“Well, there’s one or two little things I still want,” said Egholm, walking round the shop and fingering the items that caught his attention.
“What sort of things?”
“A boat, for instance, and a small boiler.” Egholm mentioned these as carelessly as if it had been a matter of a couple of waistcoat buttons. “But”—he broke off suddenly—“what’s that thing there?” He dragged at something in the warehouse behind.
“That? Oh, that’s Dr. Hoff’s old bath oven. I’ve just sent him a new one.”
Egholm was still pulling the thing about, when Rothe, who was in his best lunch-time and Christmas-time mood, said:
“If it’s any good to you, bring round a barrow and take it along.”
Whereupon he slapped Egholm again on the shoulder, and took up his post again at the door, dealing out his double-barrelled greetings: “Goddag—goddag!”
Egholm was in high spirits for quite a time over his unexpected coup. Then, happening to catch sight of himself in a mirror-backed window, he started in horror to see what a ghastly figure he made.
Yellow and haggard, with his black beard hanging limp and dead over his worn and stained waistcoat. A disgusting sight.