“And yet it isn’t caused by brandy?” said the thick-set little Vanishing Man, Albert Olsen.
“Oh, no, father has never gone in for bottle agitation,” replied Madam Stolpe.
“That was a fine speech that mother made about me,” said Stolpe, laughing, “and she didn’t hiccough. It is astonishing, though—there are some people who can’t. But now it’s your turn, Frederik. Now you have become a journeyman and must accept the responsibility yourself for doing things according to plumb-line and square. We have worked on the scaffold together and we know one another pretty well. Many a time you’ve been a clown and many a time a sheep, and a box on the ears from your old man has never been lacking. But that was in your fledgling years. When only you made up your mind there was no fault to be found with you. I will say this to your credit—that you know your trade—you needn’t be shamed by anybody. Show what you can do, my lad! Do your day’s work so that your comrades don’t need to take you in tow, and never shirk when it comes to your turn!”
“Don’t cheat the drinker of his bottle, either,” said Albert Olsen, interrupting. Otto nudged him in the ribs.
“No, don’t do that,” said Stolpe, and he laughed. “There are still two things,” he added seriously. “Take care the girls don’t get running about under the scaffold in working hours, that doesn’t look well; and always uphold the fellowship. There is nothing more despicable than the name of strikebreaker.”
“Hear, hear!” resounded about the table. “A true word!”
Frederik sat listening with an embarrassed smile.
He was dressed in a new suit of the white clothes of his calling, and on his round chin grew a few dark downy hairs, which he fingered every other moment. He was waiting excitedly until the old man had finished, so that he might drink brotherhood with him.
“And now, my lad,” said Stolpe, taking the cover from the “tureen,” “now you are admitted to the corporation of masons, and you are welcome! Health, my lad.” And with a sly little twinkle of his eye, he set the utensil to his mouth, and drank.
“Health, father!” replied Frederik, with shining eyes, as his father passed him the drinking-bowl. Then it went round the table. The women shrieked before they drank; it was full of Bavarian beer, and in the amber fluid swam Bavarian sausages. And while the drinking-bowl made its cheerful round, Stolpe struck up with the Song of the Mason: