Pelle had never seen the city so excited, not even during the great
lock-out. Class faced class with clenched fists, the workmen even more
eager than the upper class: they had become out-and-out politicians. He
could see that the Movement had shifted its center of gravity over this.
What was necessary was to gain seats; to-day they expected to get the
upper hand in the city and a firm footing out in the country. Several of
the old leaders were already in parliament and brought forward their
practical experience in the debate; their aim now was nothing less than
to usurp the political power. This was bold enough: they must have been
successful, after all. He still possessed his old quickness of hearing
as regards the general feeling, and perceived a change in the public
tone. It had become broader, more democratic. Even the upper classes
submitted to the ballot now, and condescended to fight for a majority of
votes.

Pelle could see no place for himself, however, in this conflict. "Hi,
you there! I suppose you've voted?" men shouted to him as they passed.
Voted! He had not even the right to vote! In the battle that was now
being fought, their old leader was not even allowed to take part as an
ordinary soldier.

Out of the road! They marched in small bands on their way to the
polling-booths or the Assembly Rooms, taking up the whole pavement, and
Pelle readily moved out of their way. This time he did not come like a
king's son for whom the whole world stood waiting.

He was of the scum of the earth, neither more nor less, one who had been
thrown aside and forgotten. If he succeeded in recalling himself to
their remembrance, it would only be the bringing up of the story of a
criminal. There was the house where the Stolpes lived. Perhaps they knew