Young Karlsen was standing on a bench, puffing at one of the lights. He turned warningly towards his father.
“No,” he cried. “That’s right. No Hell. You know, we talked it over....”
Angel Karlsen bowed his head in silence, but Fru Westergaard stared wildly before her.
“Hell, hell fire, all yellow flames....”
Egholm could contain himself no longer. He would show the lady and the rest of them how a true disciple settled up his accounts with God. With a smile and a gesture as if he had been casting a rose into his mistress’ lap, he flung his paper bag of money into the Angel’s casket. The bag burst with the shock, and the coins came twirling out; the old man had to use both hands to guard them, and could hardly close the box.
“Wait, there’s more yet!” cried Egholm, and his voice broke. He held the silver spoon aloft in two fingers, then pressed it in through the crack at the lid of the box.
But the box was full to repletion, and the bowl of the spoon would not go in.
Egholm felt there had never been so magnificent an offering.
Yet another of the Brethren passed by that strait place—Meilby, the photographer. Not one single copper øre did he put in, but Angel Karlsen only turned his eyes meekly to the other side.