The young father grew knock-kneed with pleasure, and, rubbing his hands, answered: “You ought to have just such a one yourself. You have a house and money.”
“Yes. But it is not so easy to find a wife, friend.”
Björn sat down, lost in thought, and when the innkeeper touched his glass with his own, he looked up absently. “Do you know what I am thinking of, innkeeper?”
“No. Let us hear it.”
“I was wondering if at any time I could really have been as small as that.”
“I hope, for your mother’s sake,” said the innkeeper, laughing, “that when you were born you were a good deal smaller than my baby now is.”
Then there was no more talk on that subject.
Several days later Björn set out in his good old boat with a load of potatoes for the nearest town.
The boat was known as “The Pail.”
Heaven knows where it got the name; probably from some nickname given in mockery—people are so wicked. But, as it often happens, the nickname had become a pet name, and the boat was always called “The Pail.” Red Anders, a relative, went along with him, and after having sold their potatoes—and sold them well at that—they were now lying alongside the wharf waiting for a little more wind. Then it happened that an old skipper of the town, who had retired, but could not altogether keep away from the water, came sauntering down to the dock, his hands in his pockets and his little twinkling eyes on the lookout for something of interest. He stopped on the dock, blinking still more, and seemed to be taking the measure of “The Pail.”