“Is Lasse Frederik a milk-boy?” asked Pelle.
“Yes,” said Ellen, “and he’s very good at it. The drivers praise him.”
“Isn’t he going to get up then, and go? I’ve met several milk-carts.”
“No, for we’re on strike just now,” murmured the boy without turning round.
Pelle became quite interested. “What fellows you are! So you’re on strike, are you? What’s it for—is it wages?”
The boy had to explain, and gradually turned his face round, but did not look at his father.
Ellen stood in the doorway and listened to them smilingly. She looked frail. “Lasse Frederik’s the leader,” she said gently.
“And he’s lying here instead of being out on the watch for blacklegs?” exclaimed Pelle quite irritably. “You’re a nice leader!”
“Do you suppose any boy would be so mean as to be a blackleg?” said Lasse Frederik. “No, indeed! But people fetch their own milk from the carts.”
“Then you must get the drivers to join you.”