Downstream by Sigfrid Siwertz — Read

There was a charity fête at the Athletic Ground. The quadrille on horseback and the bicycle race were over and now people thronged round the tombola and the stalls.

Stellan did not look up at the sky when he stepped out into the saddling yard. He did not give a thought to the balloon whose gigantic yellow silk bubble was already beginning to swell out and shimmer in the cool September sunshine. No, his looks searched anxiously amongst the scattered groups of spectators outside the ring of guard. And he suddenly muttered a half-suppressed oath at the sight of Peter who, furious and massive as a bull, bore down on him from his ambush. He awaited the attack in the most deserted spot he could find. And a certain weariness appeared in the hard lines of his mouth: