“Peter’s crying,” said those nearest.
“Oh-o!” said Fris, peering over his spectacles. “What’s the matter now?”
“He says he can’t remember what twice two is.”
Fris forced the air through his nostrils and seized the cane, but thought better of it. “Twice two’s five!” he said quietly, at which there was a laugh at Peter’s expense, and work went on again.
For some time they worked diligently, and then Nilen rose. Fris saw it, but went on reading.
“Which is the lightest, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead? I can’t find it in the answers.”
Fris’s hands trembled as he held the paper up close to his face to see something or other better. It was his mediocrity as a teacher of arithmetic that the imps were always aiming at, but he would not be drawn into a discussion with them. Nilen repeated his question, while the others tittered; but Fris did not hear—he was too deep in his paper. So the whole thing dropped.
Fris looked at his watch; he could soon give them a quarter of an hour’s play, a good long quarter of an hour. Then there would only be one little hour’s worry left, and that school-day could be laid by as another trouble got through.
Pelle stood up in his place in the middle of the class. He had some trouble to keep his face in the proper folds, and had to pretend that his neighbors were disturbing him. At last he got out what he wanted to say, but his ears were a little red at the tips. “If a pound of flour costs twelve öres, what will half a quarter of coal cost?”
Fris sat for a little while and looked irresolutely at Pelle. It always hurt him more when Pelle was naughty than when it was one of the others, for he had an affection for the boy. “Very well!” he said bitterly, coming slowly down with the thick cane in his hand. “Very well!”