“Peter ... look after ... estate,” he muttered, in his deep, rusty voice. “Peter shall manage the estate....”
“Now he seems to be getting excited again,” whispered Peter to old Hermansson. “It is dangerous for him to get excited. But he usually calms down if he gets something to chew.”
Peter took some crumbs of cheese out of the paper bag and gave them to his father, who devoured them with avidity and then sank into his usual apathy again.
Old Hermansson stood in deep thought. Here lay the sick friend of his youth on the bed he would never leave. In a lucid moment he first sends a touching greeting and then when he came to see him his reason once more flashes up and he begs help for his first-born. It was almost like a command from the grave.
Peter’s guardian seized his hand and pressed it warmly:
“Old Oskar shall be obeyed,” he said, “you shall manage Selambshof!”
Peter, alarmed and startled, protested, but the old man was firm:
“You and none else,” he said in a tone that suffered no contradiction.
Then he went home to his patience again.
Peter had succeeded by a clever use of his father’s insatiable greed for old cheese with caraway seeds in it. Day after day he had been sitting there on the edge of the bed tempting him with a piece of cheese in his hands, till the old man learnt the formula that opened the gates of joy to him.