“It means what you hear. You’ve got the sack—if you understand that better.”
Pelle understood that very well, but he wanted to establish the fact of his persecution in the presence of his comrades. “Have you any fault to find with my work?” he asked.
“You mix yourself up too much with things that don’t concern you, my good fellow, and then you can’t do the work you ought to do.”
“I should like very much to know what fault you have to find with my work,” said Pelle obstinately.
“Go to the devil! I’ve told you already!” roared the foreman.
The Court shoemaker came down through the door of the back room and looked about him. When he saw Pelle, he went up to him.
“You get out of here, and that at once!” he cried, in a rage. “Do you think we give bread to people that undermine us? Out, out of my place of business, Mossoo Trades-Unionist!”
Pelle stood his ground, and looked his employer in the eyes; he would have struck the man a blow in the face rather than allow himself to be sent away. “Be cool, now; be cool!” he said to himself. He laughed, but his features were quivering. The Court shoemaker kept a certain distance, and continued to shout, “Out with him! Here, foreman, call the police at once!”
“Now you can see, comrades, how they value one here,” said Pelle, turning his broad back on Meyer. “We are dogs; nothing more!”
They stood there, staring at the counter, deaf and dumb in their dread of taking sides. Then Pelle went.