“The devil knows it won’t be long before he’s bankrupt. He’s a frothy old rogue,” murmured the master. “Has Bjerregrav got a note of hand?”
The old man nodded; he was quite proud of himself.
“And interest? Five per cent.?”
“No, no interest. For money to stand out and receive interest—I don’t like that. It has to suck the interest somewhere or other, and of course it’s from the poor. Interest is blood-money, Andres —and it’s a new-fangled contrivance, too. When I was young we knew nothing about getting interest on our money.”
“Yes, yes:
‘Who gives to other folks his bread
And after suffers in their stead,
Why club him, club him, club him dead!’”
said the master, and went on reading.
Bjerregrav sat there sunk in his own thoughts. Suddenly he looked up.
“Can you, who are so well read, tell me what keeps the moon from falling? I lay overnight puzzling over it, so as I couldn’t sleep. She wanders and wanders through the sky, and you can see plainly there’s nothing but air under her.”
“The devil may know,” said Master Andres thoughtfully. “She must have strength of her own, so that she holds herself up.”