her. He had
spent his life in the country where people kept to themselves--where
he had often longed for society. It looked cosy--as seen from the
lonely Crow's Nest--people lived next door to each other; they could
give a helping hand occasionally and chat with each other. But what
pleasure had a man here? They toiled unwillingly, pushing
responsibilities and troubles on to others, getting only enough for
a meager meal from day to day and letting another man run off with
their profits. It was extraordinary how that crooked devil scraped
in everything with his long arms, without any one daring to protest.
He must have an enormous hold on them somehow.

Lars Peter did not think of rebelling again. When his anger rose he
had only to think of fisher-Jacob, who was daily before his eyes.
Every one knew how he had become the wreck he was. He had once owned
a big boat, and had hired men to work with him, so he thought it
unnecessary to submit to the inn-keeper. But the inn-keeper licked
him into shape. He refused to buy his fish, so that they had to sail
elsewhere with it, but this outlet he closed for them too. They
could buy no goods nor gear in the village--they were shunned like
lepers, no one dared help them. Then his partners turned against
him, blaming him for their ill-luck. He tried to sell up and moved
to another place, but the inn-keeper would not buy his possessions
and no-one else dared; he had to stay on--and learn to submit.
Although he owned a boat and gear, he had to hire it from the
inn-keeper. It told so heavily on him that he lost his reason; now
he muddled about looking for a magic word to fell the inn-keeper; at
times he went round with a gun, declaring he would shoot him. But
the inn-keeper only laughed.

Ditte talked a great deal with the women. They all agreed that the
inn-keeper had the evil eye. He was always in her mind; she went in
an everlasting dread of him. When she saw him on the downs she
almost screamed; Lars Peter tried to reason her out of it.

Little Povl came home from the beach one morning feeling ill. He was
sick, and his head ached, he was hot one moment and cold the next.
Ditte undressed him and put him to bed; then called her father, who
was asleep in the attic.

Lars Peter hurried down. He had been out at sea the whole night and
stumbled as he walked.

"Why, Povl, little man, got a tummy-ache?" asked he, putting his
hand on the boy's forehead. It throbbed, and was burning ho