Klausen will gladly make one of the company; in the eyes of all those present this proposal is a dream which will once more raise the craft to its proper level; will perhaps improve it until the little town can compete with Copenhagen. “How many medals have you really received?” says Jeppe, as he stands there with a great framed diploma in his hand. Garibaldi shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know, old master; one gets old, and one’s hand gets unsteady. But what is this? Has Master Jeppe got the silver medal?”
Jeppe laughs. “For this I have to thank a tramp by the name of Garibaldi. He was here four years ago and won the silver medal for me!” Well—that is a thing Garibaldi has long forgotten! But medals are scattered about wherever he has been.
“Yes, there are a hundred masters knocking about who boast of their distinctions: first-class workshop—you can see it for yourself— ‘a silver medal.’ But who did the work? Who got his day’s wages and an extra drop of drink and then—good-bye, Garibaldi! What has one to show for it, master? There are plenty of trees a man can change his clothes behind—but the shirt?” For a moment he seems dejected. “Lorrain in Paris gave me two hundred francs for the golden medal I won for him; but otherwise it was always—Look in my waistcoat pocket! or—I’ve an old pair of trousers for you, Garibaldi! But now there’s an end to that, I tell you; Garibaldi has done with bringing water to the mill for the rich townsfolk; for now he’s a sosherlist!” He strikes the table so that the glass scrapers jingle. “That last was Franz in Cologne—gent’s boots with cork socks. He was a stingy fellow; he annoyed Garibaldi. I’m afraid this isn’t enough for the medal, master, I said; there’s too much unrest in the air. Then he bid me more and yet more—but it won’t run to the medal—that’s all I will say. At last he sends Madame to me with coffee and Vienna bread—and she was in other respects a lady, who drove with a lackey on the box. But we were furious by that time! Well, it was a glorious distinction—to please Madame.”
“Had he many journeymen?” asks Jeppe.
“Oh, quite thirty or forty.”
“Then he must have been somebody.” Jeppe speaks in a reproving tone.
“Somebody—yes—he was a rascal! What did it matter to me that he had a lot of journeymen? I didn’t cheat them out of their wages!”
Now Garibaldi is annoyed; he takes off his apron, puts his hat on sideways, and he goes into the town.
“Now he’s going to look for a sweetheart!” says the young master; “he has a sweetheart in every town.”
At eight he comes sailing into the workshop again. “What, still sitting here?” he says to the apprentices. “In other parts of the world they have knocked off work two hours ago. What sort of slaves are you to sit crouching here for fourteen hours? Strike, damn it all!”