No, Lars Peter had no time. "All the same, thanks." "Who are those men?" he asked the stable-boy.
"Oh, they help the farmers to find their way about town, when it's dark," answered the man, laughing.
"Are they paid for that then?" asked Lars Peter thoughtfully.
"Oh, yes—and sometimes a good deal. But then they fix up other things besides—lodging for the night and everything. Even a wife they'll get for you, if you like."
"Well, I don't care about that. If they'd only help a man to get hold of his own wife!"
"I don't think they do that. But you can try."
No, Lars Peter would not do that. He realized these were folk it was better to avoid. Then he sauntered out into the town. At Hauserplads there was an inn kept by a man he knew—he would look him up. Maybe he could give him a little help in managing the affair.
The street-lamps were just being lit, although it was not nearly dark; evidently there was no lack of money here. Lars Peter clattered in his big boots down towards Frue Plads, examining the houses as he went. This stooping giant, with faded hat and cape, looked like a wandering piece of the countryside. When he asked the way his voice rang through the street—although it was not loud for him. People stopped and laughed. Then he laughed back again and made some joke or other, which, though he did not mean it, sounded like a storm between the rows of houses. Gradually a crowd of children and young people gathered and followed in his wake. When they shouted after him he took it with good humor, but was not altogether at his ease until he reached the tavern. Here he took out his red pocket handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"Hullo! Hans Mattisen," he shouted down into the dark cellar. "D'you know an old friend again, what?" His joy over having got so far made his voice sound still more overpowering than usual; there was hardly room for it under the low ceiling.
"Not so fast, not so fast!" came from a jolly voice behind the counter, "wait until I get a light."