reel of No. 50 white, and left the shop. She and Sivert went to many places that day—to a barber’s, to Bro, the grocer, and at last to the editor of the Knarreby News—only to wander home at last discouraged at a total failure all round.
Well, she would leave it for a day or two, and look round.
“Find him a place?” asked Egholm.
“Well—there’s places enough where they’d be glad to have him....”
“That is to say, you didn’t find him a place?”
Fru Egholm was so very loth to utter that little decisive “No.” She talked eagerly about the Christmas sales at Bro’s and Lund’s.
“... And, do you know, the editor, he knew about your plans with the machine business. He asked a heap of things, and said you were a genius.”