“I won’t admit that,” said Stolpe. “That’s a little too abstract for me; anyhow, I’m not going to argue with you. But in my catechism it says that he is a strike-breaker who accepts employment where assistance is forbidden—and that I stick to!”
Pelle might talk as much as he liked; the old man would not budge an inch. “But it would be another matter if you wanted to do it yourself,” said Stolpe. “You don’t have to account to any one for what you do—you just do what comes into your head.”
“I have to account to the Cause for my doings,” said Pelle sharply, “and for that very reason I want to do it myself!”
Stolpe contracted his arms and stretched them out again. “Ah, it would be good to have work again!” he cried suddenly. “Idleness eats into one’s limbs like the gout. And now there’s the rent, mother—where the devil are we to get that? It must be paid on the nail on Saturday, otherwise out we go—so the landlord says.”
“We’ll soon find that, father!” said Madam Stolpe. “Don’t you lose heart!”
Stolpe looked round the room. “Yes, there’s still a bit to take, as Hunger said when he began on the bowels. But listen, Pelle—do you know what? I’m your father-in-law-to be sure—but you haven’t a wife like mine!”
“I’m contented with Ellen as she is,” said Pelle.
There was a knock; it was Stolpe’s brother, the carpenter. He looked exhausted; he was thin and poorly dressed; his eyes were surrounded by red patches. He did not look at those whose hands he took.
“Sit down, brother,” said Stolpe, pushing a chair toward him.
“Thanks—I must go on again directly. It was—I only wanted to tell you —well….” He stared out of the window.