"Joiner Eriksson!"
"That's me," said the latter, "and is this one of those gentlemen who want to put up for election? He doesn't look big enough for that."
"No, no," said Olle, "he's here for the newspaper."
"Which newspaper? There are so many different sorts. Perhaps he's come to make fun of us?"
"No, no, nothing of the sort," said Olle. "He's a friend, and he'll do all he can for you."
"I see! That alters the matter. But I don't trust those gentlemen; one of them lived with us, that is to say, we lived in the same house, in the White Mountains; he was the landlord's agent—Struve was the rascal's name."
There was a rap with the hammer. The chair was taken by an elderly man, Wheelwright Löfgren, alderman and holder of the medal Litteris et artibus. He had held many offices and acquired a great deal of dramatic routine. A certain venerability, capable of quelling storms and silencing noisy meetings, characterized him. His broad face, ornamented by side-whiskers and a pair of spectacles, was framed by a judge's wig.
The secretary who sat at his side was one of the supernumeraries of the great Board of Functionaries; he wore eye-glasses and expressed with a peasant's grin his dissatisfaction with everything that was said.
The front bench was filled by the most aristocratic members of the Union: officers, Government officials, wholesale merchants; they supported all loyal resolutions, and with their superior parliamentary skill voted against every attempt at reform.
The secretary read the minutes, which the front bench approved.