When Egholm opened the furnace door, the column of smoke shone like gold, and his face glowed fantastically big and red. Still a few more degrees were needed on the manometer—just a few. He stoked away, till the sparks flew like shooting stars across the sky. A fever seized him; he threw on coal with his bare hands, and found himself grasping with all ten fingers at a single lump.
Every second he glanced over at the shore, though it was impossible to distinguish anything clearly now.
Trembling, he heard a burst of laughter, that rolled like a wave along the line.
“Look straight ahead, Petrea, pretty Petrea, do!”
Heaven be thanked—they were not laughing at him, after all. If only the coals had been a little better. But it was dust and refuse, every handful.
“Is Dr. Hoff here?” someone cried.
“Who’s asking for me?”
“There’s a cart from the country.”
The doctor cast a final glance at the water, where the glow from the fire played like a shoal of red fish; then he walked away with little hurried steps.
“I’m off,” said Lange. “I don’t see what there is to stand about here for.”