And now they were home again, Pelle too could not help thinking that it really was pleasant.
XXIII
On Sunday morning, between watering and midday feed, Lasse and Pelle ascended the high stone steps. They took off their wooden shoes in the passage, and stood and shook themselves outside the door of the office; their gray stocking-feet were full of chaff and earth. Lasse raised his hand to knock, but drew it back. “Have you wiped your nose properly?” he asked in a whisper, with a look of anxiety on his face. Pelle performed the operation once more, and gave a final polish with the sleeve of his blouse.
Lasse lifted his hand again; he looked greatly oppressed. “You might keep quiet then!” he said irritably to Pelle, who was standing as still as a mouse. Lasse’s knuckles were poised in the air two or three times before they fell upon the door; and then he stood with his forehead close to the panel and listened. “There’s no one there,” he whispered irresolutely.
“Just go in!” exclaimed Pelle. “We can’t stand here all day.”
“Then you can go first, if you think you know better how to behave!” said Lasse, offended.
Pelle quickly opened the door and went in. There was no one in the office, but the door was open into the drawing-room, and the sound of Kongstrup’s comfortable breathing came thence.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
“It’s Lasse and Pelle,” answered Lasse in a voice that did not sound altogether brave.
“Will you come in here?”