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had been sent by the Devil, and at night, when everyone
was sleeping, Tóvó was going to set fire to every chicken in
town.
His father was astonished at the strength of his son’s
reaction. He had never seen Tóvó stand there and stomp
and shake his fists. The boy was only six, but the way he was
carrying on, he resembled a raging dwarf. Tóvó put his arms
around Mogul’s neck and said that he would never let go.
For a moment, Martimann considered the situation. He
knew how much the boy loved the dog, and if he shot it, his
son would undoubtedly see him as an enemy for a long time
to come.
He could take fru Løbner some fish in exchange for the
mauled hen, she would probably accept that. And it was
such a sweet picture: Tóvó sobbing with his arms around
Mogul’s neck, while the dog sat inquiringly on its hind legs.
Martimann loosened the rope, but to show that he still had
some authority, he gave the dog a kick that sent it spinning
across the yard.
Tóvó continued to cry. He hated his father. Hoped a whale
would bite his arm off, or that a stone would come flying
through the air and strike him right between the eyes.