Pelle was given fifty öre to spend on whatever he liked. Round the ground sat the poor women of the Heath at little stalls, from which they sold colored sugar-sticks, gingerbread and two-öre cigars. In the meantime he went from woman to woman, and bought of each for one or two öre.
Away under the trees stood blind Hoyer, who had come straight from Copenhagen with new ballads. There was a crowd round him. He played the tune upon his concertina, his little withered wife sang to it, and the whole crowd sang carefully with her. Those who had learnt the tunes went away singing, and others pushed forward into their place and put down their five-öre piece.
Lasse and Pelle stood on the edge of the crowd listening. There was no use in paying money before you knew what you would get for it; and anyhow the songs would be all over the island by to-morrow, and going gratis from mouth to mouth. “A Man of Eighty—a new and pleasant ballad about how things go when a decrepit old man takes a young wife!” shouted Hoyer in a hoarse voice, before the song began. Lasse didn’t care very much about that ballad; but then came a terribly sad one about the sailor George Semon, who took a most tender farewell of his sweetheart—
“And said, When here I once more stand,
We to the church will go hand in hand.”
But he never did come back, for the storm was over them for forty-five days, provisions ran short, and the girl’s lover went mad. He drew his knife upon the captain, and demanded to be taken home to his bride; and the captain shot him down. Then the others threw themselves upon the corpse, carried it to the galley, and made soup of it.
“The girl still waits for her own true love,
Away from the shore she will not move.
Poor maid, she’s hoping she still may wed,
And does not know that her lad is dead.”
“That’s beautiful,” said Lasse, rummaging in his purse for a five-öre. “You must try to learn that; you’ve got an ear for that sort of thing.” They pushed through the crowd right up to the musician, and began cautiously to sing too, while the girls all round were sniffing.
They wandered up and down among the trees, Lasse rather fidgety. There was a whole street of dancing-booths, tents with conjurers and panorama-men, and drinking-booths. The criers were perspiring, the refreshment sellers were walking up and down in front of their tents like greedy beasts of prey. Things had not got into full swing yet, for most of the people were still out and about seeing the sights, or amusing themselves in all seemliness, exerting themselves in trials of strength or slipping in and out of the conjurers’ tents. There was not a man unaccompanied by a woman. Many a one came to a stand at the refreshment-tents, but the woman pulled him past; then he would yawn and allow himself to be dragged up into a roundabout or a magic-lantern tent where the most beautiful pictures were shown of the way that cancer and other horrible things made havoc in people’s insides.
“These are just the things for the women,” said Lasse, breathing forth a sigh at haphazard after Madam Olsen. On a horse on Madvig’s roundabout sat Gustav with his arm round Bodil’s waist. “Hey, old man!” he cried, as they whizzed past, and flapped Lasse on the ear with his cap, which had the white side out. They were as radiant as the day and the sun, those two.
Pelle wanted to have a turn on a roundabout. “Then blest if I won’t have something too, that’ll make things go round!” said Lasse, and went in and had a “cuckoo”—coffee with brandy in it. “There are some people,” he said, when he came out again, “that can go from one tavern to another without its making any difference in their purse. It would be nice to try—only for a year. Hush!” Over by Max Alexander’s “Green House” stood Karna, quite alone and looking about her wistfully. Lasse drew Pelle round in a wide circle.