Some of the hands liked this arrangement, and employed the afternoon in going out with their wives and children; but others would rather have had an hour longer in bed in the morning. One day the latter came and declared that now they were in the majority and would have it changed.
“I can’t agree to that,” answered Pelle. “Being early up is the workman’s privilege, and I’m not going to give it up.”
“But we’ve taken the votes on it,” they said. “This is a democratic institution, isn’t it?”
“I’ve taken no oath to the vote,” Pelle answered quietly, “and in the meantime I should advise those who are dissatisfied with the conditions here to try somewhere else.”
There was always something like this going on, but he did not take it for more than it was worth. They had acquired consciousness of their power, but most of them had not yet discovered its aim. They used it blindly, in childish pleasure at seeing it unfold, like boys in unfurling their banner, tyrannized a little by way of a change, and took their revenge for the subjection of old times by systematically demanding the opposite to what they had. They reeled a little; the miracle of the voting-paper had gone to their heads. It was an intelligible transition; the feeling of responsibility would get hold of them in time.
Another day two of the most skilful workmen came and asked to have piece-work introduced again. “We won’t stand toiling to make money for our comrades,” they said.
“Are they idle?” asked Pelle.
“No, but we work quicker.”
“Then they’re more thorough on the whole. The one generally balances the other.”
“That’s all very well, but it doesn’t benefit us.”