"That'll make a difference in things, I suppose?"

"Oh, well, I wouldn't say that for certain. Unemployment increases every
year, and it's all the same who represents the town and sits in
parliament. But we've got on very well as far as prices go."

"Tell me--there was a man in the Movement a few years ago called Pelle;
what's become of him?"

The landlord scratched his parting. "Pelle! Pelle! Yes, of course. What
in the world was there about him? Didn't he make false coins, or rob a
till? If I remember right, he ended by going to prison. Well, well,
there are bad characters in every movement."

A couple of workmen, who were sitting at a table eating fried liver,
joined in the conversation. "He came a good deal to the front five or
six years ago," said one of them with his mouth full. "But there wasn't
much in him; he had too much imagination."

"He had the gift of the gab, anyhow," said the other. "I still
distinctly remember him at the great lock-out. He could make you think
you were no end of a fine fellow, he could! Well, that's all past and
gone! Your health, comrade!"

Pelle rose quietly and went out. He was forgotten; nobody remembered
anything about him, in spite of all that he had fought for and suffered.
Much must have passed over their heads since then, and him they had
simply forgotten.