Stellan did not look up at the sky when he stepped out into the saddling yard. He did not give a thought to the balloon whose gigantic yellow silk bubble was already beginning to swell out and shimmer in the cool September sunshine. No, his looks searched anxiously amongst the scattered groups of spectators outside the ring of guard. And he suddenly muttered a half-suppressed oath at the sight of Peter who, furious and massive as a bull, bore down on him from his ambush. He awaited the attack in the most deserted spot he could find. And a certain weariness appeared in the hard lines of his mouth:
“You have become damned difficult to find,” panted Peter. But Stellan was already prepared with a smile. It is strange that smiles can thrive so many degrees below freezing point.
“You can meet me as much as you like when you have got decent clothes—and a decent face....”
Peter was unshaven. His overcoat dated from the fat and sentimental period. It now hung on him like a sack. His barge-like shoes were covered with the dirt of the bad roads of Selambshof and he had in his hand, not a stick but a cudgel. And he shook the cudgel and struck the ground with it:
“You are damned smart, you are! But if I take everything this fine gentleman possesses perhaps he won’t be quite so smart. Tomorrow I want my seventy-five thousand, or else I’ll make you bankrupt!”
Stellan still smiled. He pointed to the balloon and his tone became exquisitely ironical:
“Come up with me and then we can talk business.”
Peter looked with a ludicrous expression of suspicion and disapproval on the expensive and dangerous ascent in which his seventy-five thousand would soar heavenwards:
“If you were at least decently insured,” he sighed. Then he suddenly grew furious again and shouted, so that he was overheard by the people round about them:
“I must have the money tomorrow. I won’t wait any longer.”