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Updated: May 13, 2025
Little Nikas began to whistle too, and the two older apprentices who were beating leather began to strike in time with the whistling, and they even kept double time, so that everything went like greased lightning.
Jeppe was allowed to spin his yarn alone. "Are you waxing it well?" said little Nikas. "It's for pigskin." The others laughed, but Pelle rubbed the thread with a feeling as though he were building his own scaffold. "Now I am ready!" he said, in a low voice.
"Besides, we've had an order for a pair of wedding-shoes, white satin with yellow stitching; but we haven't properly tackled it." He gives little Nikas a meaning glance. "No yellow stitching with white satin, master; white silk, of course, and white edges." "Is that the Paris fashion?" asks Master Andres eagerly. Garibaldi shrugs his shoulders.
"Lend me ten kroner, master," he says; "I must go and buy myself a proper suit. Now I'm settled and a partner in a business I can't go about looking like a pig." "It will be better for you to get that finished," says the master quietly, pushing Garibaldi's work across to little Nikas. "We shan't see him again!" This is really the case.
"Yes," answered Pelle, with a paralyzed tongue, and the blood rushed to his cheeks. Was Father Lasse in the news? Not among the accidents? He must have made himself remarkable in one way or another through his farming! Pelle was nearly choking with excitement, but he did not venture to ask, and Little Nikas simply sat there and looked secretive.
It was broad daylight when he got back, and he crawled into bed without any one noticing anything of his attempted flight. Little Nikas had washed the blacking from his face and had put on his best clothes; he wanted to go to the market with a bundle of washing, which the butcher from Aaker was to take home to his mother, and Pelle walked behind him, carrying the bundle.
Inside the workshop they whistle and sing to the hammer-strokes; there are times when the dark room sounds like a bird-shop. "Thank God, now we have the spring!" says Master Andres over and over again, "but the messenger of spring doesn't seem to be coming this year." "Perhaps he is dead," says little Nikas. "Garibaldi dead? Good Lord! he won't die just yet.
Pelle kept his distance religiously, but he instantly discovered that little Nikas, like old Jeppe, had too large a posterior. That certainly came of sitting too much and it twisted one's loins.
Little Nikas saluted many friendly maidservants in the houses of the neighborhood, and Pelle found it more amusing to walk beside him than to follow; two people who are together ought to walk abreast. But every time he walked beside the journeyman the latter pushed him into the gutter, and finally Pelle fell over a curbstone; then he gave it up.
Jeppe was allowed to spin his yarn alone. "Are you waxing it well?" said little Nikas. "It's for pigskin." The others laughed, but Pelle rubbed the thread with a feeling as though he were building his own scaffold. "Now I am ready!" he said, in a low voice.
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