“Yes, who knows what we might come to!” said one ragged fellow, thoughtfully chewing a length of straw.
“I shall never do any good,” said Emil dejectedly. “With me it’s always been from bad to worse. I was apprenticed, and when I became a journeyman they gave me the sack; I had wasted five years of my life and couldn’t do a thing. Pelle—he’ll get on all right.”
Astonished, Pelle raised his head and gazed at Emil uncomprehendingly.
“What use is it if a poor devil tries to make his way up? He’ll always be pushed down again!” said Olsen. “Just look at the ‘Great Power’; could any one have had a better claim than he? No, the big folks don’t allow us others to make our way up!”
“And have we allowed it ourselves?” muttered Ström. “We are always uneasy if one of our own people wants to fly over our heads!”
“I don’t understand why all the poor folk don’t make a stand together against the others,” said Bergendal. “We suffer the same wrongs. If we all acted together, and had nothing to do with them that mean us harm, for instance, then it would soon be seen that collective poverty is what makes the wealth of the others. And I’ve heard that that’s what they’re doing elsewhere.”
“But we shall never in this life be unanimous about anything whatever,” said an old stonemason sadly. “If one of the gentlemen only scratches our neck a bit, then we all grovel at his feet, and let ourselves be set on to one of our own chaps. If we were all like the ‘Great Power,’ then things might have turned out different.”
They were silent again; they sat there and gazed at the dead man; there was something apologetic in the bearing of each and all.
“Yes, that comes late!” said Ström, with a sigh. Then he felt in the straw and pulled out a bottle.
Some of the men still sat there, trying to put into words something that ought perhaps to be said; but then came the doctor, and they drew in their horns. They picked up their beer-cans and went out to their work.