Already at the Agricultural school a strange change had begun in Peter Selamb. And it became still more pronounced on his return home. He somehow became more positive. He realised that one cannot go on for ever merely watching and spying on others. It is better to be the object of attention.

Peter wanted to be bailiff at Selambshof and for that reason he tried to get friends and supporters. Was the spying and grumbling Peter the Watch-dog endeavouring to secure friends like a politician before an election? Was he not doomed to failure? No, because Peter was no longer the same after his victory over Brundin. Fear had thrown a spell upon him. It had made him ugly and repulsive. But now he had somehow broken the enchantment. To the naked eye he seemed almost human. From fear he had passed quite readily to lying, a not uncommon step. Fear is the parent of a real and deliberate mendacity and somehow it persists under the smiling exterior. As yet Peter did not lie consciously. Alas! the conscious lie is so slight, so harmless, so transparent. No, give me the real, thorough, unconscious lie, especially if it is joined with that particular greed that so often grows up from the deep root of fear. Then we may expect consequences.

As Peter changed, the people round about him also began to change. They were no longer dangerous and malevolent people before whom he had to be on his guard every moment. He began to see them in the light of his desires, and that is also a light of its kind. He found to his surprise that these people, formerly so unreliable, not unwillingly allowed themselves to be manoeuvred to his advantage. Sometimes they seemed to move round him like mutes in a play, in which Peter Selamb was the hero, and which play must end with his enrichment and aggrandisement. But do not suppose that Peter grew proud, extravagant or reckless. No, he took good care not to awaken any dangerous fear in others. Quite instinctively, and only to hide his real self, he gradually grew more and more good-natured, pleasant and cheerful. It cost him no effort because he felt he would earn money by it. Yes, even his body assumed something of his cunning and grew and expanded about the chest and stomach, in order to remove all angles and give him a more trustworthy appearance, so that he might the more easily achieve his end. Peter never looked so pleased as when someone joked with him about his getting fat.

The first indication of Peter’s new frame of mind was that of learning to play “vira.” He made a third with the bailiff Inglund and old Lundbom from the yard.

As a matter of fact Peter had never been on a really bad footing with the new bailiff. Inglund was an experienced farmer, but obstinate and averse to everything new. He was fond of his ease, the type of man who has worked his whole life for low wages for other people. He did not love authority and was not unwilling to divide his responsibility. He did not mind Peter shadowing him under the pretence of helping him. He liked to teach whatever he knew of his trade. “Next time I can send the boy and need not go myself,” was his thought. And then he would remain on his sofa smoking his pipe and smiling at silly Peter, who ran his errands. Meanwhile Peter’s knowledge grew daily and as he advanced with rapid strides to his position of authority he became more and more indispensable. And both were satisfied.

Thus Peter played “vira” with Inglund and Lundbom. With what an agreeable feeling of dangers overcome did he not sit there in the bailiff’s quarters smoking and drinking and sending forth his orders from these seats of power and knowledge. This was different from roaming about in the dark outside, hungry, lonely and frightened. Peter enjoyed the old men’s calm and circumstantial way of talking and telling stories. It was somehow informed with a superior and yet harmless and benevolent wordly wisdom. And one could still feel one’s superior strength. Warmed by his grog Peter sat smiling contentedly and drank in their golden lore of the changing nature of the earth and the varying seasons and the strange ways of money among the labyrinths of the law. And all the time he saw visions of future wealth in the thick clouds of tobacco smoke.

Like all new beginners Peter had, of course, shamelessly good luck. But he did not become disagreeably smug or unpleasantly overweening. That was a great feature in his character. He tried to moderate his good luck in order to be tolerated in the company. And soon he had become quite a shrewd and skilful player.

Peter never regretted having learnt to play “vira.” The cards soon proved an excellent means of communication with useful people. The gatherings in the bailiff’s rooms soon had some offshoots in town. Peter accompanied the bailiff to cheery drinking and card parties with business friends, both buyers and sellers. Thus it was by the paths of rye, potatoes and bacon that Peter penetrated into the town. Here Peter recognised amongst many new faces some of the old ones from Brundin’s great crayfish party. They were all men of seventeen stone with heavy fists and well filled purses. But they no longer pressed Peter down to the ground. On the contrary, he felt a solemn exhilaration mingled with hopeful expectation as he sat among these bulging pocketbooks. And whilst he arranged his cards and watched his play he kept his eyes and ears open, learned the correct jargon, studied the market, and did not lose a thread in the skein of business names and connections. During all this time there often came over him the dreamy expression of one who stops in his walk to listen to the rush of a still invisible cataract. It was the rolling of money that Peter heard in the noise of the streets, which is so unfamiliar to country folk. The town to him meant money, the money that would one day roll into Selambshof and fall into Peter’s pockets.

But let us return to the bailiff’s rooms and see Peter’s second adversary. Old Lundbom, who was an expert in the difficult game of “misÈre,” sat muttering, with his spectacles slipping down over his nose and his extinguished cigar stuck into a gap in his front teeth. From him, too, could Peter derive much useful knowledge. As a managing clerk he knew not only the recognised forms of business and ways of money and the setting forth of it in columns with figures and names. He was also secretly a keen amateur lawyer, was this old nutcracker. The Law of Sweden, text books of civil law, reports of law cases and judgments constituted his favourite reading in his spare time. Once started on that subject he was difficult to stop. It was with a peculiar enjoyment that Peter heard him tell of long and involved lawsuits in which large sums had changed hands. To Peter’s simple understanding the law was nothing else but a collection of all the tricks that could be used to get hold of other people’s money. Old Lundbom would have been very perplexed in his unselfish complacency if he had seen how greedily Peter picked up any information that might possibly be of use to him some day.

One evening—it was as a matter of fact a fine and calm evening in the beginning of July and the hay had just been got in—the usual trio sat playing by the light of a lamp out in the porch. Then Peter suddenly heard something which made him think hard. Old Lundbom was speaking about a business that had to be sold at a great loss after the death of the owner because one of the heirs was a minor and had to receive his inheritance in trustee stock.

Here at Selambshof both Laura and Tord were minors! And their father had lain in bed for half a year past. If he died now—how could Peter become bailiff?

Peter tried in vain to lure Lundbom into a discussion of the case of Selambshof. He could not force a direct question over his lips. He was somehow afraid to give himself away, and his old lurking fear beset him again in this stupid, meaningless fashion. It would have been quite natural for him to ask questions about the future risks of the estate. But then we all have such fits....

That night Peter lay sleepless. Selambshof was once more a besieged fortress. Even Brundin’s ghost haunted the dual silence. A sad relapse...!

As early as four o’clock he put on his trousers and stole to his father. The old man lay put away in a small room by himself far away on the ground floor towards the north. In former days the soiled linen had been kept there. Oskar Selamb had now overlived his time seventeen years. There must after all have been something in old Enoch’s toughness and vitality. But last Christmas he had been ill for some time and since then he had never troubled to get up again. He thought it more comfortable in bed. Now he lay there with his chin in the air and his long grey beard in waves over the sheet. He did not snore at all. A spider came out of a corner and ran quickly over the counterpane. Was the old man dead? Peter started and stole with trembling limbs up to the bedside. No! Oskar Selamb lay awake staring with his bleared, grey eyes at the brown damp stains on the ceiling.

“How are you, father?” Peter said anxiously.

The old man’s voice was as rusty as if it had not been used for years:

“Been running,” he muttered pointing at the damp stains.

“But I asked how you were, father.”

Hedvig occupied the room next door and it was she who nursed the old man. She insisted on doing it. Now her father pointed with his thumb to her room.

“Up?” he wondered anxiously.

“But I wanted to know how you felt, father?”

“Must not wash me,” whined Oskar Selamb. “Cold water!—don’t wash me...!”

Then Hedvig suddenly stood in the door. She was dressed in a torn old dressing gown. Her black hair was brushed tight over the temples and hung over her shoulders in a long shining plait, which looked as if it had been plaited by hard, mean fingers. She was still pale with a strange, deathly pallor, and her dark eyes were awake, as intensely awake as if the sweet drops of sleep had never been poured into them.

“What’s the matter now?”

She spoke in a tone as if she had been lying reproaching herself the whole night.

Peter felt uncomfortable. Did people not sleep in this house of a night. He did not particularly like to see Hedvig. Brundin’s shadow hung over her still. She was like a ghost from the time of his great fear. And then she was religious. She had a sort of secret understanding with the gods of which Peter in his innermost heart was still rather frightened. Yes, however one approached her, one seemed to be burnt up. But all the same Peter managed the business splendidly. He resembled a man playing ball with a live coal which is still too hot to hold for long in his hand. Though frightened himself he directed her fear into a channel where there might slumber things of use to Peter Selamb.

“I woke up and felt so anxious about father,” he muttered. “I felt as if something was going to happen to him.”

“Do you think I am not listening?” Hedvig said, shrugging her shoulders.

“We have not always been as we ought to be to poor father,” sighed Peter.

Hedvig’s beautiful face hardened and she assumed the expression of an injured martyr.

“Don’t I wear myself out for him? Haven’t I nursed him day and night since he has been confined to his bed?”

Peter was not so convinced that her nursing was so tender. When he thought of lying ill and being washed by Hedvig’s hands he felt cold shivers down his back. But he took care not to show it.

“Yes, Hedvig, you are a real saint. But Laura and Stellan, who never come to see father—and I who—yes, we shall get our punishment.”

Over Hedvig’s face there spread a glimmer of satisfaction.

“What kind of punishment will that be?”

“Oh, father might die, for example. Do you know what would happen if father dies before Tord is of age? They will sell the estate for an old song and we shall become paupers. But if we can keep it we are sure to be well off, all of us.”

Peter said no more. He only sighed and then he went back to his room to recover his lost sleep.

That same day old Selamb was moved up into a big, light and airy room facing east. Peter spied on Hedvig and received several proofs that his words had taken effect. She was evidently frightened, for secretly she redoubled her efforts. Enviously and with a look of silent reproach to the whole world she watched incessantly over her father. With a sort of gloomy, obstinate determination she wore herself out with her cares.

Peter’s own worry was agreeably relieved. He felt that he had given the matter into good hands. Sister Hedvig was now to be numbered among the many that struggled in the cause of Peter Selamb.

Peter had a habit of stealing in to glance at the old man now and then. It was quite edifying to see him lying there washed and brushed between white sheets in the sparkling sunshine. Peter felt something of the pleasure of the merchant who goes to his safe and turns over his gilt-edge securities. One day Peter brought a bunch of flowers in his hand. Flowers in Peter’s hand! That was, of course, a piece of pure superstition, the offer of a bribe to the Powers. His expression was strange, for he was probably afraid of being found out. But as nobody was in the room he put the flowers quickly into a glass and placed them on the bed-table. Then he stood there quite a long while with his head on one side and he felt quite moved.

After that there were almost always flowers in the glass when Peter came. Yes, Hedvig had also begun to pick flowers. And they did not wither in her hand. No, they looked perfectly fresh and bright on the bed-table. But all the same there was a kind of suspicious aversion in her movements, and she did not like to look at them. It was all so new and strange. One would scarcely have recognised the old Selambshof. A stranger coming in for a few days only would have thought that he was moving amongst the angels.

The only one who did not like the change was old Selamb. He had grown accustomed to the dim light, the dirt, the knocks, and sour faces. This quiet, bright room worried him in some way. Into his dull brain some thought of illness and death must have penetrated when he found himself treated like a feeble invalid. He followed Hedvig’s silent movements with suspicious glances. He was stubborn, whined, and indulged in foolish little pinpricks and impotent acts of spite, all of which she suffered with a secret joy as adding spice to her martyrdom. But the old man’s hate was especially directed towards the flowers, that strange innovation that smelt of a funeral. One day the glass was empty and he pointed with a grin under the bed. He had thrown them into the bedchamber.

And so that was the end of the flowers, and indeed there could never be flowers for long within the four walls of Selambshof. Peter was not very disappointed. One can’t always be sentimental. Moreover during subsequent “vira” parties Peter had made further inquiries and now knew more. The matter would not be so hopeless even if his father did die. But he took good care not to tell Hedvig. There was no harm in being careful.

It now only remained to enlist old Hermansson in the company of those who lived and worked for Peter Selamb. He felt that this was where the shoe pinched. But though he loitered about Ekbacken he still refrained from approaching the old man. He came over to consult his guardian about the management of the estate. He did not directly complain of the bailiff, but he managed to convey discreetly that the bailiff spent most of his time lying on his sofa, smoking his pipe. But still the old man did not grasp his excellent idea of dismissing Inglund and making the capable and conscientious Peter bailiff.

However much Peter pondered over the matter he could not guess why old Hermansson was so distant and on his dignity toward him, whilst he yet seized every occasion to show his fatherly interest in Stellan. That lazy, supercilious Stellan who strutted about in his uniform and sneered and looked important when he occasionally came home after his idiotic drill. Peter had an economic contempt for everything in uniform, which showed how simple he was, and how much he still had to learn from life. If he had only observed old Hermansson a little more closely, as with his head held high and his hand inside the lapel of his coat he strutted up and down the avenue by the side of Stellan with his glittering braid and sword belt, he would perhaps have understood a good deal better.

Everything striking and challenging stirred Peter’s egoism, though it still sought to hide itself.

Whilst he scratched his head, a thought flashed through his brain: “If I could think of something sufficiently mad, perhaps it would work better,” he thought, and soon after he conceived the brilliant idea that was to bring matters to a successful issue.

After weeks of careful preparation he marched off one day to Ekbacken. It was a fine windy day in May and down at the repairing slip they were just fitting out Herman’s fine, new cutter. Herman himself was standing on the pier dressed in the uniform of the Royal Yacht Club and gave orders to a crowd of lazy-looking youths who had succeeded the old sailors. Peter shook his head as he passed. It positively hurt him to see such expensive toys.

In the smoke-room at Ekbacken a card table and an easy chair were placed between the Marieberg stove and a new piece of furniture, a mahogany and glass monstrosity containing coloured silk ribbons and the gilt insignia of all the secret societies in which the owner of the house held high rank. There old Hermansson now sat playing patience.

“What do you want here, my friend?” muttered the old man without looking up from his cards.

“Well, there was something I had to tell you. You know that it is a very long time since father said anything rational. But today when I went in to see him as usual he seemed to have brightened up. He fumbled after my hand and then he said: ‘You must go and thank my old friend. You must go and thank old William for all he has done for old Selambshof.’ Yes, that’s what he said. And I felt so strange because it was just as if father would not have long to live. That was all I wanted to tell you.”

His guardian looked up from his cards with an expression of solemn sympathy and quiet reproach:

“Well, well, did he really say that, dear old Oskar? Yes, it really does me good to hear that there are still some people who are grateful. I will go and see him as soon as possible.”

Peter went home contented. A visit was exactly what he wished for. The following day old Hermansson came. It evidently affected him to see the invalid. Much moved and very solemn he walked up to the bed:

“Good-morning, dear old Oskar!”

Old Selamb grunted something in his beard. He did not seem specially pleased at the meeting.

“How are things with you, old friend? I am ashamed that I have not been to see you for such a long time.”

The invalid was still not interested. Peter had to intervene.

“It’s William. Don’t you see, father, that it is William who has been so good to us all?”

“Yes, Oskar, you recognise old William, don’t you?”

Old Selamb seemed to be growing impatient. He looked critically at his old friend:

“Seedy,” he muttered, “damned seedy.”

Peter did not like the turn the conversation had taken.

He suddenly sat down on the edge of the bed with his back to old Hermansson. Then he looked his father full in the eyes, touched his pocket and showed the corner of a paper bag. Then the invalid’s face suddenly assumed a keen, wide-awake and almost human expression, and he stretched out a trembling hand to his son:

“Peter ... look after ... estate,” he muttered, in his deep, rusty voice. “Peter shall manage the estate....”

“Now he seems to be getting excited again,” whispered Peter to old Hermansson. “It is dangerous for him to get excited. But he usually calms down if he gets something to chew.”

Peter took some crumbs of cheese out of the paper bag and gave them to his father, who devoured them with avidity and then sank into his usual apathy again.

Old Hermansson stood in deep thought. Here lay the sick friend of his youth on the bed he would never leave. In a lucid moment he first sends a touching greeting and then when he came to see him his reason once more flashes up and he begs help for his first-born. It was almost like a command from the grave.

Peter’s guardian seized his hand and pressed it warmly:

“Old Oskar shall be obeyed,” he said, “you shall manage Selambshof!”

Peter, alarmed and startled, protested, but the old man was firm:

“You and none else,” he said in a tone that suffered no contradiction.

Then he went home to his patience again.

Peter had succeeded by a clever use of his father’s insatiable greed for old cheese with caraway seeds in it. Day after day he had been sitting there on the edge of the bed tempting him with a piece of cheese in his hands, till the old man learnt the formula that opened the gates of joy to him.

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 under-class 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 of a certain superstitious reverence on account of his strange ways and his learning. Then one day he flung the books on the floor and decided to turn painter—animal painter. That was after he had taken in another inmate, a two-legged one this time, a mysterious creature who seldom appeared in daylight, but who passed for an artist, a real artist from the Academy. His name was Eklund and he was an incurable bohemian, contemptuous of the world, and cynical. Nobody knew where Tord had caught this fish, but it was probably in some ditch on the outskirts of the town. Anyhow he was now going to teach Tord to paint animals.

Yes, Tord was a queer fellow who sooner or later would be sure to go to the dogs, but nobody would be any the poorer for that, at least not Peter, so he could always drink a glass with him in anticipation of the catastrophe. And that strange creature Eklund did not spoil things either. It tasted rather good to drink with such impossible fellows. Tord did not, of course, talk much—he usually sat and stared. But with Eklund one could discuss the profoundest problems, if only he had enough inside him. He was one of those radical devils who believe neither in Heaven nor Hell. Peter protested with inimitable sentimentality against his acid cynicism, but secretly he enjoyed it. In his inmost heart he had a feeling it somehow sanctioned his little tricks....

About that time the guardian of Selambshof died.

Old Hermansson had of late been so unnaturally sound that he could not have long to live. And one morning he could not get out of his bed. He had died during the night from paralysis of the heart.

At the funeral in the little granite church Herman sobbed between his two old aunts, his only relations. But Peter clung instinctively to his sister Hedvig. This was something in her line, he thought. Here she held the direct connections. Far away from the cynicism of Eklund Peter the Boss stood there anxiously wondering if this business would not bring him some profit in its train. And had he not been kind to his own aged, sick father, and had him removed into a better room, and seen to it that he had the best care? Yes, there in the church Peter was still making his little efforts to cheat the Almighty. But out here beside the open grave he grew unctuous. It was no longer cowardice in face of the last judgment. That was an exquisite refuge when compared with the dark hole in front of him. Before the grave every man is shaken down to his most elementary instincts. Peter the Boss ate ashes at the thought of creeping down there away from everything that he possessed and would possess. Fancy having nothing more, absolutely nothing! He stood there pale and ill with his hat in his hand and gulped down the lump in his throat like a fish out of water. He would willingly have sacrificed a whole year’s salary if he could have got away from it all.

At last he sat in his carriage and rolled away from Death’s domains into those of Selambshof. His sickness disappeared by and by. He felt with a feverish sigh how business was resuming its normal sway over his thoughts. But still he was like a man who, after a dangerous sea voyage, feels the movement of the sea even though he is walking on the green earth.

There was a dinner at Ekbacken. To everybody’s amazement, Peter rose and made a speech. After the day’s emotions he was very sentimental. Oh, how delightful it was to let yourself go and to be moved by, and grateful for, everything, and to be filled with great, beautiful and solemn emotions. There were no bounds to the greatness and noble philanthropy of old Hermansson and to what they all had to thank his noble generous heart for. Peter then turned to the only son of this great and noble man. He did not need to describe what Herman was suffering at that moment. But he must not feel himself alone in the world. Everybody present suffered with him. And if it was hard for Herman to throw himself at once into business in the midst of his grief, he must never forget that Selambshof lay next door to old Ekbacken. A helping hand from Peter Selamb would not be lacking when required....

Peter had tears in his eyes. He was whole-heartedly a “helping hand.” His emotion was almost genuine, and he felt that his tears watered soil of which he might himself reap the harvest.

Herman had never liked Peter, but had rather avoided him. But now he had no power of resistance. Childishly ashamed of his own tears, he sought cover behind these of Peter. He believed him because just now he felt the need of belief in somebody. And there was nobody else to hand. Stellan was so strangely silent and cold just now. He was somehow not made to be a consoler. But Peter overwhelmed him by his rhapsodies, helpfulness, and his massive vitality overflowing with life and animation. There were not many moments when he left Herman alone during the following days. And he used to talk about Laura. It helped Herman in the bitter loneliness that fastened upon his still unguarded soul. Twice Laura had been allowed to go back to her boarding school. And hitherto she had to a certain extent been right when she thought that both she and Herman were too young to get married. But now she was to stay at home, said Peter. He had telegraphed her on the day of the death of Herman’s father and could not understand why she had not come back already. Did she really deserve such a husband as Herman, such a jolly good fellow, heir to an honourable name and a substantial fortune? And so Peter’s thoughts turned to money again. Did Herman fully realise how rich he was? Ekbacken—oh, it had immense possibilities! Peter saw them, because he had already had business experience. And, as he had said before, he would help Herman in word and deed now when everything had to be cleared up after the death of his father.

Everything went as Peter wished. He became administrator of the estate of the late timber merchant and shipbuilder, William Hermansson. A week ago he would have shaken his head at such a possibility. Now the thing was almost obvious.

Old Lundbom had to supply the necessary expert knowledge. He was so touched and so flattered when Peter came and wanted to make him guardian over his father that he willingly sacrificed his evening hours to clear up all difficulties of the administration. He had managed Ekbacken’s business practically alone during recent years—but without having asked for a penny’s increase of salary. The old man had never realised that one might be clever on one’s own account too. He was a servant and nothing but a servant. And now in the midst of his sincere grief at the death of his beloved old master he took a childish pleasure in seeing his knowledge of law being put into practice on such an important occasion.

The winding-up of the estate was entirely Lundbom’s work. It gave Peter a very interesting insight into the affairs of Ekbacken and six thousand crowns into the bargain. At first he made a few diffident attempts to refuse the money that Herman pressed on him. Herman was flushed with excitement and very stiff in the back. Had not the estate shown more than three hundred thousand crowns assets? Then he supposed he could afford to pay a friend for his solicitude and care. Peter gave in in good time and put the cheque in his pocket with a sigh:

“Thank you, dear Herman! We Selambs are unfortunately too poor to say no!”

When this matter was settled they walked about a long time on the estate discussing the future of Ekbacken. Herman wanted to give up building barges and instead wanted to build racing yachts of a type that had just won through. It was a high-class and interesting-quality work. He would build his own boats and compete for prizes just as people kept racehorses in their stables. It would be a fine advertisement and would perhaps interest Laura.

Peter looked thoughtful but did not contradict him.

They came out on to the highroad, which was dusty and worn out by the constantly increasing traffic. The heaps of road metal and the stone-cutters’ sheds were drawing nearer the old oaks. The town was grinding the hills around it to powder. Soon the last grey granite fortress of Ekbacken would fall. But Herman swore that he would defend his own idyllic home. There were already plenty of people who came to him and wanted to buy sites for factories. But his father’s old Ekbacken must not be split up and spoilt in that way.

Peter still did not contradict him. He was absorbed in deep thought. Suddenly he warmly pressed his future brother-in-law’s hand:

“You are a fine fellow, Herman. Damn me, but you are a fine fellow!”

After this Peter the Boss stalked homewards—with the first great cheque of his life in his pocket he stalked homewards this cold, still evening in spring. He felt strangely cool about his forehead, and sometimes he felt as if he were treading on air. Strange how everything played into his hands. By making Lundbom guardian he ruled absolutely at Selambshof. Through Laura he would soon be able to control Ekbacken. And the town with its thousand possibilities, crept nearer and nearer with every hour.