He visited various houses in Gardener Street, Castle Street, Norway Street, making his way through backyards and up dark, narrow stairs, up to the garrets or down to the cellars.
Over all was the same poverty; without exception the cobblers were lodged in the most miserable holes. He had not a single success to record. Some had gone away or were at fresh addresses; others wanted time to consider or gave him a direct refusal. He promised himself that he would presently give the wobblers another call; he would soon bring them round; the others he ticked off, keeping them for better times— their day too would come before long! It did not discourage him to meet with refusals; he rejoiced over the single sheep. This was a work of patience, and patience was the one thing in which he had always been rich.
He turned into Hunter Street and entered a barrack-like building, climbing until he was right under the roof, when he knocked on a door. It was opened by a tall thin man with a thin beard. This was Peter, his fellow-’prentice at home. They were speedily talking of the days of their apprenticeship, and the workshop at home with all the curious company there. There was not much that was good to be said of Master Jeppe. But the memory of the young master filled them with warmth. “I often think of him in the course of the year,” said Peter. “He was no ordinary man. That was why he died.”
There was something abstracted about Peter; and his den gave one an impression of loneliness. Nothing was left to remind one of the mischievous fellow who must always be running; but something hostile and obstinate glowed within his close-set eyes. Pelle sat there wondering what could really be the matter with him. He had a curious bleached look as though he had shed his skin; but he wasn’t one of the holy sort, to judge by his conversation.
“Peter, what’s the truth of it—are you one of us?” said Pelle suddenly.
A disagreeable smile spread over Peter’s features. “Am I one of you? That sounds just like when they ask you—have you found Jesus? Have you become a missionary?”
“You are welcome to call it that,” replied Pelle frankly, “if you’ll only join our organization. We want you.”
“You won’t miss me—nobody is missed, I believe, if he only does his work. I’ve tried the whole lot of them—churches and sects and all—and none of them has any use for a man. They want one more listener, one more to add to their list; it’s the same everywhere.” He sat lost in thought, looking into vacancy. Suddenly he made a gesture with his hands as though to wave something away. “I don’t believe in anything any longer, Pelle—there’s nothing worth believing in.”
“Don’t you believe in improving the lot of the poor, then? You haven’t tried joining the movement?” asked Pelle.
“What should I do there? They only want to get more to eat—and the little food I need I can easily get. But if they could manage to make me feel that I’m a man, and not merely a machine that wants a bit more greasing, I’d as soon be a thin dog as a fat one.”