Early next morning Lars Falkenberg came over again. He drew me aside, as he had done once before, and with the same intent: I had been up to the clearing yesterday, it seemed; it was to be the last time, and would I please to make no mistake about that!
“It was the last of my washing, anyhow,” I said.
“Oh, you and your washing! As if I couldn't have brought along your miserable shirt a hundred times since you've been here!”
Now, by what sort of magic had he got to know of my little walk up there already? Ragnhild, of course, at her old tricks again—it could be no one else. There was no doing anything with that girl.
But now, as it happened, Nils was at hand this time, as he had been the time before. He came strolling over innocently from the kitchen, and in a moment Lars's anger was turned upon him instead.
“Here's the other scarecrow coming up, too,” says Lars, “and he's a long sight worse than you.”
“What's that you say?” said Nils.
“What's that you say!” retorted Lars. “You go home and rinse your mouth with a mixture or something, and see if you can talk plain,” said he.
Nils stopped short at this, and came up to see what it was all about.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” said he.