“Because they were starving, Per!” said Pelle earnestly. “That does happen at times in this accursed city.”
Kofod stared at him and whistled. “Oh, Satan! Wife and child, and the whole lot without food—what? And she in childbed. They were married, right enough, you can see that. Oh, the devil! What a honeymoon! What misery!”
He stood there plunging deep into his trouser pockets; he fetched out a handful of things: chewing-tobacco, bits of flock, broken matches, and in the midst of all a crumpled ten-kroner note. “So I thought!” he said, fishing out the note. “I was afraid the girls had quite cleaned me out last night! Now Pelle, you go up and spin them some sort of a yarn; I can’t do it properly myself; for, look you, if I know that woman she won’t stop crying day and night for another twenty-four hours! That’s the last of my pay. But—oh, well, blast it … we go to sea to-morrow!”
“She stopped crying when I took her the money,” said Pelle, when he came down again.
“That’s good. We sailors are dirty beasts; you know; we do our business into china and eat our butter out of the tarbucket; all the same, we—I tell you, I should have left the thing alone and used the money to have made a jolly night of it to-night….” He was suddenly silent; he chewed at his quid as though inwardly considering his difficult philosophy. “Damn it all, to-morrow we put to sea!” he cried suddenly.
They went out to Alleenberg and sat in the gardens. Pelle ordered beer. “I can very well stand a few pints when I meet a good pal,” he said, “but at other times I save like the devil. I’ve got to see about getting my old father over here; he’s living on charity at home.”
“So your father’s still living? I can see him still so plainly—he had a love-affair with Madam Olsen for some time, but then bo’sun Olsen came home unexpectedly; they thought he’d remain abroad.”
Pelle laughed. Much water had run into the sea since those days. Now he was no longer ashamed of Father Lasse’s foolish prank.
Light was gleaming from the booths in the garden. Young couples wandered about and had their fortunes told; they ventured themselves on the Wheel of Happiness, or had their portraits cut out by the silhouette artist. By the roundabout was a mingled whirl of cries and music and brightly colored petticoats. Now and again a tremendous outcry arose, curiously dreadful, over all other sounds, and from the concert-pavilion one heard the cracked, straining voices of one-time “stars.” Wretched little worldlings came breathlessly hurrying thither, pushing through the crowd, and disappeared into the pavilion, nodding familiarly to the man in the ticket-office window.