“No, we don’t belong to a real union, so they won’t support us.”
“Well then, make a union! Get up, boy, and don’t lie there snoring when there’s anything of this sort on! Do you imagine that anything in this world is to be got by sleeping?”
The boy did not move. He did not seem to think there was any reason for taking his father very seriously; but he met a reproachful look from Ellen, and he was out of bed and dressed in a trice. While they sat in the front room, drinking their coffee, Pelle gave him a few hints as to how he should proceed in the matter. He was greatly interested, and went thoroughly into the subject; it seemed to him as though it were only yesterday that he had occupied himself with the people. How many pleasant memories of the fight crowded into his mind! And now every child knew that the meanest thing on earth was to become a blackleg! How he had fought to make even intelligent fellow-workmen understand this! It was quite comical to think that the strike—which filled the workmen with horror the first time he had employed it—was now a thing that children made use of. Time passed with a fleet foot out here in the day; and if you wanted to keep pace you must look sharp!
When the boy had gone, Ellen came to Pelle and stroked his hair. “Welcome home!” she said softly, and kissed his furrowed brow.
He pressed her hand. “Thank you for having a home for me,” he answered, looking into her eyes; “for if you hadn’t, I think I should have gone to the dogs.”
“The boy has had his share in that, you know! He’s worked well, or it might have gone badly with me many a time. You mustn’t be angry with him, Pelle, even if he is a little sullen to you. You must remember how much he’s gone through with the other boys. Sometimes he’s come home quite disheartened.”
“Because of me?” asked Pelle in a low voice.
“Yes, for he couldn’t bear them to say anything about you. At one time he was always fighting, but now I think he’s taught them to leave him alone; for he never gave in. But it may have left its marks on him.”
She lingered by him; there was something she wanted to say to him, but she had a difficulty in beginning. “What is it?” he asked, in order to help her, his heart beating rapidly. He would have liked to get over this without speech.
She drew him gently into the bedroom and up to the little cot. “You haven’t looked at Boy Comfort,” she said.