I haven't got them now, said Thordur, without looking back and still making his way towards the door.—But I'll pay them as soon as I can.
Isn't there a vacant bed upstairs at the store? inquired the doctor.
Yes, I answered. We will walk with you down to the store, Thordur.
Walk with me?—Be damned!—I am off for the hay-field.
We followed him outside and watched him start out. After a short distance he tumbled down. We got him upstairs in the store.
A few days later he could have told us, if anyone had been able to communicate with him, whether they are right or wrong, those latest theories on how it feels to die.
—But who dries the hay in his homefield now?
Guðmundur Friðjónsson
THE OLD HAY
During the latter part of the reign of King Christian the Ninth, there lived at Holl in the Tunga District a farmer named Brandur. By the time the events narrated here transpired, Brandur had grown prosperous and very old—old in years and old in ways. The neighbours thought he must have money hidden away somewhere. But no one knew anything definitely, for Brandur had always been reserved and uncommunicative, and permitted no prying in his house or on his possessions. There was, however, one thing every settler in those parts knew: Brandur had accumulated large stores of various kinds. Anyone passing along the highway could see that.