“You’d better let me chatter, Pelle—else I shall go running in and gossiping with strangers. Old chatterbox that I am, I go fidgeting round here, and I’ve no one I can trust; and I daren’t even talk to myself! Then that Pipman hears it all through the wooden partition; it’s almost more than I can bear, and I tremble lest my toothless old mouth should get him into trouble!”
“Well, then, tell it me!” said Pelle, laughing. “But you mustn’t speak loud.”
“He’s been here again!” she whispered, beaming. “This morning, when I got up, there was money for me in the kitchen. Do you know where he had put it? In the sink! He’s such a sensible lad! He must have come creeping over the roofs—otherwise I can’t think how he does it, they are looking for him so. But you must admit that—he’s a good lad!”
“If only you can keep quiet about it!” said Pelle anxiously. She was so proud of her son!
“M—m!” she said, tapping her shrunken lips. “No need to tell me that— and do you know what I’ve hit on, so that the bloodhounds shan’t wonder what I live on? I’m sewing canvas slippers.”
Then came little Marie with mop and bucket, and the old woman hobbled away.
It was a slack time now in Master Beck’s workshop, so Pelle was working mostly at home. He could order his hours himself now, and was able to use the day, when people were indoors, in looking up his fellow- craftsmen and winning them for the organization. This often cost him a lengthy argument, and he was proud of every man he was able to inscribe. He very quickly learned to classify all kinds of men, and he suited his procedure to the character of the man he was dealing with; one could threaten the waverers, while others had to be enticed or got into a good humor by chatting over the latest theories with them. This was good practice, and he accustomed himself to think rapidly, and to have his subject at his fingers’ ends. The feeling of mastery over his means continually increased in strength, and lent assurance to his bearing.
He had to make up for neglecting his work, and at such times he was doubly busy, rising early and sitting late at his bench.
He kept away from his neighbors on the third story; but when he heard Hanne’s light step on the planking over there, he used to peep furtively across the well. She went her way like a nun—straight to her work and straight home again, her eyes fixed on the ground. She never looked up at his window, or indeed anywhere. It was as though her nature had completed its airy flutterings, as though it now lay quietly growing.
It surprised him that he should now regard her with such strange and indifferent eyes, as though she had never been anything to him. And he gazed curiously into his own heart—no, there was nothing wrong with him. His appetite was good, and there was nothing whatever the matter with his heart. It must all have been a pleasant illusion, a mirage such as the traveller sees upon his way. Certainly she was beautiful; but he could not possibly see anything fairy-like about her. God only knew how he had allowed himself to be so entangled! It was a piece of luck that he hadn’t been caught—there was no future for Hanne.