“Pelle, you devil’s imp,” he said, as he came home, “I’ve been running from Herod to Pilate, and I’ve arranged matters so that you can get off if you will ask for pardon. You must go to the grammar- school about one o’clock. But think it over first, as to what you are going to say, because the whole class will hear it.”
“I won’t ask for pardon.” It sounded like a cry.
The master looked at Pelle hesitatingly. “But that is no disgrace— if one has done wrong.”
“I have not done wrong. They began it, and they have been making game of me for a long time.”
“But you thrashed him, Pelle, and one mustn’t thrash fine folks like that; they have got a doctor’s certificate that might be your ruin. Is your father a friend of the magistrate’s? They can dishonor you for the rest of your life. I think you ought to choose the lesser evil.”
No, Pelle could not do that. “So let them flog me instead!” he said morosely.
“Then it will be about three o’clock at the town hall,” said the master, shortly, and he turned red about the eyes.
Suddenly Pelle felt how obstinacy must pain the young master, who, lame and sick as he was, had of his own accord gone running about the town for him. “Yes, I’ll do it!” he said; “I’ll do it!”
“Yes, yes!” replied Master Andres quietly; “for your own sake as well. And I believe you ought to be getting ready now.”
Pelle slunk away; it was not his intention to apologize, and he had plenty of time. He walked as though asleep; everything was dead within him. His thoughts were busy with all sorts of indifferent matters, as though he sought to delay something by chattering; Crazy Anker went by with his bag of sand on his back, his thin legs wobbling under him. “I will help him to carry it,” thought Pelle dejectedly, as he went onward; “I will help him to carry it.”