They went into the room, and Kalle went groping about to light a candle. Twice he took up the matches and dropped them again to light it at the fire, but the peat was burning badly. “Oh, bother!” he said, resolutely striking a match at last. “We don’t have visitors every day.”
“Your wife’s Danish,” said Lasse, admiringly. “And you’ve got a cow too?”
“Yes, it’s a biggish place here,” said Kalle, drawing himself up. “There’s a cat belonging to the establishment too, and as many rats as it cares to eat.”
His wife now appeared, breathless, and looking in astonishment at the visitors.
“Yes, the midwife’s gone again,” said Kalle. “She hadn’t time to-day; we must put it off till another time. But these are important strangers, so you must blow your nose with your fingers before you give them your hand!”
“Oh, you old humbug! You can’t take me in. It’s Lasse, of course, and Pelle!” And she held out her hand. She was short, like her husband, was always smiling, and had bowed arms and legs just as he had. Hard work and their cheerful temperament gave them both a rotund appearance.
“There are no end of children here,” said Lasse, looking about him. There were three in the turn-up bedstead under the window—two small ones at one end, and a long, twelve-year-old boy at the other, his black feet sticking out between the little girls’ heads; and other beds were made up on chairs, in an old kneading-trough, and on the floor.
“Ye-es; we’ve managed to scrape together a few,” said Kalle, running about in vain to get something for his visitors to sit upon; everything was being used as beds. “You’ll have to spit on the floor and sit down on that,” he said, laughing.
His wife came in, however, with a washing-bench and an empty beer-barrel.
“Sit you down and rest,” she said, placing the seats round the table. “And you must really excuse it, but the children must be somewhere.”