gazing indifferently out into the front room, as if he had no idea to
what his father was referring; but his face was scarlet.

"Don't you even say good-morning to your father?" said Ellen, whereupon
he sullenly extended his hand and then turned his face to the wall. He
was vexed at his behavior of the day before, and perhaps expected a
blowing-up. On a nail above his head hung his blouse and cap.

"Is Lasse Frederik a milk-boy?" asked Pelle.

"Yes," said Ellen, "and he's very good at it. The drivers praise him."

"Isn't he going to get up then, and go? I've met several milk-carts."

"No, for we're on strike just now," murmured the boy without turning
round.

Pelle became quite interested. "What fellows you are! So you're on
strike, are you? What's it for--is it wages?"

The boy had to explain, and gradually turned his face round, but did not
look at his father.

Ellen stood in the doorway and listened to them smilingly. She looked
frail. "Lasse Frederik's the leader," she said gently.

"And he's lying here instead of being out on the watch for blacklegs?"
exclaimed Pelle quite irritably. "You're a nice leader!"

"Do you suppose any boy would be so mean as to be a blackleg?" said