No, Rolandsen did not wait a minute; he knew his Jomfru van Loos, and had no doubt as to what she wanted. Rolandsen was not easily persuaded to anything he did not care about himself. A little way along the road he met a fisherman who had come out too late to be present at the arrival. This was Enok, a pious, inoffensive man, who always walked with downcast eyes and wore a kerchief tied round his head for earache. “You’re too late,” said Rolandsen as he passed. “Has he come?” “He has. I shook hands with him.” Rolandsen passed on, and called back over his shoulder, “Enok, mark what I say. _I envy that man his wife!_” Now saying a foolish and most improper thing like that to Enok was choosing the very man of all men. Enok would be sure to bring it about. Rolandsen walked farther and farther along by the wood, and came to the river. Here was the fish-glue factory, owned by Trader Mack; some girls were employed on the place, and it was Rolandsen’s way to chaff them as often as he passed. He was a very firebrand for that, and none could deny it. Moreover, he was in high spirits to-day, and stayed longer than usual. The girls saw at once that he was splendidly in drink. “You, Ragna, what d’you think it is makes me come up here every day?” says Rolandsen. “I don’t know, I’m sure,” says Ragna. “Oh, you think, of course, it’s old Mick.” The girls laughed at that. “Old Mick, ha, ha! Old Nick, he means.” “It’s for your salvation,” says Rolandsen. “You’d better take care of yourself with the fisher-lads about here; they’re a wicked lot.” “Wicked, indeed! And what about yourself, then?” says another girl. “With two children of your own already. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” “Ah, Nicoline, now how can you say such a thing? You’ve been a thorn in my heart and near the death of me for more than I can say, and that you know. But as for you, Ragna, I’m going to see you saved, and that without mercy.” “You go and talk to Jomfru van Loos,” says Ragna. “But you’ve desperate little sense,” Rolandsen went on. “Now those fish-heads, for instance. How long do you steam them before you screw down the valve?” “Two hours,” says Ragna. Rolandsen nods to himself. He had reckoned that up and worked it out before. Ho, that firebrand Rolandsen, he knew well enough what it was took him up to the factory every day, chaffing the girls and sniffing about all the time. “Don’t take that lid off, Pernille,” he cried suddenly. “Are you out of your senses, girl?” Pernille flushes red. “Frederik he said I was to stir it round,” she says. “Every time you lift the lid, some of the heat goes out,” says Rolandsen. But a moment later, when Frederik Mack, the trader’s son, came up, Rolandsen turned off into his usual jesting tone once more. “Wasn’t it you, Pernille, that was in service at the _Lensmand’s_ one year, and bullied the life out of everyone in the place? Smashing everything to bits in a rage--all barring the bedclothes, perhaps.”