Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - VIII
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laid them on the table, pulled his hair down over his eyes,
and dropped his lower lip stupidly.
“Devil melt me!” he drawled, rattling the coins like
dice. “I’m not the eldest son of the honorable Erik Kaase
for nothing! What! you’d doubt my word, you muckworm?
I flung ten, hell consume me, ten with a jingle!
Can’t you see, you dog? I’m asking if you can’t see?—you
blind lamprey, you! Or d’ ye want me to rip your guts
with my stinger and give your liver and lungs a chance to
see too? Shall I—huh? You ass!”
Daniel jumped up and pulled a long face.
“You’d challenge me, would you?” he said hoarsely
with a strong North Skaane accent, “you stinkard, you!
D’ you know whom you’re challenging? So take me king
o’ hell, I’ll strike your—Nay, nay,” he dropped into his
natural voice, “that’s perhaps too strong a jest to begin
with. Try another!”
He sat down, folded his hands on the edge of his knees
as though to make room for his stomach, puffed himself up,
fat and heavy jowled, then whistled firmly and thoughtfully
but in an altogether too slow tempo the ballad of Roselil
and Sir Peter. Then he stopped, rolled his eyes amorously,
and called in fond tones:
“Cockatoo—cockadoodle-doo!” He began to whistle
again, but had some difficulty in combining it with an
ingratiating smile. “Little sugar-top!” he called, “little
honey-dew, come to me, little chuck! P’st! Will it lap wine, little
kitty? Lap nice sweet wine from little cruse?”
Again he changed his voice, leaned forward in his chair,
winked with one eye, and crooked his fingers to comb an
imaginary beard.
“Now stay here,” he said coaxingly, “stay here, fair
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