It had been a long autumn. With grey creeping mists and ankle-deep slush, November had drawn a close ring round Selambshof.

Peter was alone in the day time. As he had failed again in his examination, he had had to leave school and it was not yet decided what he was going to do. But time passed quickly all the same, for recently he had lots of things to attend to.

For example, the great pig-slaughter. Since six o’clock this morning he had been strolling about in the dark yard and as soon as dawn came he was down by the pig-sty behind the cowshed.

The cowherd came trailing one poor pig after another. Then they were raised on to the slaughter block and instantly Anders, the stable man, stuck them in the neck so that the blood spurted out. The bailiff was there himself, and scratched the pigs’ backs with his stick and chatted in friendly tones to them before execution. But old Kristin was no longer there with the pail to collect the blood. As long as she kept going, she had taken part in the slaughter of the pigs. Silent and solemn she used to stand there bent over her pail, stirring the blood as did the rest of the tribe in days of old at the great winter sacrifice. There was a strange emptiness after her. But the crows were still here. Flocks of them settled in the high bare lime tree and their croaking seemed like the voice of the grey November day. Now and then they flew for a moment down towards the steaming hot tripe as if to give a reminder of their ancient rights.

I-i-i-i! squeaked a pig again, and the crows rose for a moment as if from the pressure of the cry. But Peter kept near the corner of the cowshed the whole time; he came no nearer, and Brundin thought he was frightened:

“Come and help us. What kind of a country lad are you to be frightened of the killing?”

But the bailiff was mistaken. Peter was not at all frightened because the pigs were squeaking. He was only afraid that they were squeaking for Brundin’s benefit and not for his own and Selambshof’s. He stood anyhow sufficiently near to hear what was called out at the weighing machine, and if you looked carefully you could see that his lips moved the whole time. He stood there counting and muttering the figures in an undertone in order to get them to stick in his memory. For Peter had really a great deal in his memory. It was not the first time he had stood aside like this and counted and measured. But then he also knew to a nicety how much grain, potatoes, milk and butter had been driven into town during the whole autumn. What cunning, what tricks and pretences, what long patient watches had not been necessary to keep count of all this. No, Peter was not troubled for the pigs’ sakes. There was good reason to look out for Peter the Watch-dog nowadays. He no more looked as if he was afraid of a beating. And he had become bigger of body and deeper of voice.

Of course Peter was still afraid of Brundin. But his terror no longer rose up like a mountain in front of him. Brundin’s great and wonderful power had already been dealt the first blow. That was when the mighty Brundin had agreed without protest to Frida’s being dismissed. Peter had brooded for days over this. And as he pondered he observed that Brundin did not reach into the clouds. And his great fear shrank up exquisitely into a little heap of envy, anxiety and angry suspicion.

Peter did not go to his guardian, because it was he who had placed Brundin in authority. Perhaps he was even in league with the dangerous fellow. Imagine suspecting old Hermansson! Ignorance is either very credulous or very suspicious. In this case it was suspicious. And besides Peter the Watch-dog was one of those who prefer hunting alone.

The pig sticking was finished. The November day was silent and grey as before.

Peter was still standing on his stone by the corner of the cowshed. Round him the filth resembled a bog and Brundin came splashing through it. He no longer looked so good-tempered. His little fairy moustache curled contemptuously at the rain, the mud, the smell of manure, and the whole of the November atmosphere. He stopped just in front of Peter, rocking on his heels and reflecting:

“Yes, Anders, get the dog-cart ready. I am going to town after dinner after all.”

Peter started. Brundin going into town! Here was an opportunity. He leaped after the bailiff through the mud. Outside the bailiff’s quarters he even sidled up to the object of his fear. And he was still like a great mountain when you came near him—a high mountain with mocking superior airs.

“I just wanted to come in and glance at the map for a moment,” muttered Peter.

Brundin hummed a little tune and good-humouredly led the boy into the office which lay to the right of the entrance hall in the bailiff’s wing.

Now Peter was actually in the lion’s den. The yellow cracked old plan of Selambshof hung over the sofa. For a long while Peter was tremendously interested in it. Then he began to glance round to right and left, and make strange trampling movements to and fro like a bear on a hot plate. Indeed he was not exactly beautiful to look at, but deserved perhaps a certain admiration. As a matter of fact he required a great deal of self-control to remain in Brundin’s room.

Peter looked for the accounts books of the estate. From outside he had often stolen a glance at them where they were lying on the writing desk. But now they were not there. They could not be anywhere else but in the big brown cupboard between the windows.

The key was in the lock.

Peter sat down on the sofa and turned over the pages of a price list. Brundin lit his pipe, looked over his papers and did not seem to be in a hurry. Peter perspired more and more.

At last the bailiff had to leave the room for a moment. Instantly Peter jumped up and took the key out of the cupboard. And he did more than that—he lifted off the hooks of one window, both the inner and the outer—Then another idea seized him: he took up another key from amongst the rubbish on the writing desk and pushed it into the keyhole of the cupboard so that nothing should be noticed. He was no fool.

Now the cracked old dinner gong sounded and with his booty in his damp hands, Peter stole out of the lion’s den.

After dinner came the first disappointment. The dog-cart was never brought out, for Brundin received some Saturday-guests and put off his journey to town until Sunday. Peter had got to wait—a difficult task. He could not stay at home. He felt so brittle and queer from the strain that he scarcely dared to put his foot down on the ground and still he had to go on walking and walking. Now he had already reached town and once there he of course made for the hay market. Shivering, and with a queer trembling in the pit of his stomach he stood in the Saturday crush, amidst sacks of potatoes and sides of beef, staring at a big sign on a low yellow house with a tiled roof:

It was not the first time Peter had stood there spying. He felt a need, as it were, to assure himself all the time that the shop was still there. A fat old man usually stood in the doorway with his thumbs stuck in the armholes of his waistcoat. He was Brundin’s brother. He knew him from the crayfish party. Most of the produce of Selambshof went to him. And Peter had an intuition that here lay the solution of some of the problems that worried him.

Just fancy if only he could send in a policeman to take a big bag of money from that fat old rascal! Slowly Peter the Watch-dog sauntered homewards in the dark and raw November night.

He awoke very early on Sunday morning. First he examined the office window. Yes, the hooks were still unfastened. Then he might just slip down to the outhouses for a little. There had been frost during the night and there were a few light snowflakes in the air. Peter crept into the barn through a broken shutter. On the ground floor the pig carcases gleamed with a pale light in the deep twilight. He touched the hard cold fat. He felt how the pigs hung helpless there. And once more he had a frantic sense of his duty to defend them against Brundin. He promised them that they had not died in vain.

Then Peter climbed to the next floor. Here the grain lay about in big heaps on the floor. He sat down and let the wheat run through his fingers. Usually it is pleasant to sit in a granary and let the cool, round, fragrant grains of corn run softly through the fingers. It makes one think of summer and sunshine and the wide green fields.

But Peter, poor boy, had no such spacious feelings of the prospective farmer. Everything had been spoilt for him by Brundin. The gifts of the soil were poisoned for him by a premature greedy anxiety.

At breakfast Peter was very silent. He did not fight with his brothers and sisters, but of his own free will sat down next to his father, even though it was not his turn. Today was a great day and he tried to propitiate the Gods by this sacrifice. You must neglect nothing if you would succeed. He also stole to Church afterwards in order to be quite on the safe side. Straight as a poker he sat there trying to be really attentive, though of course he only listened to his own thoughts. Peter had a long intimate conversation with his God. And what kind of God had Peter the Watch-dog? He was related to his sister Hedvig’s God. Both had grown out of a common parentage. Old Kristin’s servants’ God. Both had drawn their nourishment from the terrors of those years of helplessness. But, whilst Hedvig’s God had been reared on the fear of desire and of sex, Peter’s God was from the first an economic potentate, who severely punished torn clothes and broken money-boxes, and he had gradually developed into a protector of the rights of property with the more specific function of making the bailiff of Selambshof smart. But Peter was afraid that God might not have had time to consider the matter properly and therefore he gave him in all humility a number of delicate little hints as to the most suitable way of dealing with Brundin.

Yes! such was Peter Selamb’s communion with God on this day of great expectations—which, however, became a day of disappointment.

At last evening came. The bailiff had already driven off to town and the yard was in darkness. Then Peter crept out in order to steal back Selambshof from Brundin. If only he could get a glance at that armful of big blue books all would be clear. His house-breaking was quite successful, the windows opened, as did also the door of the cupboard and in there he felt the books side by side. With the precious burden in his arms Peter stole up the dark stairs to the Observatory. He locked the door carefully, lit a piece of candle and sank down trembling with expectation at the table and began to examine the books.

And then he made a terrible discovery. He understood nothing, absolutely nothing of this system of figures and lines. “Debit,” “credit,” “carried forward,” etc., stood there. What it all meant he could not make out. The name Axel Brundin & Co. he found everywhere in the books. It stared out at him with ever-increasing mystery. It was not at all the straightforward way that Peter had imagined in connection with sacks of flour and barrels of potatoes. He found nothing to hold fast to. At last his head swam. He could not master Brundin’s row of figures.

Peter struck his forehead against the table, cursing and sobbing. This was a terrible defeat. Hopeless, miserable, stiff with cold, he stole down from the icy Observatory and put the books back in the cupboard without having succeeded in stealing a single one of the bailiff’s secrets.

That night chronicled a grievous relapse into the old sense of impotence. Peter lay again in a besieged fortress. And the Giant pursued him through a cycle of gruesome dreams. Amongst other things the “Dreadful One” ate six recently slaughtered pigs in a trice, whilst Frida stood stark naked before him and stirred a pail containing Peter’s blood.

But in spite of all this the old days were over. Peter the Watch-dog 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 book-keeper, 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 book-keeping, 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 Watch-dog 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 grown-ups, 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 for ever. 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 tree stood Hedvig. She had come straight home when she heard of the scandal. There she stood pale and stiff and motionless and watched Brundin’s furniture being carried out. God only knows what she thought and felt. Perhaps it was a feeling of dismal deliverance.

Now the sledge with its load of furniture slipped towards the town crunching through the half-melted snow mixed with sand—a bad surface for sledging. Brundin had not even put his head outside the door but now he had to get out. Crestfallen, grey, with downcast eyes, he came out with a dining-room clock under his arm. Hedvig only stared at him. His eyes met hers for a moment when he was getting into the sledge. He bowed awkwardly and then the spring of the clock made a noise as if it had been broken. Hedvig did not bend her head, did not return his greeting. She stood there like a graven image and there was something of a rigid dark triumph in her expression.

But when Brundin disappeared down the avenue she stole into his empty house and with a face suddenly grey with the hunger of love she rubbed it against the empty walls.

But Peter stood down at the corner of the avenue. He had relapsed into his old habit of going somewhere alone to meditate. He wondered how it was that Brundin was not put into prison. Fancy if it was because old Hermansson did not dare to bring Brundin into Court. What was it Kristin used to say: “It’s a pity for those children who have to have a guardian,” she used to say. Well, Peter did not exactly believe that old Hermansson had cheated them. But he had all the same a vague feeling that the matter ought not to be forgotten.

The distrust we learn during the years when we have a right to be trustful easily becomes a dangerous weapon.

It was now a little later in the spring. A new bailiff of proved honesty had been appointed and Peter was sent to an elementary Agricultural School in the Upland plain.

He did not like being there. The other pupils seemed to him dull, the soil unfavourable. The Brundin case was still fermenting within him. He longed to be home. There are many kinds of homesickness, and one of them is of a kind not suitable for poetry.

Let us now look at our friend Peter during the spring ploughing. The pupils were standing in a bunch out on the clay and each one had to plough a plot with the new American steel plough.

“Press harder on the right guide. Not too shallow and not too deep. Look at the horses. The furrows must be straight as a die.”

Thus said the teacher. Peter was the last. He stood there changing feet and thinking that he would take root in the clay. At last it was his turn. He called to the horses and the furrow was started. It was a still April day with big white clouds in the sky. The horses’ sides and the newly turned clay soil shone in the sun. Down in a hollow hung a blue mist and further away a wood of budding birches shimmered like a purple-brown cloud. But Peter neither saw nor felt anything of all that. Nor did he enjoy seeing how finely the ploughshare cut through and turned up the frozen soil. He had no desire just to add furrow to furrow in the ploughed field. He only thought it was heavy, tiresome, lost labour. And all the same he looked like a peasant with his coarse features and his heavy awkward carriage, which he had probably inherited from his mother’s side. But a poison had entered into the peasant’s body. It was the infection of the town—the town that had begun to creep nearer and nearer Selambshof. It was anxiety to turn everything into money. If only he were back at Selambshof, he thought. But he did not long for the house or the trees. He longed to sneak about, and spy and struggle for possession of the money that he already scented. To go about here ploughing soil that was not even his own made him sick. He had already developed the habit of looking at everything from the point of view of ownership. You cannot take any interest in a thing for itself. No, nothing exists in itself but only as “mine” or “yours,” principally “mine.” To whom did this field belong? To the County? That is the same thing as nobody. That was empty, strange, and simply repellent, thought Peter. He had already begun to fear common interests and common institutions. They constituted a kind of silent affront to his selfishness.

Then Peter came slowly back on the return and moved alongside his first furrow. It did not look very straight. He was reproved by his instructor—he heard the mumbling and suppressed laughter of his fellow students. What stupid country bumpkins they were with their lazy self-confidence. Their rustic self-importance about spray-drains and dung-wells irritated him. What experience of life had they had? It would do them good to get caught in the snares of somebody like Brundin and to be really, thoroughly cheated for once. And then he began to think of that old story again. There was something strangely fascinating in thinking of Brundin’s tricks and wheezes. Of course he disapproved of it all. But he could not help thinking of it, all the same. “So that is what they call business,” thought Peter. “That is the way to get rich.” He felt a strange disquietude, one moment he was hot and the next cold. “I shall never allow anybody to cheat me,” he thought. “But how can you really make sure? The only way is, of course, to go to meet one’s enemy and forestall him. You must practise deception, not much, of course, but sufficient to prevent him from deceiving you.”

Peter had now done his allotted share of the ploughing. He stopped the horses and wiped his brow.

“You are not ploughing deep enough, or straight enough. This is not a surface-plough. You ought to get down to the subsoil all the way. What sort of a growth do you expect to get here?”

“I don’t care a damn,” thought Peter.

Then the Farm gong sounded and they moved homewards along the wet road. Peter jogged beside the horses with half-closed eyes. He was dreaming of Selambshof in figures. He had seen them,—when he pried into the books of the estate. There were rents for land and houses, for fishing rights, and quarries, for cartage and for the produce of the estate. Enormous sums in his eyes. “I shall control all that money,” he thought. “I shall be bailiff, and I shall have my reward, because I saved the estate from Brundin. No, don’t imagine that I can be kept out of all that.”

Peter breathed heavily. He felt a queer sucking sensation in his stomach. Fancy if it should all be his. Fancy if one day he should become rich, rich! No, he no longer had only fear and worries—certain timid, trembling voluptuous desires contracted his throat.

Is it then to be wondered at that Peter Selamb did not plough deep enough in the alien and unsympathetic Upland clay?

These were the days of his betrothal to wealth.