Oh, yes, Pelle had seen something of the world. And here at home there had been a good many changes. How did the Movement get on?
“Capitally! Yes, awfully well! Our party has made tremendous progress; to-day we shall take the town!”
“That’ll make a difference in things, I suppose?”
“Oh, well, I wouldn’t say that for certain. Unemployment increases every year, and it’s all the same who represents the town and sits in parliament. But we’ve got on very well as far as prices go.”
“Tell me—there was a man in the Movement a few years ago called Pelle; what’s become of him?”
The landlord scratched his parting. “Pelle! Pelle! Yes, of course. What in the world was there about him? Didn’t he make false coins, or rob a till? If I remember right, he ended by going to prison. Well, well, there are bad characters in every movement.”
A couple of workmen, who were sitting at a table eating fried liver, joined in the conversation. “He came a good deal to the front five or six years ago,” said one of them with his mouth full. “But there wasn’t much in him; he had too much imagination.”
“He had the gift of the gab, anyhow,” said the other. “I still distinctly remember him at the great lock-out. He could make you think you were no end of a fine fellow, he could! Well, that’s all past and gone! Your health, comrade!”
Pelle rose quietly and went out. He was forgotten; nobody remembered anything about him, in spite of all that he had fought for and suffered. Much must have passed over their heads since then, and him they had simply forgotten.
He did not know what to do with himself, more homeless here in this street, which should have been his own, than in any other place. It was black with people, but he was not carried with the stream; he resembled something that has been washed up to one side and left lying.