“Knarreby? Oh yes, first-rate.”
They went into the waiting-room. Egholm carried the camera himself, Sivert following behind him with the handbag.
“Skaal,[2] Egholm, and here’s to burying the hatchet. Friends again now, aren’t we? We were both a bit upset last night, and didn’t know quite what we were doing. Turn the other cheek, what?”
“I was going to, only you were holding me behind.”
“Ha ha! That’s good. Taking it literally, as you might say. That’s very good. Skaal! Have another of these. Yes; go on. I’m sure you can.”
Egholm joined in the laugh at his own jest. Now that he had finally decided, all was brightness and freedom ahead. Away, away, like a bird that wakes to find its cage suddenly open. He could feel no anger against anyone now.
“Have a cigar,” said Karlsen. There was no end to his amiability to-day.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Don’t you, though? I say, Egholm, I wonder if you’d be above doing me a little favour?” Karlsen bit off the end of his cigar.
“Certainly, certainly.” Egholm dived willingly into his pocket and pulled out a box of matches.