“No, they are people who moved here in the spring. He hasn’t been living here, but every Saturday he used to come here and take her wages. ‘You are crazy to give him your wages when he doesn’t even live with you!’ we told her. ‘He ought to get a thrashing instead of money!’ ‘But he’s the child’s father!’ she said, and she went on giving him her money. And on Sunday, when he had drunk it, he regretted it, and then he used to come and beat her, because she needn’t have given it to him. She was an awful fool, for she could just have been out when he came. But she was fond of him and thought nothing of a few blows—only it didn’t do for the child. She never had food for it, and now it’s dead.”
The door at the end of the gangway opened, and the big Jutlander came out with a tiny coffin under his arm. He was singing a hymn in an indistinct voice, as he stood there waiting. In the side passage, behind the partition-wall, a boy’s voice was mocking him. The Jutlander’s face was red and swollen with crying, and the debauch of the night before was still heavy in his legs. Behind him came the mother, and now they went down the gangway with funeral steps; the woman’s thin black shawl hung mournfully about her, and she held her handkerchief to her mouth; she was crying still. Her livid face had a mildewed appearance.
Pelle and Young Lasse had to be off. “You are always in such a hurry!” said Marie dolefully. “I wanted to make coffee.”
“Yes, I’ve got a lot to do to-day still. Otherwise I’d gladly stay with you a bit.”
“Do you know you are gradually getting quite famous?” said Marie, looking at him in admiration. “The people talk almost as much about you as they do about the big tinplate manufacturer. They say you ruined the biggest employer in the city.”
“Yes. I ruined his business,” said Pelle, laughing. “But where has the shopwalker got to?”
“He’s gone down into the streets to show himself!”
Karl, sure enough, was strolling about below and allowing the boys and girls to admire him. “Look, when we come into the shop and the grocer isn’t there you’ll stand us treat!” Pelle heard one of them say.
“You don’t catch me! And if you dare you’ll get one in the jaw!” replied Karl. “Think I’m going to have you loafing about?”
At the end of the street the great Jutlander was rolling along, the coffin under his arm; the girl followed at a distance, and they kept to the middle of the road as though they formed part of a funeral procession. It was a dismal sight. The gray, dismal street was like a dungeon.