got sore worried, for little did he keep his temper in
hand. So some time after this, wayfaring men found the goslings strewn
about dead, and the home-geese broken-winged; and this was in autumn.
Asmund was mightily vexed hereat, and asked if Grettir had killed the
fowl: he sneered mockingly, and answered--

"Surely as winter comes, shall I
Twist the goslings' necks awry.
If in like case are the geese,
I have finished each of these."

"Thou shalt kill them no more," said Asmund.

"Well, <i>a friend should warn a friend of ill</i>," said Grettir.

"Another work shall be found for thee then," said Asmund.

"<i>More one knows the more one tries</i>," said Grettir; "and what
shall I do now?"

Asmund answered, "Thou shalt rub my back at the fire, as I have been
wont to have it done."

"Hot for the hand, truly," said Grettir; "but still a milksop's work."

Now Grettir went on with this work for a while; but autumn came on,
and Asmund became very fain of heat, and he spurs Grettir on to rub
his back briskly. Now, in those times there were wont to be large
fire-halls at the homesteads, wherein men sat at long fires in the
evenings; boards were set before the men there, and afterwards folk
slept out sideways from the fires; there also women worked at the wool
in the daytime. Now, one evening, when Grettir had to rub Asmund's
back, the old carle said,--

"Now thou wilt have to put away thy sloth, thou milk-sop."

Says Grettir, "<i>Ill is it to goad the foolhardy</i>."

Asmund answers, "Thou wilt ever be a good-for-nought."

Now Grettir sees where, in one of the seats stood wool-combs: one of
these he caught up, and let it go all down Asmund's back. He sprang
up, and was mad wroth thereat; and was going to smite Grettir with
his staff, but he ran off. Then came the housewife, and asked what was
this to-do betwixt them. Then Grettir answered by this ditty--

"This jewel-strewer, O ground of gold,
(His counsels I deem over bold),
On both these hands that trouble sow,
(Ah bitter pain) will burn me now;

Therefore with wool-comb's nails unshorn
Somewhat ring-strewer's back is torn:
The hook-clawed bird that wrought his wound,--
Lo, now I see it on the ground."

Hereupon was his mother sore vexed, that he should have taken to a
trick like this; she said he would never fail to be the most reckless
of men. All this nowise bettered matters between Asmund and Grettir.

Now, some time after th