A little way along the road he met a fisherman who had come out too late to be present at the arrival. This was Enok, a pious, inoffensive man, who always walked with downcast eyes and wore a kerchief tied round his head for earache.
“You’re too late,” said Rolandsen as he passed.
“Has he come?”
“He has. I shook hands with him.” Rolandsen passed on, and called back over his shoulder, “Enok, mark what I say. I envy that man his wife!”
Now saying a foolish and most improper thing like that to Enok was choosing the very man of all men. Enok would be sure to bring it about.
Rolandsen walked farther and farther along by the wood, and came to the river. Here was the fish-glue factory, owned by Trader Mack; some girls were employed on the place, and it was Rolandsen’s way to chaff them as often as he passed. He was a very firebrand for that, and none could deny it. Moreover, he was in high spirits to-day, and stayed longer than usual. The girls saw at once that he was splendidly in drink.
“You, Ragna, what d’you think it is makes me come up here every day?” says Rolandsen.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” says Ragna.
“Oh, you think, of course, it’s old Mick.”
The girls laughed at that. “Old Mick, ha, ha! Old Nick, he means.”