Pelle did not feel inclined for chaff, so he slipped away. Besides, he must go back and get to work; the young master, who was busily going from cart to cart, ordering meat, had called to him. They hung together like the halves of a pea-pod when it was a question of keeping the apprentices on the curb, although otherwise they were jealous enough of one another.
Bjerregrav’s crutch stood behind the door, and he himself sat in stiff funereal state by the window; he held a folded white handkerchief in his folded hands, and was diligently mopping his eyes.
“Was he perhaps a relation of yours?” said the young master slyly.
“No; but it is so sad for those who are left—a wife and children. There is always some one to mourn and regret the dead. Man’s life is a strange thing, Andres.”
“Ah, and potatoes are bad this year, Bjerregrav!”
Neighbor Jörgen filled up the whole doorway. “Lord, here we have that blessed Bjerregrav!” he shouted; “and in state, too! What’s on to-day then—going courting, are you?”
“I’ve been following!” answered Bjerregrav, in a hushed voice.
The big baker made an involuntary movement; he did not like being unexpectedly reminded of death. “You, Bjerregrav, you ought to be a hearse-driver; then at least you wouldn’t work to no purpose!”
“It isn’t to no purpose when they are dead,” stammered Bjerregrav. “I am not so poor that I need much, and there is no one who stands near to me. No living person loses anything because I follow those who die. And then I know them all, and I’ve followed them all in thought since they were born,” he added apologetically.
“If only you got invited to the funeral feast and got something of all the good things they have to eat,” continued the baker, “I could understand it better.”