Jeppe came to fetch Pelle. “Now you’ll go to the Town Hall and get a thrashing,” he said, as they entered the workshop. Pelle turned an ashen gray.
“What have you been doing now?” asked Master Andres, looking sadly at him.
“Yes, and to one of our customers, too!” said Jeppe. “You’ve deserved that, haven’t you?”
“Can’t father get him let off the beating?” said Master Andres.
“I have proposed that Pelle should have a good flogging here in the workshop, in the presence of the deputy and his son. But the deputy says no. He wants justice to run its course.”
Pelle collapsed. He knew what it meant when a poor boy went to the town hall and was branded for life. His brain sought desperately for some way of escape. There was only one—death! He could secretly hide the knee-strap under his blouse and go into the little house and hang himself. He was conscious of a monotonous din; that was Jeppe, admonishing him; but the words escaped him; his soul had already began its journey toward death. As the noise ceased he rose silently.
“Well? What are you going out for?” asked Jeppe.
“I’m going to the yard.” He spoke like a sleepwalker.
“Perhaps you want to take the knee-strap out with you?”
Jeppe and the master exchanged a look of understanding. Then Master Andres came over to him. “You wouldn’t be so silly?” he said, and looked deep into Pelle’s eyes. Then he made himself tidy and went into the town.