Little you know what sort of a home mine is: a bedridden wife, a crippled child
Stensgård.
Off with you! Do you think I want to be soiled with your squalor? What are your bedridden wives and deformed brats to me? If you stand in my way, if you dare so much as to obstruct a single one of my prospects, you shall be on the parish before the year's out!
Aslaksen.
I'll wait one day
Stensgård.
Ah, you're coming to your senses.
Aslaksen.
I shall announce to the subscribers in a handbill that in consequence of an indisposition contracted at the fête, the editor
Stensgård.
Yes, do so; I daresay, later on, we shall come to an understanding.
Aslaksen.
I trust we may.—Remember this, Mr. Stensgård: that paper is my one ewe lamb.
[Goes out by the back.
Lundestad.
[At the foremost garden door.] Ah, Mr. Stensgård!
Stensgård.
Ah, Mr. Lundestad!
