“The man up there in snowy cap and blouse,
He is a mason, any fool could swear.
Just give him stone and lime, he’ll build a house
Fine as a palace, up in empty air!
Down in the street below stands half the town:
Ah, ah! Na, na!
The scaffold sways, but it won’t fall down!
“Down in the street he’s wobbly in his tread,
He tumbles into every cellar door;
That’s ’cause his home is in the clouds o’erhead,
Where all the little birds about him soar.
Up there he works away with peaceful mind:
Ah, ah. Na, na!
The scaffold swings in the boisterous wind!
“What it is to be giddy no mason knows:
Left to himself he’d build for ever,
Stone upon stone, till in Heaven, I s’pose!
But up comes the Law, and says—Stop now, clever!
There lives the Almighty, so just come off!
Ah, ah! Na, na!
Sheer slavery this, but he lets them scoff!
“Before he knows it the work has passed:
He measures all over and reckons it up.
His wages are safe in his breeches at last,
And he clatters off home to rest and to sup.
And a goodly wage he’s got in his pocket:
Ah, ah! Na, na!
The scaffold creaks to the winds that rock it!”
The little thick-set slater sat with both arms on the table, staring right in front of him with veiled eyes. When the song was over he raised his head a little. “Yes, that may be all very fine—for those it concerns. But the slater, he climbs higher than the mason.” His face was purple.
“Now, comrade, let well alone,” said Stolpe comfortably. “It isn’t the question, to-night, who climbs highest, it’s a question of amusing ourselves merely.”
“Yes, that may be,” replied Olsen, letting his head sink again. “But the slater, he climbs the highest.” After which he sat there murmuring to himself.
“Just leave him alone,” whispered Otto. “Otherwise he’ll get in one of his Berserker rages. Don’t be so grumpy, old fellow,” he said, laying his arm on Olsen’s shoulders. “No one can compete with you in the art of tumbling down, anyhow!”
The Vanishing Man was so called because he was in the habit—while lying quite quietly on the roof at work—of suddenly sliding downward and disappearing into the street below. He had several times fallen from the roof of a house without coming to any harm; but on one occasion he had broken both legs, and had become visibly bow-legged in consequence. In order to appease him, Otto, who was his comrade, related how he had fallen down on the last occasion.
“We were lying on the roof, working away, he and I, and damned cold it was. He, of course, had untied the safety-rope, and as we were lying there quite comfortably and chatting, all of a sudden he was off. ‘The devil!’ I shouted to the others, ‘now the Vanishing Man has fallen down again!’ And we ran down the stairs as quick as we could. We weren’t in a humor for any fool’s tricks, as you may suppose. But there was no Albert Olsen lying on the pavement. ‘Damn and blast it all, where has the Vanisher got to?’ we said, and we stared at one another, stupefied. And then I accidentally glanced across at a beer-cellar opposite, and there, by God, he was sitting at the basement window, winking at us so, with his forefinger to his nose, making signs to us to go down and have a glass of beer with him. ‘I was so accursedly thirsty,’ was all he said; ‘I couldn’t wait to run down the stairs!’”
The general laughter appeased the Vanishing Man. “Who’ll give me a glass of beer?” he said, rising with difficulty. He got his beer and sat down in a corner.
Stolpe was sitting at the table playing with his canary, which had to partake of its share in the feast. The bird sat on his red ear and fixed its claws in his hair, then hopped onto his arm and along it onto the table. Stolpe kept on asking it, “What would you like to smoke, Hansie?” “Peep!” replied the canary, every time. Then they all laughed. “Hansie would like a pipe!”
“How clever he is, to answer like that!” said the women.