The women sat quite bemused, listening with open mouths; they dared scarcely breathe. Paul was asleep on his mother’s lap.
“Can He really have thought about us poor vermin, and so long beforehand?” cried the men, looking from one to another. “Then why haven’t we long ago got a bit more forward than this?”
“Yes, I too don’t understand that,” said Pelle, hesitating. “Perhaps we ourselves have got to work our way in the right direction—and that takes time.”
“Yes, but—if He would only give us proper conditions of life. But if we have to win them for ourselves we don’t need any Christ for that!”
This was something that Pelle could not explain even to himself, although he felt it within him as a living conviction, A man must win what was due to him himself—that was clear as the day, and he couldn’t understand how they could be blind to the fact; but why he must do so he couldn’t—however he racked his brains—explain to another person. “But I can tell you a story,” he said.
“But a proper exciting story!” cried Earl, who was feeling bored. “Oh, if only Vinslev were here—he has such droll ideas!”
“Be quiet, boy!” said Marie crossly. “Pelle makes proper speeches— before whole meetings,” she said, nodding solemnly to the others. “What is the story called?”
“Howling Peter.”
“Oh, it’s a story with Peter in it—then it’s a fairy-tale! What is it about?”
“You’ll know that when you hear it, my child,” said the old night- watchman.