“Don’t worry now,” said Pelle confidently: “we shall soon find something.”
“Only spare me the poor-relief! Don’t you go begging for me—that’s all!” said Peter angrily. “And, Pelle,” he whispered, so that no one in the room should hear, “it really isn’t nice here. Last night an old man lay there and died—close to me. He died of cancer, and they didn’t even put a screen round him. All the time he lay there and stared at me! But in a few days I shall be able to go out. Then there’ll be something to be paid—otherwise the business will come before the Poor Law guardians, and then they’ll begin to snuff around—and I’ve told them fibs, Pelle! Can’t you come and get me out? Marie has money for the house-rent by her—you can take that.”
Pelle promised, and hurried back to his work. Ellen was at home; she was moving about and seemed astonished. Pelle confided the whole affair to her. “Such a splendid fellow he is,” he said, almost crying. “A little too solemn with all his work—and now he’s a cripple! Only a child, and an invalided worker already—it’s horrible to think of!”
Ellen went up to him and pulled his head against her shoulder; soothingly she stroked his hair. “We must do something for him, Ellen,” he said dully.
“You are so good, Pelle. You’d like to help everybody; but what can we do? We’ve paid away all our savings over my lying-in.”
“We must sell or pawn some of our things.”
She looked at him horrified. “Pelle, our dear home! And there’s nothing here but just what is absolutely necessary. And you who love our poor little belongings so! But if you mean that, why, of course! Only you are doing something for him already in sacrificing your time.”
After that he was silent. She several times referred to the matter again, as something that must be well deliberated, but he did not reply. Her conversation hurt him—whether he replied to it or was silent.
In the afternoon he invented an errand in the city, and made his way to the factory. He made for the counting-house, and succeeded in seeing the manufacturer himself. The latter was quite upset by the occurrence, but pleaded in vindication that the accident was entirely the result of negligence. He advised Pelle to make a collection among the workers in the factory, and he opened it himself with a contribution of twenty kroner. He also held out the prospect that Peter, who was a reliable lad, might take a place as messenger and collector when he was well again.
Peter was much liked by his comrades; a nice little sum was collected. Pelle paid his hospital dues, and there was so much left that he would be able to stay at home and rest with an easy mind until his hand was healed and he could take the place of messenger at the factory. The young invalid was in high spirits, knowing that his living was assured; he passed the time in lounging about the town, wherever there was music to be heard, in order to learn fresh tunes. “This is the first holiday I’ve had since I went to the factory,” he told Pelle.