“Well? What are you going out for?” asked Jeppe.
“I’m going to the yard.” He spoke like a sleepwalker.
“Perhaps you want to take the knee-strap out with you?”
Jeppe and the master exchanged a look of understanding. Then Master Andres came over to him. “You wouldn’t be so silly?” he said, and looked deep into Pelle’s eyes. Then he made himself tidy and went into the town.
“Pelle, you devil’s imp,” he said, as he came home, “I’ve been running from Herod to Pilate, and I’ve arranged matters so that you can get off if you will ask for pardon. You must go to the grammar- school about one o’clock. But think it over first, as to what you are going to say, because the whole class will hear it.”
“I won’t ask for pardon.” It sounded like a cry.
The master looked at Pelle hesitatingly. “But that is no disgrace— if one has done wrong.”
“I have not done wrong. They began it, and they have been making game of me for a long time.”
“But you thrashed him, Pelle, and one mustn’t thrash fine folks like that; they have got a doctor’s certificate that might be your ruin. Is your father a friend of the magistrate’s? They can dishonor you for the rest of your life. I think you ought to choose the lesser evil.”
No, Pelle could not do that. “So let them flog me instead!” he said morosely.