It is generally the boldest and stupidest tricks that succeed. Peter never forgot the caraway cheese. He used it, as a matter of fact, throughout his life.
Thus half a year later Peter became manager at Selambshof. He had developed quickly. He began as a coarse, lumbering, hulking hireling. But this massive foundation concealed by a certain smiling good temper and maudlin sentimentality was rather misleading to those who were not warned by the quick flashes in his cunning bear’s eyes.
It was at this point that the firstborn of the family got the nickname “Peter the Boss,” a name which stuck to him all his life and under which he was known in wide circles.
Thus Peter the Boss now sat enthroned in the office at Selambshof. Now he wandered in the perfection of his power through the domains of Selambshof, controlled only by Peter the Boss himself. But he did not swagger. He did not become an absolute tyrant as old Enoch had been in his time. He did not worry people too much. He only had a habit of turning up grinning on the most unexpected occasions. You never knew where you had him. There was no possibility of pilfering as in Brundin’s time. Peter was content with that. His desire was not power, but possession. There were many things he reflected upon, but always from the point of view of “yours” or “mine,” preferably “mine.” And then slowly he began to walk in Brundin’s footsteps. But without the boldness and rashness of that “fairy prince.” He felt his way carefully. He left no traces. He began with modest schemes. He joked his way through, so that you never knew when you had him until you suddenly found you had agreed to something after a jolly evening with cards and drink. One of the old customers of the estate, for instance, wanted potatoes at the old price, which was really too low. Peter laughed at him. But when they sat down to cards, he said he would be damned if he shouldn’t have the potatoes if he won that night. In this way Peter recovered half the difference of price and the matter was settled in the early morning. Peter pretended that he settled the business whilst in his cups, and the other was welcome to think he had got the better of Peter. Or perhaps some cab proprietor wanted to buy hay. There was a scarcity of hay that spring—but not at Selambshof. This was a fine chance for Peter. He snapped out a very high price. The proprietor offered two-thirds. Business seemed impossible. But as they sat there hobnobbing with each other they began to argue about the height of the Eiffel Tower. Peter maintained it was 300 metres high. If he had not just been reading about it he would not have mentioned it. The cab proprietor doubted it.
“All right, let us lay a wager,” said Peter. “All right,” replied the cab proprietor. “A thousand kronor,” said Peter and winked. But the cab proprietor became thoughtful.
“I am like a little child when I have won a wager,” grinned Peter. The cab proprietor made a rapid calculation and then agreed to the bet in the cloud of smoke. And Peter won the bet and the cab proprietor got the hay at his own price. So you see that even the Eiffel Tower has its uses.
In this way much business was done in the good old times.
Soon there was not a single turnip sold but Peter the Boss managed in some cunning way or other to exact his toll. The money came rolling in and he already had a nice little banking account.
But conscience! Did not Peter understand that this was bad faith towards his principals? Did he not think it ugly to rob his brothers and sisters in this way? No, when it came to the point Peter did not think of principals or brothers and sisters or anything at all in that way. The whole thing was a matter between himself and Brundin. Peter was taking his revenge on Brundin, that was all. He beat the nightmare of his childhood on his own ground. So strange are our victories sometimes. Peter felt a delightful relief after each successful coup, a relief that was almost related to a good conscience.
Meanwhile Peter the Boss grew fatter and more good-tempered and jovial. He patted Isaksson, the housekeeper, on the back and lent Stellan, who was always in a tight corner, money with pleasure. Then he offered punch and with his customary luck won the whole lot back from him again, so that Stellan had to write an I.O.U. for the double amount, for he had to have the money. Stellan rose, shrugging his shoulders, when he had written it and looked contemptuously at his elder brother:
“Just like the Jews,” he said in his sneering voice. “Hang it all, Peter, you do look common. It is so underclass to become bloated with spirit!”
“Dear, oh dear!” said Peter in his softest voice, “didn’t you notice that before you began to play?”
It is true that Peter drank a good deal. Spirit and business melted together with him so that he could not distinguish one from the other. That was why he always drank with a good conscience and grew fat with a good conscience. Because in Sweden in those days it was still easier for fat people to do business than for thin.
If Peter could think of nothing else he used to put a bottle in his pocket and march down to Tord, who now lived in “The Rookery,” with all his crows and snakes and foxes. He was a queer fish, Tord, but he was always good enough to drink a glass with. In school he had made himself impossible long ago, but instead of school he sat at home reading a lot of bulky old volumes, and amongst the working people of the estate he was the object
