They all looked up at once and put their heads together, whispering to each other. At last one of them went forward and began talking to the driver in an undertone; the excitement soon spread to the whole party. Slowly, and as if with anxious curiosity, they approached the sledge from both sides. Most of the men were short and strongly built, with broad smiling faces, their eyes glittering like fishes' scales in their red faces. Some waddled forward in big sea boots, others had wooden shoes and long white woollen stockings drawn up over the trousers far above the knees. Most of them wore big fur caps with flaps tied over the ears, and one had on a sou'wester.
The curate felt somewhat uneasy on suddenly seeing himself surrounded by a troup of inquisitive, staring people. Should he speak to them? They were evidently his parishioners. Then a tall black-bearded man stepped forward—a giant to look at among the others, and plainly the one who was accustomed to be spokesman. He drew a big mitten off his right hand with his strong white teeth, and said with a powerful voice:
"Beg pardon—we're villagers from Skibberup, and we hear you're the new curate—ye must e'en give us leave to bid ye welcome.—Welcome Pastor Hansted."
Then the others came quickly forward—and before the curate had time to collect himself, he saw himself encompassed by half a score of big
