“She stopped crying when I took her the money,” said Pelle, when he came down again.
“That’s good. We sailors are dirty beasts; you know; we do our business into china and eat our butter out of the tarbucket; all the same, we—I tell you, I should have left the thing alone and used the money to have made a jolly night of it to-night….” He was suddenly silent; he chewed at his quid as though inwardly considering his difficult philosophy. “Damn it all, to-morrow we put to sea!” he cried suddenly.
They went out to Alleenberg and sat in the gardens. Pelle ordered beer. “I can very well stand a few pints when I meet a good pal,” he said, “but at other times I save like the devil. I’ve got to see about getting my old father over here; he’s living on charity at home.”
“So your father’s still living? I can see him still so plainly—he had a love-affair with Madam Olsen for some time, but then bo’sun Olsen came home unexpectedly; they thought he’d remain abroad.”
Pelle laughed. Much water had run into the sea since those days. Now he was no longer ashamed of Father Lasse’s foolish prank.
Light was gleaming from the booths in the garden. Young couples wandered about and had their fortunes told; they ventured themselves on the Wheel of Happiness, or had their portraits cut out by the silhouette artist. By the roundabout was a mingled whirl of cries and music and brightly colored petticoats. Now and again a tremendous outcry arose, curiously dreadful, over all other sounds, and from the concert-pavilion one heard the cracked, straining voices of one-time “stars.” Wretched little worldlings came breathlessly hurrying thither, pushing through the crowd, and disappeared into the pavilion, nodding familiarly to the man in the ticket-office window.
“It’s really quite jolly here,” said Per Kofod. “You have a damn good time of it on land!”
On the wide pathway under the trees apprentices, workmen, soldiers, and now and again a student, loitered up and down, to and fro, looking sideways at the servant-girls, who had stationed themselves on either side of the walk, standing there arm-in-arm, or forming little groups. Their eyes sent many a message before ever one of them stopped and ventured to speak. Perhaps the maiden turned away; if so, that was an end of the matter, and the youngster began the business all over again. Or perhaps she ran off with him to one of the closed arbors, where they drank coffee, or else to the roundabouts. Several of the young people were from Pelle’s home; and every time he heard the confident voices of the Bornholm girls Pelle’s heart stirred like a bird about to fly away.
Suddenly his troubles returned to his mind. “I really felt inclined, this evening, to have done with the whole thing…. Just look at those two, Per!” Two girls were standing arm-in-arm under a tree, quite close to their table. They were rocking to and fro together, and now and again they glanced at the two young men.
“Nothing there for me—that’s only for you land-lubbers,” said Per Kofod. “For look you now, they’re like so many little lambs whose ears you’ve got to tickle. And then it all comes back to you in the nights when you take the dog-watch alone; you’ve told her lies, or you promised to come back again when she undid her bodice…. And in the end there she is, planted, and goin’ to have a kid! It don’t do. A sailor ought to keep to the naughty girls.”