The sheriff went. There was Gaupa. His hair had withered at the top of his head so that he was quite bald. He wore a blue blouse, and in his right hand he held his knife, shining, freshly sharpened. Yet Gaupa was an exceptionally good-tempered man.
“Good morning, sheriff. I’ve come to skin him. Where do you keep him?”
The sheriff did not understand, but noticed that the corners of Gaupa’s mouth worked harder than ever. “St. Vitus’s dance,” he thought.
“Skin him, d’you say?”
“Yes, of course; don’t you remember I shot the wizard elk in your woods yesterday? I carted him home, large and whole.”
He pointed the knife straight at the sheriff, till the latter felt the blade like a cold pang through his body.
“This knife,” Gaupa went on, “has tasted Rauten once before, and still it is sharp enough to manage the skinning of the elk. Where do you keep him? Eh?”
The sheriff understood that Gaupa’s mind was queer, and he made believe that everything was as Gaupa said.
“Oh yes,” he replied; “I’ll find him for you soon enough, but you will have a drink first, won’t you?”