Pelle told him.
“I’m afraid you won’t get away!” said Ole, winking at Gustav. “We shan’t get the chaff cut time enough to do the foddering. This grindstone’s so confoundedly hard to turn, too. If only that handle-turner hadn’t been broken!”
Pelle pricked up his ears. “Handle-turner? What’s that?” he asked.
Gustav sprang round the grindstone, and slapped his thigh in enjoyment of the joke.
“My goodness, how stupid you are! Don’t you even know what a handle-turner is? It’s a thing you only need to put on to the grindstone, and it turns it by itself. They’ve got one by-the-way over at Kaase Farm,” he said, turning to Ole; “if only it wasn’t so far away.”
“Is it heavy?” asked Pelle, in a low voice; everything depended upon the answer. “Can I lift it?” His voice trembled.
“Oh, no, not so awfully heavy. You could carry it quite well. But you’d have to be very careful.”
“I can run over and fetch it; I’ll carry it very carefully.” Pelle looked at them with a face that could not but inspire confidence.
“Very well; but take a sack with you to put it in. And you’ll have to be as careful as the very devil, for it’s an expensive thing.”
Pelle found a sack and ran off across the fields. He was as delighted as a young kid, plucking at himself and everything as he ran, and jumping aside to frighten the crows. He was overflowing with happiness. He was saving the expedition for himself and Father Lasse. Gustav and Ole were good men! He would get back as quickly as possible, so that they should not have to toil any more at the grindstone. “What, are you back already?” they would say, and open their eyes. “Then you must have smashed that precious machine on the way!” And they would take it carefully out of the sack, and it would be quite safe and sound. “Well, you are a wonder of a boy! a perfect prince!” they would say.