"It's the fault of the brandy," said Pelle shortly.

"Well, you may be right, but a fellow needs a kind word now and then,
and you have to take it where you can get it. Your pals look down upon
you and chuck you out of their set."

"What's the matter, then?" asked Pelle.

"What's the matter? Six times five's the matter, because I wouldn't let
my old father starve during the lockout. We had a jolly good time then.
I was a good son! Didn't mind the fat purses of the bigwigs and a little
bread and water--and the devil and his standpipe! But now they're
singing another tune: That man! Why, he's been punished for theft! End
of him. No one asks why; they've become big men, you see. In olden days
I was always called Merry Jacob, and the fellows liked to be in my
shift. Do you know what they call me now? Thieving Jacob. Well, they
don't say it right out, for if they did, some one 'ud crack their heads
for them; but that is my name. Well, I say to myself, perhaps you saw
everything topsy-turvy in those days; perhaps, after all, you're nothing
but a thief. And then I have to drink to become an honest man again."

"And get in rages with the lamp-posts! Don't you think you'd do better
to hit out at those who wrong you?"

Jacob was silent and hung his head; the once strong, bold fellow had
become like a dog that any one might kick. If it were so dreadful to
bear six times five among one's own people, what could Pelle say? "How
is your brother?" he asked, in order to divert Jacob's thoughts to
something brighter. "He was a splendid fellow."