"Why not? He'll be getting money for them. What's in this parcel? A velvet waistcoat! A beauty! I shall keep it for myself and then Olle can pawn mine. Collars and cuffs? Oh! paper! A pair of socks! Here, Olle, twopence halfpenny! Wrap them in the waistcoat! You can sell the empty bottles—I think the best thing would be to sell everything."
"Do you mean to say you are going to sell other people's belongings? Have you no sense of right and wrong?" interrupted Lundell again, hoping to gain possession of the parcel which had long tempted him, by means of persuasion.
"He'll get paid for it later on! But it isn't enough yet. We must take the sheets off the bed. Why not? We don't want any sheets! Here, Olle, cram them in!"
Olle very skilfully made a bag of one of the sheets and stuffed everything into it, while Lundell went on eagerly protesting.
When the parcel was made, Olle took it under his arm, buttoned his ragged coat so as to hide the absence of a waistcoat, and set out on his way to the town.
"He looks like a thief," said Sellén, watching him from the window with a sly smile. "I hope the police won't interfere with him! Hurry up, Olle!" he shouted after the retreating figure. "Buy six French rolls and two half-pints of beer if there's anything over after you've bought the paint."
Olle turned round and waved his hat with as much assurance as if he had the feast already safely in his pockets.
Lundell and Sellén were alone. Sellén was admiring his new velvet waistcoat for which Lundell had nursed a secret passion for a long time. He scraped his palette and cast envious glances at the lost glory. But it was something else he was trying to speak of; something else, which was very difficult to mention.
"I wish you'd look at my picture," he said at last. "What do you think of it, seriously?"
"Don't draw and slave at it so much! Paint! Where does the light come from? From the clothes, from the flesh! It's crazy! What do these people breathe? Colour! Turpentine! I see no air!"