If only Fredrik Sandberg had not been so small that the trousers hung in pleats, the coat tails almost trailed on the ground, and the hat went down on his ears, he would have been as fine a dandy as ever trod a city street. Thus arrayed, he was ordered off to Mamselle Brorström’s.
When Fredrik Sandberg entered the attic room where Mamselle Brorström lived, he found her standing before her tile-stove making waffles. Her attire was a bit so-so—just a petticoat and undervest. The little schoolboy thought to himself that never had he seen such arms and legs, such hands and feet, and such a torso!
“My name is Fredrik Sandberg,” he said by way of introduction, “and I would most humbly beg that I may be permitted to invite Mamselle Brorström to the Fair Ball at the Masonic Lodge.”
Mamselle Brorström was not exactly what would be termed “in society,” and had surely never thought of going to a fair ball. But now, being invited by an elegant cavalier, she could hardly refuse. So, curtsying to Fredrik Sandberg, she thanked him and said she felt highly honoured, and would be most happy to attend the ball.
The boy was pleased at being so well received, for it might have turned out quite otherwise. He ran back to the students as quickly as possible, and reported all that had taken place.
A week later Fredrik Sandberg was again ordered to appear before the collegians, and again dressed up as before, and sent to Mamselle Brorström.
This time he found her standing before her looking-glass trying on a red tulle dress. Her neck and arms were bare and she turned and twisted impatiently, apparently in a dreadful humour.
The little boy stared at the huge woman, who was twice as tall as he, twice as broad, and twice as strong. He gazed at the thick arms sticking out from the sleeveless red tulle bodice, and the enormous legs showing below the short skirts; he looked at her coarse face, copper-coloured from constant exposure to fire—for she was always making waffles—and he looked at her black tousled hair standing out like a bush round her head; he saw the fiery gleam in her blood-shot eyes and heard the thundering tones of her raucous voice. The boy wanted to cut and run, but having been sent there by the college students and knowing what disobedience to that authority meant, he bowed to Mamselle Brorström, and said:
“I most humbly beg that I may have the pleasure of the first waltz at the Fair Ball.”
Mamselle Brorström had been rather repentant and thoughtful that morning, and had wondered if she really ought to go to the ball. She would no doubt have put all thought of it out of her mind if Fredrik Sandberg had not come and begged for the first waltz. But now that she was certain of a dancing partner she was again in good humour. She assured Fredrik Sandberg that she felt both favoured and honoured, and that nothing would afford her greater pleasure than to let him dance with her.