“Yes, I should just think so—dead as a herring.” Rud had put his ear to the straw and listened.
“And now it must be up with God in all His glory—right high, high up.”
Rud sniffed contemptuously. “Oh, you silly! Do you think it can crawl up there?”
“Well, can’t mice crawl, I should like to know?” Pelle was cross.
“Yes; but not through the air. Only birds can do that.”
Pelle felt himself beaten off the field and wanted to be revenged.
“Then your grandmother isn’t in heaven, either!” he declared emphatically. There was still a little rancor in his heart from the young mouse episode.
But this was more than Rud could stand. It had touched his family pride, and he gave Pelle a dig in the side with his elbow. The next moment they were rolling in the grass, holding one another by the hair, and making awkward attempts to hit one another on the nose with their clenched fists. They turned over and over like one lump, now one uppermost, now the other; they hissed hoarsely, groaned and made tremendous exertions. “I’ll make you sneeze red,” said Pelle angrily, as he rose above his adversary; but the next moment he was down again, with Rud hanging over him and uttering the most fearful threats about black eyes and seeing stars. Their voices were thick with passion.
And suddenly they were sitting opposite one another on the grass wondering whether they should set up a howl. Rud put out his tongue, Pelle went a step further and began to laugh, and they were once more the best of friends. They set up the memorial stone, which had been overturned in the heat of battle, and then sat down hand in hand, to rest after the storm, a little quieter than usual.
It was not because there was more evil in Pelle, but because the question had acquired for him an importance of its own, and he must understand it, that a meditative expression came into his eyes, and he said thoughtfully: