d more mysterious. They
understood his care with the skins, these could be sold; but what
did he want with the guts and all the flesh he cut up? That evening
he lit the fire underneath the boiler, and he worked the whole
night, filling the place with a disgusting smell of bones, meat and
guts being cooked.

"He must be making soap," thought Lars Peter, "or cart grease."

The more he thought of it the less he liked the whole proceeding,
and wished that he had let his brother go as he had come. But he
could do nothing now, but let him go on.

Johannes asked no one to help him; he kept the door of the outhouse
carefully closed and did his work with great secrecy. He was cooking
the whole night, and the next morning at breakfast he ordered the
children not to say a word of what he had been doing. During the
morning he disappeared and returned with a mincing-machine, he took
the block too into the outhouse. He came to his meals covered with
blood, fat and scraps of meat. He looked dreadful and smelled even
worse. But he certainly worked hard; he did not even allow himself
time to sleep.

Late in the afternoon he opened the door of the outhouse wide: the
work was done.

"Here you are, come and look!" he shouted. From a stick under the
ceiling hung a long row of sausages, beautiful to look at, bright
and freshly colored; no-one would guess what they were made of. On
the big washing-board lay meat, cut into neat joints and bright red
in color--this was the best part of the horse. And there was a big
pail of fat, which had not quite stiffened. "That's grease," said
Johannes, stirring it, "but as a matter of fact it's quite nice for
dripping. Looks quite tasty, eh?"

"It shan't come into our kitchen," said Ditte, making a face at the
things.

"You needn't be afraid, my girl; sausage-makers never eat their own
meat," answered Johannes.

"What are you going to do with it now?" asked Lars Peter, evidently
knowing what the answer would be.

"Sell it, of course!" Johannes showed his white teeth, as he took a
sausage. "Just feel how firm and round it is."

"If you think you can sell them here, you're very much mistaken. You
don't know the folks in these parts."

"Here? of course not! Drive over to the other side of the lake where
no-one knows me, or what they're made of. We often used to make
these at my old place. All the bad stuff we bought in one county, we
sold in another. No-one ever found us out. Simple enough, is