But the next thing either of them knew, Ove’s father was standing between them.
Tom’s furious, hateful eyes met his for an instant, but Ove’s father stood where he stood.
And at last Tom lowered his fist and took a watchful step back.
“Finders keepers, it’s always been like that,” he growled, pointing at the wallet.
“That’s up to the person who finds it,” said Ove’s father without looking away.
Tom’s eyes had turned black. But he retreated another step, still clutching the briefcase in his hands.
Tom had worked many years at the railway, but Ove had never heard any of his father’s colleagues say one good word about Tom.
He was dishonest and malicious, that was what they said after a couple of bottles of pilsner at their parties.
But he’d never heard it from his dad. “Four children and a sick wife,” was all he used to say to his workmates, looking each of them in the eye.
“Better men than Tom could have ended up worse for it.” And then his workmates usually changed the subject.
His father pointed to the wallet in Ove’s hand. “You decide,” he said.
Ove determinedly fixed his gaze on the ground, feeling Tom’s eyes burning holes into the top of his head.
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