“Over two hundred and fifty, that is,” explained Lystrup, the cobbler.
“That will be twenty-six kroner sixty-three to us,” said the Evangelist, as if it were the merest trifle.
“Not sixty-three øre?—that can’t be,” said the disciple energetically, looking round for support.
Egholm could not meet her eyes; it pained him that Karlsen was so evidently right.
“But I only get thirty øre, and you say I’m to pay out sixty-three! No, thank you, that’s trying it on, I know.”
“It’s the law—it’s the law.” Old Karlsen drummed on his box.
“Oh, I won’t put up with it!” Fru Westergaard’s grey cheeks flushed with a red spot.
“Not an øre less.”
Young Karlsen stood planted in the opening between the bench and the wall. He wore high boots, with his trousers thrust into them, and stood with his feet a little apart. There was something ominous written, as it were, between the lines in his face. His shoulders were slightly raised—a very respectable pair of shoulders had young Karlsen.