faint reminiscence of something that we, as young men, had read about in
physics, and which, I believe, we called the co-efficient of expansion.

For, when we looked at the deep incision made by his strong belt,
before, behind and at the sides, we involuntarily received the
impression that such a co-efficient, with an extraordinarily strong
tendency to expand, was present in Frode Hansen's stomach.

And people who met him, especially when he heaved one of his deep, beery
sighs, nervously stepped to one side. For if the co-efficient in there
should ever happen to get the better of the strong belt, the pieces, and
particularly the front buckle, would fly around with a force sufficient
to break plate-glass windows.

In other respects, Frode Hansen was not very dangerous of approach. He
was even looked upon as one of the most harmless of police-constables;
he very rarely reported a case of any kind. All the same, he stood well
with his superiors, for when anything was reported by others, no matter
what, if they only asked Frode Hansen, he could always make some
interesting disclosure or other about it.

In this way the world went well with him; he was almost esteemed in
Aabenraa and down Vognmagergade. Yes, even Mam Hansen sometimes found
means to stand him a half of lager beer.

And she had certainly little to give away. Poverty-stricken and
besotted, she had enough to do to struggle along with her two children.

Not that Mam Hansen worked or tried to work herself forward or upward;
if she could only manage to pay her rent and have a little left over for
coffee and brandy, she was content. Beyond this she had no illusions.

In reality, the general opinion--even in Aabenraa--was that Mam Hansen
was a beast; and, when she was asked if she were a widow, she would
answer: 'Well, you see, that's not so easy to know.'

The daughter was about fifteen and the son a couple of years younger.
About these, too, the public opinion of Aabenraa and district had it
that a worse pair of youngsters had seldom grown up in those parts.

Waldemar was a little, pale, dark-eyed fellow, slippery as an eel, full
of mischief and cunning, with a face of indiarubber, which in one second
could change its expression from the boldest effrontery to the most
sheepish innocence.

Nor was there anything good to say about Thyra, except that she gave
promise of becoming a pretty girl. But all sorts of ugly stories were
already told about her, and