Egholm and his God. Buchholtz Johannes
Johannes, the postman, was paralysed already by the unwonted tumult, and did not move. There were others in the hall, however, who seemed eager enough to respond to the invitation, seeing that Karlsen himself was to be responsible.
“You miserable traitor,” hissed Egholm, “give me back my tithes, give me my money, and I’ll go. But not before. Give me my four hundred kroner.”
“Turn him out, the wretch!”
“‘All is in the Father’s hand,
All things answer His command…’”
The Angel made a brave attempt to start the hymn, but the congregation appeared more interested in the conflict, and no one followed his lead.
“My money – give me my money, you thieves!”
“Pot calling the kettle black!” cried the Evangelist, with a sneer.
“Liar, slanderer, scoundrel!” roared Egholm, seeing in this last remark a reference to the manner of his dismissal from the railway service. And, beside himself with fury, he raised the heavy Bible to throw at Karlsen, when a diversion took place which drew off his attention and that of the audience.
A confused but violent noise came from the back of the hall, and then repeated shouts that rose above the din.
“You lanky black beast! You filthy devil! What about the seventh commandment? Yes; it’s you I mean, you filthy, incontinent swine! You evangelical hypocrite! What about Metha, eh? She’s lying there at home now and asking for you – for you!”
The words were plain and to the point; everyone in the hall stared in amazement at the backsliding photographer, who was standing on a bench and waving clenched fists in the air. It was evident that he had been drinking.
Then they turned to look at young Karlsen. His face was drawn awry.
Egholm was so moved at this unexpected reinforcement that the tears flowed down his cheeks. He found voice again and took up the cry.
“They’re a lot of criminals, all of them. Setting themselves up against God’s laws that I’ve discovered. I’ll have you up, that I will. Give me my money, my money!”
Young Karlsen lost his self-control. He sprang in long leaps down through the hall, and flung himself upon Egholm, thrusting his head forward like a bull about to charge.
“You shut yo’ jaw!” he cried, lapsing into his country dialect.
“Lauritz, be careful!” cried the Angel warningly. But it was too late. Finck came up to take part, and Egholm was borne towards the door, still shouting, and hanging on with arms and legs to the benches as he passed.
A little party of Brethren carried Meilby in similar fashion to the door. Serve him right, the sneak, always behindhand with his tithes…
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