The girls laughed. “Oh, nonsense! Tell us what it really is!” exclaimed another.
“A quarter to the miller’s girl,” answered Anders.
“Oh, what fools you are! Can’t you answer properly? You, Karl Johan!”
“It’s short!” said Karl Johan gravely.
“No, seriously now, I’ll tell you what it is,” exclaimed Mons innocently, drawing a great “turnip” out of his pocket. “It’s—” he looked carefully at the watch, and moved his lips as if calculating. “The deuce!” he exclaimed, bringing down his hand in amazement on the fence. “Why, it’s exactly the same time as it was this time yesterday.”
The jest was an old one, but the women screamed with laughter; for Mons was the jester.
“Never mind about the time,” said the bailiff, coming up. “But try and get through your work.”
“No, time’s for tailors and shoemakers, not for honest people!” said Anders in an undertone.
The bailiff turned upon him as quick as a cat, and Anders’ arm darted up above his head bent as if to ward off a blow. The bailiff merely expectorated with a scornful smile, and began his pacing up and down afresh, and Anders stood there, red to the roots of his hair, and not knowing what to do with his eyes. He scratched the back of his head once or twice, but that could not explain away that strange movement of his arm. The others were laughing at him, so he hitched up his trousers and sauntered down toward the men’s rooms, while the women screamed with laughter, and the men laid their heads upon the fence and shook with merriment.
So the day passed, with endless ill-natured jesting and spitefulness. In the evening the men wandered out to indulge in horse-play on the high-road and annoy the passersby. Lasse and Pelle were tired, and went early to bed.