“Ho, and how’ll you do that?” said the man, with a look at his son, but not very bold for all that.
“Throttle you dead, for instance. What do you say to that little plan?”
“’Twas Mack himself that sent us to find you here.”
“Of course it was Mack himself. I know well enough what he wants.”
Then the younger man put in a word, and this was that Børre the organ-blower wanted his boat and gear.
Rolandsen shouted bitterly at that. “Børre! Is the fellow mad? And what about me then? Here am I living on a desert island; I must have a boat to get to folk, and gear to fish with, if I’m not to starve. Tell him that from me!”
“And then there was a word from the new man at the station, how there’s telegrams waiting for you there. Important.”
Rolandsen jumped. Already! He asked a question or so, which they answered, and thereafter he made no further objection, but went back with them. The younger man rowed Børre’s boat, and Rolandsen sat in the other.
There was a provision-box in the forepart of the boat, that waked in his mind impertinent hopes of food. He was on the point of asking if they had brought anything to eat with them, but restrained himself, out of sheer lordliness and pride, and tried to talk it off.