Peter coughed before he came up to them, a wonderful act of delicacy on his part.
Then the nurse came to put little Georg to bed. Herman started up as if in alarm. He lifted the boy up in his arms as if to kiss him, but put him down again and sank back on the seat beside Peter.
“I hope you have not talked about me—you have not told the nurse who I am,” he muttered.
“Not a word,” Peter assured him.
But Herman felt all the same a pang in his heart. “Then Laura won’t hear of it,” he thought. “And she won’t be forced to give me a thought.” And he hated himself because he could not help feeling a cold emptiness. In one draught he emptied the glass before him.
But Peter carefully slipped into business. He did not of course speak of Herman’s bill that was due or of the affairs of Ekbacken at all. He only said that he had met somebody who wanted to invest about fifty thousand crowns on good security. And then he had thought of Herman at once. Times were difficult and working capital always useful.
Herman did not seem to hear at first. Then his face contracted at the thought of this wretched business. And then he suddenly assumed the cold, severe, businesslike tone which is so often found in very impatient people:
“Terms? Interest?”
“Not bad—six percent—”
“If I am to consider the proposition I must have half tomorrow against my promissory note until the bills of sale are redeemed.”
“Aha!” thought Peter the Boss, “there you gave yourself away. I should never have said that.”
“Well,” he muttered, “you might get about twenty thousand at once.”
Herman felt that this was easy. He glanced suspiciously at Peter:
“Who is this benefactor? Does he prefer to remain unknown?”
Peter smiled and looked transparently honest:
“Not at all, he is O. W. Thomson, director of Majängen. I can vouch for him. Decent fellow. I shall be pleased to arrange the business for you out of gratitude for all you have done for us at Ekbacken.”
Herman suspected that Thomson was Peter’s dummy. A few days ago when old Lundbom, encouraged by a certain visit he had received, had hinted vaguely at Peter, Herman had sworn that he would never have anything to do with Selambshof. But before he walked home that evening he had all the same arranged for a meeting. He was not strong enough to resist.
The following day it appeared that O. W. Thomson had gone away. The matter could not be arranged until two days later, that is to say, the day before the due date of Herman’s bill. And then Thomson was in a bad temper. He demanded eight percent and only a month’s notice. It was risky. Peter had done what he could but that confounded Thomson was quite impossible. There was nothing left for Herman to do but sign and rush off to the bank.
Peter continued these friendly potations with Herman. He enjoyed his company very much, and showed a touching interest for his welfare, yes, he really ministered to his weaknesses:
“You have been living in hell, Herman,” he said. “It has got on your nerves.” (Yes, Peter had actually found out that there were such things as nerves.) “You must take care of yourself, sleep, amuse yourself, go sailing. Lundbom looks after the business. He is a magician, old Lundbom.”
“As if it helped to sail,” muttered Herman, as gloomy as the Flying Dutchman.
But he did go sailing, anyhow, and Peter went too, and did not let go of his dear Herman. And when now after long stormy cruises out to sea, they had dropped their hook far out in a fine night harbour under some rugged cliff and the waves roared on the pebbles on the shore and the crescent moon shone over the sea, whilst the evening sky hung green and cold over the long ragged forest edges in the west, then they both revelled in a beautiful and romantic hatred of the town, its dirt and stuffiness and humbug and misery. It was a most beautiful accord between shyness, laziness and weakness on the one hand and instinctive, furtive, self-interest on the other. To Herman the town meant rubbish, masons, walls scrawled all over, insidious threats against the idyls of his childhood. But it also meant his great smouldering trouble, neglected duties and a bad conscience. For Peter on the other hand the town meant ten thousand possibilities and the fine opportunities which Herman must not suspect. He liked to finish off his exhortation with little edifying stories, terrifying little accounts of the cursed banks.
“Yes, beware of the banks, Herman,” he exclaimed. “Bills here and bills there and not a moment’s peace. One fine day they get you into their clutches and then you have to say goodbye to everything. But we will defend ourselves, old boy. We know a few little tricks, we rustics too, now don’t we? If you get into difficulties don’t make them offers. There is nothing so dangerous as to make them offers. No, you come to Peter the Boss and he will stand by you. Not an inch shall they have of Ekbacken and Selambshof.”
Herman sat there eating his tinned food, half touched, half suspicious.
“Yes, but you have already sold some of it.”
Peter smiled a superior smile:
“Don’t you understand. I tricked them, tricked those town scoundrels splendidly. Sold away the rubbish heap in order to sit more securely in the Castle.”
There Herman had got something to sleep on. And in fact he did sleep better than usual. It
