"At least eight thousand, sir. With legal and other expenses probably ten--I say probably ten."
"And the principal is----"
"The principal is one hundred thousand, sir."
"Poor souls, poor souls!" said Christian Christiansson. He began to write his cheque, but the banker went on talking.
"I am sorry for the mother, sir--I say I am sorry for the mother. She belongs to a generation which is rapidly passing away, but there are still many in the town who remember her. A good, motherly soul, sir--it is a pity misfortune should fall so fast on her in the evening of her days---- Blotting paper?"
"Thank you."
"I am sorry for the son, too--I am very sorry for the son. An Ishmael, sir--always was and always will be--but he seems to have had a terrible time of it. To tell the truth the farm was frightfully over-mortgaged at the beginning, and if he had thrown it up fifteen years ago it might have been better for himself and the Bank and everybody. Apparently he wished to hold on to it for the sake of the family, and to give the poor wretch his due he has made a splendid fight for it--I say he has made a splendid fight for it."
Christian Christiansson had written his cheque and was tearing it out of the cheque-book.
"Then, as you say, sir, the mortgage was not made by himself, and everybody knows the conditions under which the first debt was contracted. Ah, if that scapegrace brother could only be here to-day! When a man does wrong he seems to think the consequences of his crime will end with his own action, but they are like snowballs rolling in the snow--I say they are like---- Two hundred thousand crowns, sir?"
Christian Christiansson had handed his cheque to the banker, and the banker, fixing his eye-glasses, was reading the amount of it.