“HANS PETER.”
“That fellow reads story-books,” said Karl Johan. “He’ll do great things some day.”
“Yes, he knows exactly what’s required for an elopement,” answered Kongstrup merrily. “Even to a ladder, which he’s dragged up to the girl’s window, although it’s on a level with the ground. I wish he were only half as thorough in his agriculture.”
“What’s to be done now? I suppose they must be searched for?” asked the head man.
“Well, I don’t know. It’s almost a shame to disturb their young happiness. They’ll come of their own accord when they get hungry. What do you think, Gustav? Shall we organize a battue?”
Gustav made no answer, but rose abruptly and went across to the men’s rooms. When the others followed him, they found him in bed.
All day he lay there and never uttered a syllable when any one came in to him. Meanwhile the work suffered, and the bailiff was angry. He did not at all like the new way Kongstrup was introducing—with liberty for every one to say and do exactly as they liked.
“Go in and pull Gustav out of bed!” he said, in the afternoon, when they were in the threshing-barn, winnowing grain. “And if he won’t put his own clothes on, dress him by force.”
But Kongstrup, who was there himself, entering the weight, interfered. “No, if he’s ill he must be allowed to keep his bed,” he said. “But it’s our duty to do something to cure him.”
“How about a mustard-plaster?” suggested Mons, with a defiant glance at the bailiff.