Ulrik tried a Skalle, and Rolandsen was thenceforward aware of his opponent’s speciality. But Rolandsen was past-master in another effective method—the long, swinging, flat-handed cut delivered edgeways at the jawbone; the blow should fall just on the side of the chin. A blow of this sort shakes up a man most adequately; his head whirls, and down he comes with a crash. It breaks no bones, and draws no blood save for a tiny trickle from the nose and mouth. The stricken one is in no hurry to move.
Suddenly Big Ulrik has it, and down he comes, staggering and falling beyond the edge of the road. His legs tangled crosswise under him and collapsed as if dead; faintness overpowered him. And Rolandsen was well enough up in the slang of the brawl. “Now for the next,” he said at once. He seemed thoroughly pleased with himself, and never heeded that his shirt was torn open at the throat.
But the next one was two, being Ulrik’s fellow-rascals both; quiet and wondering they were now, and no longer holding their ribs in an ache of laughter.
“You! You’re children,” cried Rolandsen to the pair. “But if you want to be crumpled up....”
The Lensmand intervened, and talked the two disturbers to their senses; they had better pick up their comrade and help him on board then and there. “I’m in your debt,” he said to Rolandsen.
But Rolandsen, watching the three desperadoes as they moved off down the road, was far from satisfied yet. He shouted after them as long as they could hear, “Come again to-morrow! Smash a window down at the station and I’ll know. Huh! Children!”
As usual he did not know when to stop, but went on with his boastful talk. But the crowd was moving away. Suddenly a lady comes up, looks at him with glistening eyes, and offers her hand. Præstefruen and no other. She too has seen the fight.
“Oh, it was splendid!” she says. “I’m sure he won’t forget it in a hurry.”
She noticed that his shirt was open. The sun had browned a ring about his neck, but he was naked and white below.
He pulls his shirt together and bows. It was by no means unwelcome to be accosted thus by the chaplain’s lady in sight of all; the victor of that battle feels himself elated, he can afford to speak kindly for a moment to this slip of a child that she is. Poor lady, her shoes were none too impressive, and it was but little homage or deference any paid to her there!