Behind their conveyance came group after group of people, quite a procession. It looked as if no-one wanted to be the first to put foot on the rag and bone man's ground. Where the officials went, they too could follow, but the auctioneer and his clerk were the only ones to shake hands with Lars Peter; the others hung aimlessly about, and put their heads together, keeping up a whispering conversation.
Lars Peter summed up the buyers. There were one or two farmers among them, mean old men, who had come in the hope of getting a bargain. Otherwise they were nearly all poor people from round about, cottagers and laborers who were tempted by the chance of buying on credit. They took no notice of him, but rubbed up against the farmers—and made up to the clerk; they did not dare to approach the auctioneer.
"Ay, they behave as if I were dirt," thought Lars Peter. And what were they after all? Most of them did not even own enough ground to grow a carrot in. A good thing he owed them nothing! Even the cottagers from the marsh, whom he had often helped in their poverty, followed the others' example and looked down on him today. There was no chance now of getting anything more out of him.
After all, it was comical to go round watching people fight over one's goods and chattels. They were not too grand to take the rag and bone man's leavings—if only they could get it on credit and make a good bargain.
The auctioneer knew most of them by name, and encouraged them to bid. "Now, Peter Jensen Hegnet, make a good bid. You haven't bought anything from me for a whole year!" said he suddenly to one of the cottagers. Or, "Here's something to take home to your wife, Jens Petersen!" Each time he named them, the man he singled out would laugh self-consciously and make a bid. They felt proud at being known by the auctioneer.
"Here's a comb, make a bid for it!" shouted the auctioneer, when the farm implements came to be sold. A wave of laughter went through the crowd; it was an old harrow which was put up. The winnowing-machine he called a coffee-grinder. He had something funny to say about everything. At times the jokes were such that the laughter turned on Lars Peter, and this was quickly followed up. But Lars Peter shook himself, and took it as it came. It was the auctioneer's profession to say funny things—it all helped on the sale!
The poor silly day laborer, Johansen, was there too. He stood behind the others, stretching his neck to see what was going on—in ragged working clothes and muddy wooden shoes. Each time the auctioneer made a remark, he laughed louder than the rest, to show that he joined in the joke. Lars Peter looked at him angrily. In his house there was seldom food, except what others were foolish enough to give him—his earnings went in drink. And there he stood, stuck-up idiot that he was! And bless us, if he didn't make a bid too—for Lars Peter's old boots. No-one bid against him, so they were knocked down to him for a crown. "You'll pay at once, of course," said the auctioneer. This time the laugh was against the buyer; all knew he had no money.
"I'll pay it for him," said Lars Peter, putting the crown on the table. Johansen glared at him for a few minutes; then sat down and began putting on the boots. He had not had leather footwear for years and years.
Indoors, a table was set out with two large dishes of sandwiches and a bottle of brandy, with three glasses round. At one end of the table was a coffee-pot. Ditte kept in the kitchen; her cheeks were red with excitement in case her preparations should not be appreciated. She had everything ready to cut more sandwiches as soon as the others gave out; every other minute she peeped through the door to see what was going on, her heart in her mouth. Every now and then a stranger strolled into the room, looking round with curiosity, but passed out without eating anything. A man entered—he was not from the neighborhood, and Ditte did not know him. He stepped over the bench, took a sandwich, and poured himself out a glass of brandy. Ditte could see by his jaws that he was enjoying himself. Then in came a farmer's wife, drew him away by his arm, whispering something to him. He got up, spat the food out into his hand, and followed her out of doors.
When Lars Peter came into the kitchen, Ditte lay over the table, crying. He lifted her up. "What's the matter now?" he asked.