Over in Staal Street there was a great uproar; an enormously fat woman was standing there quarrelling with two seamen. She was in her nightcap and petticoat, and Pelle knew her.
“That’s the Sow!” he began. “She’s a dreadful woman; up at Stone Farm——”
Smack! Little Nikas gave him such a box on the ear that he had to sit down on the woodcarver’s steps. “One, two, three, four— that’s it; now come on!” He counted ten steps forward and set off again. “But God help you if you don’t keep your distance!”
Pelle kept his distance religiously, but he instantly discovered that little Nikas, like old Jeppe, had too large a posterior. That certainly came of sitting too much—and it twisted one’s loins. He protruded his own buttocks as far as he could, smoothed down a crease in his jacket over his hips, raised himself elegantly upon the balls of his feet and marched proudly forward, one hand thrust into the breast of his coat. If the journeyman scratched himself, Pelle did the same—and he swayed his body in the same buoyant manner; his cheeks were burning, but he was highly pleased with himself.
Directly he was his own master he went the round of the country butchers, questioning them, in the hope of hearing some news of Lasse, but no one could tell him anything. He went from cart to cart, asking his questions. “Lasse Karlson?” said one. “Ah, he was cowherd up at Stone Farm!” Then he called to another, asking him about Lasse —the old cowherd at Stone Farm—and he again called to a third, and they all gathered about the carts, in order to talk the matter over. There were men here who travelled all over the island[[1]] in order to buy cattle; they knew everything and everybody, but they could tell him nothing of Lasse. “Then he’s not in the island,” said one, very decidedly. “You must get another father, my lad!”
[1] Bornholm
Pelle did not feel inclined for chaff, so he slipped away. Besides, he must go back and get to work; the young master, who was busily going from cart to cart, ordering meat, had called to him. They hung together like the halves of a pea-pod when it was a question of keeping the apprentices on the curb, although otherwise they were jealous enough of one another.
Bjerregrav’s crutch stood behind the door, and he himself sat in stiff funereal state by the window; he held a folded white handkerchief in his folded hands, and was diligently mopping his eyes.
“Was he perhaps a relation of yours?” said the young master slyly.
“No; but it is so sad for those who are left—a wife and children. There is always some one to mourn and regret the dead. Man’s life is a strange thing, Andres.”