“Five thousand kroner!” said the master, musing. “Then there ought to be great rejoicing among the poor this winter.”
“Well, they won’t get it direct in food and firing,” said Bjerregrav, “but it will come to them just as well in other ways. For when I’d made my offer to the Society, Shipowner Monsen—you know him—came to me, and begged me to lend him the money at one year. He would have gone bankrupt if he hadn’t had it, and it was terrible to think of all the poor people who would have gone without bread if that great business of his had come to a standstill. Now the responsibility falls on me. But the money is safe enough, and in that way it does the poor twice as much good.”
Master Andres shook his head. “Suppose Bjerregrav has just sat himself down in the nettles?”
“Why? But what else could I have done?” said the old man uneasily.
“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!’”