But in spite of all this the old days were over. Peter the Watchdog began slowly to pluck up courage again. As he brooded and brooded he realised at last that it was no longer possible to hunt alone. And so it came about that Peter too began to haunt Ekbacken. But he took very good care not to run up against Stellan and Laura, whose road lay in the same direction. He did not aim so high as they. He had no desire to talk to his guardian. No, Peter hovered about the old bookkeeper, Lundbom. His opportunity came in the evenings when the old man sat in his own room smoking his pipe and drinking his hot whisky, with his books in front of him. He questioned him patiently and insistently until the old man felt touched by the interest of this promising youth in double-entry Italian bookkeeping, and gave him proper instruction. Peter literally sucked up the information. He was not difficult to teach. Now he could calculate—he who had always failed in his examinations in mathematics. With every successful addition he added something to his power and with every correct subtraction he subtracted something from Brundin’s. Oh, what bliss it was to feel how his bugbear was again shrinking and growing less each day.
During these efforts, Peter had not ceased his observations. Now he knew what had been sent from the estate during four whole months, prices and all. Then he repeated his bold stroke one Saturday evening when the bailiff went to town as usual to enjoy himself. But this time he could decipher the mysterious writing. Oh! it was an hour of feverish triumph up there in the Observatory. Peter the Watchdog found at once audacious frauds to fasten his teeth into, amongst other things, Axel Brundin who was only debited for 60 barrels of potatoes during November and December. But Peter knew for certain that the correct figure was 73. There he had a bite at the two brothers’ hind legs.
Peter lay sleepless the whole night and fed his revenge on Brundin.
Early on Sunday morning he stalked over to Ekbacken and found his guardian in bed. Now he no longer shunned the public gaze or beat about the bush. He went straight to the point, was bold and insinuating. He cast the stolen rye and potatoes straight in old Hermansson’s face. But his guardian jumped up highly offended.
“What are you saying, boy? Remember that you are talking of a person I have appointed. How did you get hold of the books? What do you know about the yield of the estate?”
But Peter was not to be intimidated. He came back time after time with his rye and his potatoes. Gradually his guardian began to soften.
“But it’s not possible,” he sighed dismally, “I am not accustomed to people betraying my confidence in this way. Very sad, really very sad, why did I ever undertake the thankless task of becoming your guardian. Most sad and unpleasant!”
After this he ordered his shaving water and began to dress. Peter sat still with his armful of books and watched his guardian. As soon as he was dressed he recovered his dignity and his authority:
“I shall arrange for an investigation,” he said. “Go back to your lessons now, my dear Peter. This is no matter for children.”
No, there Uncle Hermansson was right. This was no matter for children. That’s why he ought to have looked after it better himself.
Peter sauntered home again entirely liberated from his frightened sensation in the presence of grownups, and of their authority and their ability.
After service old Hermansson came solemnly driving up to Selambshof and conducted a great investigation in the office in the absence of Brundin.
There was no end to the revelations now. Everyone had something to say against the bailiff. As soon as the ice was broken, accusations poured in against the culprit. They almost fought to stick their knives into him in order to save their own skins.
Evidently Selambshof had been systematically robbed for years.
In the midst of all this, Brundin came driving back from town in a state of mild intoxication. The old Fairy Prince now cut a poor figure. He seemed quite nonplussed that the old servants should have so completely forgotten his gifts to them, his snuff, his gin, and his blind eye to their own little peculations. For a moment he stiffened and made an insolent effort to deny everything, but he failed miserably in the face of Anders’ evidence. Anders had become anxious about his carelessness in the matter of receipts, etc., and had himself written down all that he had driven into town in order to protect himself.
Peter did not now stand aside as at the sticking of the pigs. No, he stood in the midst of the crowd. Now he had a voice in the matter. Sometimes he laughed suddenly, a giggling, nervous laughter. The boy seemed suddenly to have grown into something more like a man. When the examination was over he suddenly looked quite disappointed. For his part he would have liked to go on forever. The old servants left, however, and old Hermansson went home to consult a lawyer. Brundin sat alone in the office, ruminating. Then Peter thrust his face through the door, grinning:
“You thief,” he cried. “You cursed thief.”
Oh, it was heavenly to spit at the cracked Colossus, really to trample the old fear under foot.
No action was brought against Brundin. He himself possessed nothing, but his brother was frightened into paying a round sum corresponding to the proved losses of the estate.
Then came the ignominious departure. He had been ill for some days, but now he was off at last.
Peter did not show himself at first. But down under the lime
