"Are you asleep, booby?" asked the journeyman sharply. Pelle shrank
into his shell and continued to work at the wax; he kneaded away at
it, holding it in hot water.

Inside the court, at the baker's--the baker was the old master's
brother--they were hoisting sacks of meal. The windlass squeaked
horribly, and in between the squeaking one could hear Master Jorgen
Kofod, in a high falsetto, disputing with his son. "You're a noodle,
a pitiful simpleton--whatever will become of you? Do you think we've
nothing more to do than to go running out to prayer-meetings on a
working day? Perhaps that will get us our daily bread? Now you just
stay here, or, God's mercy, I'll break every bone in your body!"
Then the wife chimed in, and then of a sudden all was silent. And
after a while the son stole like a phantom along the wall of the
opposite house, a hymn-book in his hand. He was not unlike Howling
Peter. He squeezed himself against the wall, and his knees gave
under him if any one looked sharply at him. He was twenty-five years
old, and he took beatings from his father without a murmur. But when
matters of religion were in question he defied public opinion, the
stick, and his father's anger.

"Are you asleep, booby? I shall really have to come over and teach
you to hurry!"

For a time no one spoke in the workshop--the journeyman was silent,
so the others had to hold their tongues. Each bent over his work,
and Pelle pulled the pitch out to as great a length as possible,
kneaded some grease into it, and pulled again. Outside, in the
sunshine, some street urchins were playing, running to and fro. When