“Yes, now they’re on you!” said Jeppe, as one announcing disaster. “You’ve all been trifling with the new spirit of the times. This would have been something for Bjerregrav to see—him with his compassion for the poor!”
“Let the tailor rest in peace in his grave,” said Wooden-leg Larsen, in a conciliatory tone. “You mustn’t blame him for the angry masses that exist to-day. He wanted nothing but people’s good—and perhaps these people want to do good, too!”
“Good!” Jeppe was loud with scorn. “They want to overturn law and order, and sell the fatherland to the Germans! They say the sum is settled already, and all!”
“They say they’ll be let into the capital during the night, when our own people are asleep,” said Marker.
“Yes,” said Master Andres solemnly. “They’ve let out that the key’s hidden under the mat—the devils!” Here Baker Jörgen burst into a shout of laughter; his laughter filled the whole workshop when he once began.
They guessed what sort of a fellow the new journeyman might be. No one had seen him yet. “He certainly has red hair and a red beard,” said Baker Jörgen. “That’s the good God’s way of marking those who have signed themselves to the Evil One.”
“God knows what the pastrycook wants with him,” said Jeppe. “People of that sort can’t do anything—they only ask. I’ve heard the whole lot of them are free-thinkers.”
“What a lark!” The young master shook himself contentedly. “He won’t grow old here in the town!”
“Old?” The baker drew up his heavy body. “To-morrow I shall go to the pastrycook and demand that he be sent away. I am commander of the militia, and I know all the townsfolk think as I do.”
Drejer thought it might be well to pray from the pulpit—as in time of plague, and in the bad year when the field-mice infested the country.