Pelle, who concerned himself with everything in heaven and earth, had been absorbing every word that was spoken with his protruding ears, but when the conversation turned upon death he yawned. He himself had never been seriously ill, and since Mother Bengta died, death had never encroached upon his world. And that was lucky for him, as it would have been a case of all or nothing, for he had only Father Lasse. For Pelle the cruel hands of death hardly existed, and he could not understand how people could lay themselves down with their noses in the air; there was so much to observe here below—the town alone kept one busy.
On the very first evening he had run out to look for the other boys, just where the crowd was thickest. There was no use in waiting; Pelle was accustomed to take the bull by the horns, and he longed to be taken into favor.
“What sort of brat is that?” they said, flocking round him.
“I’m Pelle,” he said, standing confidently in the midst of the group, and looking at them all. “I have been at Stone Farm since I was eight, and that is the biggest farm in the north country.” He had put his hands in his pockets, and spat coolly in front of him, for that was nothing to what he had in reserve.
“Oh, so you’re a farmer chap, then!” said one, and the others laughed. Rud was among them.
“Yes,” said Pelle; “and I’ve done a bit of ploughing, and mowing fodder for the calves.”
They winked at one another. “Are you really a farmer chap?”
“Yes, truly,” replied Pelle, perplexed; they had spoken the word in a tone which he now remarked.
They all burst out laughing: “He confesses it himself. And he comes from the biggest farm in the country. Then he’s the biggest farmer in the country!”
“No, the farmer was called Kongstrup,” said Pelle emphatically. “I was only the herd-boy.”