The little thick-set slater sat with both arms on the table, staring right in front of him with veiled eyes. When the song was over he raised his head a little. “Yes, that may be all very fine—for those it concerns. But the slater, he climbs higher than the mason.” His face was purple.
“Now, comrade, let well alone,” said Stolpe comfortably. “It isn’t the question, to-night, who climbs highest, it’s a question of amusing ourselves merely.”
“Yes, that may be,” replied Olsen, letting his head sink again. “But the slater, he climbs the highest.” After which he sat there murmuring to himself.
“Just leave him alone,” whispered Otto. “Otherwise he’ll get in one of his Berserker rages. Don’t be so grumpy, old fellow,” he said, laying his arm on Olsen’s shoulders. “No one can compete with you in the art of tumbling down, anyhow!”
The Vanishing Man was so called because he was in the habit—while lying quite quietly on the roof at work—of suddenly sliding downward and disappearing into the street below. He had several times fallen from the roof of a house without coming to any harm; but on one occasion he had broken both legs, and had become visibly bow-legged in consequence. In order to appease him, Otto, who was his comrade, related how he had fallen down on the last occasion.
“We were lying on the roof, working away, he and I, and damned cold it was. He, of course, had untied the safety-rope, and as we were lying there quite comfortably and chatting, all of a sudden he was off. ‘The devil!’ I shouted to the others, ‘now the Vanishing Man has fallen down again!’ And we ran down the stairs as quick as we could. We weren’t in a humor for any fool’s tricks, as you may suppose. But there was no Albert Olsen lying on the pavement. ‘Damn and blast it all, where has the Vanisher got to?’ we said, and we stared at one another, stupefied. And then I accidentally glanced across at a beer-cellar opposite, and there, by God, he was sitting at the basement window, winking at us so, with his forefinger to his nose, making signs to us to go down and have a glass of beer with him. ‘I was so accursedly thirsty,’ was all he said; ‘I couldn’t wait to run down the stairs!’”
The general laughter appeased the Vanishing Man. “Who’ll give me a glass of beer?” he said, rising with difficulty. He got his beer and sat down in a corner.
Stolpe was sitting at the table playing with his canary, which had to partake of its share in the feast. The bird sat on his red ear and fixed its claws in his hair, then hopped onto his arm and along it onto the table. Stolpe kept on asking it, “What would you like to smoke, Hansie?” “Peep!” replied the canary, every time. Then they all laughed. “Hansie would like a pipe!”
“How clever he is, to answer like that!” said the women.
“Clever?—ay, and he’s sly too! Once we bought a little wife for him; mother didn’t think it fair that he shouldn’t know what love is. Well, they married themselves very nicely, and the little wife lay two eggs. But when she wanted to begin to sit Hansie got sulky; he kept on calling to her to come out on the perch. Well, she wouldn’t, and one fine day, when she wanted to get something to eat, he hopped in and threw the eggs out between the bars! He was jealous—the rascal! Yes, animals are wonderfully clever—stupendous it is, that such a little thing as that could think that out! Now, now, just look at him!”