"We did," said Christian Christiansson, and then at the last moment, the pony-boy being mounted, and everything ready, a spirit of recklessness came over him, and he added, "But you made one mistake, Mr. Oddsson."
"And what was that, Mr. Christiansson?"
"You said Oscar Stephenson had never done anything in his life, except putting an end to it, but he did one thing once, I remember. He stood for parliament when I was at home, and gave a dreadful drubbing to the dunderhead who opposed him. Good-bye!"
When he was gone it was the same is if a spell had been broken. Something in his last word, something in his laugh, and something in the lifting of his cap as he cantered up the road, had struck a vague consciousness of his identity into the gossips at the gate. For a moment they stared into each other's face in blank bewilderment and then the merchant said:
"Who the deuce can he be then?"
"Shall I tell you who my sister says he is?" said the Factor.
"Who?"
"Oscar Stephenson himself."
It fell in their midst like a thunderbolt.
"Well, that would explain something,--I say that would explain something," said the banker, and he told the story of Magnus Stephenson's interest.