Sort rose quickly. “Good! So you’ve still thoughts for other things than killing bloodsuckers! How far is it, then, to Heath Farm?”
“A good six miles.”
“We’ll go straight there. I’ve no wish to begin anything to-day.”
They packed their possessions on their backs and trudged onward in cheerful gossip. Sort pictured their arrival to Pelle. “I shall go in first and ask whether they’ve any old boots or harness that we can mend; and then you’ll come in, while we’re in the middle of a conversation.”
Pelle laughed. “Shan’t I carry the bench for you? I can very well strap it on the other things.”
“You shan’t sweat for me as well as yourself!” rejoined Sort, laughing. “You’d want to take off even your trousers then.”
They had chattered enough, and tramped on in silence. Pelle stepped forward carelessly, drinking in the fresh air. He was conscious of a superfluity of strength and well-being; otherwise he thought of nothing, but merely rejoiced unconsciously over his visit to his home. At every moment he had to moderate his steps, so that Sort should not be left behind.
“What are you really thinking about now?” he asked suddenly. He would always have it that Sort was thinking of something the moment he fell silent. One could never know beforehand in what region he would crop up next.
“That’s just what the children ask!” replied Sort, laughing. “They always want to know what’s inside.”
“Tell me, then—you might as well tell me!”