Now when Kuggson had finished this story, then Grettir said, "You have not told how my grandfather and great-uncle parted."
"No," said Kuggson. "There is not much to tell about that. The two brothers agreed to separate, as your grandfather wanted to marry in the Middlefirth. Bottle-back remained at Coldback."
"Now that you have spoken so much about Coldback," said Grettir, "I will tell you something, though it is to my discredit."
"Say on," answered Kuggson. "Men are generally more ready to boast than to discredit themselves."
"When I was a little boy," said Grettir, "my father suffered from a cold back and great pains in it, in winter, and he only got ease when it was rubbed with a hot flannel. I was a bad, idle boy, and I was set in winter to rub his cold back. This I resented. I thought it was a work fit only for servants, and one day when my father had made me rub his old back till I was tired, then he said to me, 'You are growing slack; rub harder, that I may feel your hand.' 'Do you so want to feel my hand, father,' I said. Then I saw a wool-comb hard by that the women had used for carding wool, and I caught it and rubbed down my father's back with that—so that he shrieked with pain, and I made the blood flow. It was a wicked act. I think of it now the old man is dead, and I am sorry."
"Yes," said Kuggson, "it was an evil act. Men say that you are an unlucky man. Now, I do not wonder at your ill-luck, for none ever raised his hand against his father but there followed him ill in consequence of so doing all his days."
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE FOSTER-BROTHERS.
Grettir's Promise—The Yule Ox—Holding the Boat—A Hard Pull—Grettir and the Ox—Thorgeir's Hatred—The Concealed Axe—Evil Sport—An Iceland Moor
Now, the kinsmen of Oxmain heard where Grettir was, so they resolved to form a party, and fall upon him at Learwood. But Grettir's brother-in-law was aware of this and forewarned Grettir, so he went away to the north, and he followed Gilsfiord till he reached Reyk-knolls, where was a pleasant farm near the sea, where also were a great number of ever-boiling springs, that poured and squirted and fizzed out of mounds of red-clay. Here lived a man called Thorgils Arison, and he asked this man if he would give him shelter through the winter.