But now came Big Rolandsen up along the road, walking with a soft, gliding step, and his eyes staring stiffly. He was on his usual round. He greeted the _Lensmand_, and stopped. “Here’s Rolandsen,” cried Ulrik. “Ho, boys, look at him!” “He’s dangerous,” said the _Lensmand_. “He’s drawn blood from one already. We shall have to rope him.” “Rope him?” The _Lensmand_ nodded. “Yes. I won’t stand any more of this.” “Nonsense,” said Rolandsen. “What do you want with a rope? You leave me to tackle him.” Ulrik stepped closer, made pretence to lift his hand in greeting, and gave Rolandsen a slight blow. He felt, no doubt, that he had struck something firm and solid, for he drew back, but kept on shouting defiantly, “_Goddag_, Telegraph-Rolandsen! And there’s your name and titles for all to hear.” After that, it seemed as if nothing would happen. Rolandsen was not inclined to let slip the chance of a fight, and it annoyed him that he was so miserably slow to anger, and had not returned the first blow. He had to begin now by answering the other’s taunts, in order to keep matters going. They fooled about a little, talking drunken-fashion, and each boasting of what he would do to the other. When one invited the other to come on, and he would give him a dose of olive oil enough to last him, etcetera, the other answered, right, he would come on sure enough as soon as anyone else did, and provide sufficient laying on of hands by return. And the crowd around them found these interchanges creditable to both sides. But the _Lensmand_, watching, could see how wrath was growing and flourishing up in Rolandsen’s mind; Rolandsen was smiling all the time as he talked. Then Ulrik flicked him under the nose, and at that Rolandsen was in the proper mood at once; he shot out one swift hand and gripped the other’s coat. But the stuff gave way, and there was nothing very grand in ripping up a duffle jacket. Rolandsen made a spring forward, showing his teeth in a satisfied grimace. And then things began to happen. Ulrik tried a _Skalle_, and Rolandsen was thenceforward aware of his opponent’s speciality. But Rolandsen was past-master in another effective method--the long, swinging, flat-handed cut delivered edgeways at the jawbone; the blow should fall just on the side of the chin. A blow of this sort shakes up a man most adequately; his head whirls, and down he comes with a crash. It breaks no bones, and draws no blood save for a tiny trickle from the nose and mouth. The stricken one is in no hurry to move. Suddenly Big Ulrik has it, and down he comes, staggering and falling beyond the edge of the road. His legs tangled crosswise under him and collapsed as if dead; faintness overpowered him. And Rolandsen was well enough up in the slang of the brawl. “Now for the next,” he said at once. He seemed thoroughly pleased with himself, and never heeded that his shirt was torn open at the throat.