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In the course of the winter, some strong young men came home to the village in blue clothes and white neck-cloths. They had laid up, as it was called, and some of them drew wages all through the winter without doing anything. They always came over to the school to see the master; they came in the middle of lessons, but it did not matter; Fris was joy personified.
If only they see that!" he was looking again at the blood-stained fingers. "He did do his best. If only God Himself would give him his discharge!" "Yes," said Fris. "God will give him his discharge Himself, and he sees everything, you know, Ole." Some fishermen entered the room.
They could all swim themselves, but it appeared that hardly any of their fathers could; they had a superstitious feeling against it. "Father says you oughtn't to tempt Providence if you're wrecked," one boy added. "Why, but then you'd not be doing your best!" objected a little faltering voice. Fris turned quickly toward the corner where Pelle sat blushing to the tips of his ears.
At the bottom of the class there was a sound of sniffing, growing more and more distinct. Fris laid down his newspaper impatiently. "Peter's crying," said those nearest. "Oh-o!" said Fris, peering over his spectacles. "What's the matter now?" "He says he can't remember what twice two is." Fris forced the air through his nostrils and seized the cane, but thought better of it.
He was afraid of the dark, and he could not stand a thrashing, while Nilen could take his with his hands in his pockets. It was Pelle's first attempt at obtaining a general survey of himself. Fris had gone inland, probably to the church, so it would be a playtime of some hours. The boys began to look about for some more lasting ways of passing the time.
Fris was dead dead at his post, as the honest folks of the parish expressed it. Pelle had finished his schooling for good, and could breathe freely. He helped his father at home, and they were happy together and drew together again now that there was no third person to stand between them.
If only they see that!" he was looking again at the blood-stained fingers. "He did do his best. If only God Himself would give him his discharge!" "Yes," said Fris. "God will give him his discharge Himself, and he sees everything, you know, Ole." Some fishermen entered the room.
The children dropped into softly whispered conversation about Peter Funck, and all their faces had grown old with gravity. "Where did it happen?" asked a big boy. Fris awoke with a sigh.
The children smiled at one another, remembering various things. Peter Funck had once gone so far as to wrestle with the master himself, but they had not the heart to bring this up. One of the bigger boys, however, said, half for the purpose of teasing: "He never got any farther than the twenty-seventh hymn!" "Didn't he, indeed?" snarled Fris. "Didn't he, indeed?
And a few days later, when this had become stale, something happened which put a stop forever to Pelle's school attendance. The children were busy at arithmetic, chattering and clattering with their slates, and Fris was sitting as usual in his place, with his head against the wall and his hands resting on the desk.
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