"Blood-hound," said Lars Peter, softly stroking its legs, "treating poor old Klavs like that."
Klavs whinnied and scraped the stones with his hoofs. He took advantage of his master's sympathy and begged for an extra supply of corn.
"You should give him a good beating," said Kristian seriously.
"I've a mind to turn him out altogether," answered the father darkly. "'Twould be best for all of us."
"Yes, and d'you know, Father? Can you guess why the Johansens haven't been to see us this summer? They're afraid of what we'll give them to eat; they say we make food from dead animals."
"Where did you hear that, Ditte?" Lars Peter looked at her in blank despair.
"The children shouted it after me today. They asked if I wouldn't like a dead cat to make sausages."
"Ay, I thought as much," he laughed miserably. "Well, we can do without them,—what the devil do I want with them!" he shouted so loudly that little Povl began to cry.
"Hush now, I didn't mean to frighten you," Lars Peter took him in his arms. "But it's enough to make a man lose his temper."
Two days afterwards, Johannes returned home, looking as dirty and rakish as he possibly could. Lars Peter had to help him out of the cart, he could hardly stand on his legs. But he was not at loss for words. Lars Peter was silent at his insolence and dragged him into the barn, where he at once fell asleep. There he lay like a dead beast, deathly white, with a lock of black hair falling over his brow, and plastered on his forehead—he looked a wreck. The children crept over to the barn-door and peered at him through the half dark; when they caught sight of him they rushed out with terror into the fields. It was too horrible.