But the boy was not to be persuaded; he was jealous for his father’s honor. Whenever Lasse touched upon the subject he became strangely sullen. Lasse pretended it was Madam Olsen’s idea, and not his.
“I’m not particularly in favor of it, either,” he said. “People are sure to believe the worst at once. But we can’t go on here wearing ourselves to a thread for nothing. And you can’t breathe freely on this farm—always tied!”
Pelle made no answer to this; he was not strong in reasons, but knew what he wanted.
“If I ran away from here one night, I guess you’d come trotting after me.”
Pelle maintained a refractory silence.
“I think I’ll do it, for this isn’t to be borne. Now you’ve got to have new school-trousers, and where are they coming from?”
“Well, then, do it! Then you’ll do what you say.”
“It’s easy for you to pooh-pooh everything,” said Lasse despondingly, “for you’ve time and years before you. But I’m beginning to get old, and I’ve no one to trouble about me.”
“Why, don’t I help you with everything?” asked Pelle reproachfully.
“Yes, yes, of course you do your very best to make things easier for me, and no one could say you didn’t. But, you see—there are certain things you don’t—there’s something—” Lasse came to a standstill. What was the use of explaining the longings of a man to a boy? “You shouldn’t be so obstinate, you know!” And Lasse stroked the boy’s arm imploringly.