Lasse’s words had the pleasant effect of caresses on Pelle; he was happy in it all, and was more of a child than his years would have indicated.
But one Saturday he came home from the parson’s altogether changed. He was as slow about everything as a dead herring, and did not go across to his dinner, but came straight in through the outer door, and threw himself face downward upon a bundle of hay.
“What’s the matter now?” asked Lasse, coming up to him. “Has any one been unkind to you?”
Pelle did not answer, but lay plucking at the hay. Lasse was going to turn his face up to him, but Pelle buried it in the hay. “Won’t you trust your own father? You know I’ve no other wish in the world but for your good!” Lasse’s voice was sad.
“I’m to be turned out of the confirmation-class,” Pelle managed to say, and then burrowed into the hay to keep back his tears.
“Oh, no, surely not!” Lasse began to tremble. “Whatever have you done?”
“I’ve half killed the parson’s son.”
“Oh, that’s about the worst thing you could have done—lift your hand against the parson’s son! I’m sure he must have deserved it, but—still you shouldn’t have done it. Unless he’s accused you of thieving, for no honest man need stand that from any one, not even the king himself.”
“He—he called you Madam Olsen’s concubine.” Pelle had some difficulty in getting this out.
Lasse’s mouth grew hard and he clenched his fists. “Oh, he did! Oh, did he! If I had him here, I’d kick his guts out, the young monkey! I hope you gave him something he’ll remember for a long time?”