Pelle the Conqueror | Page 9

choice between sacrificing himself and sacrificing
others. His love for his father, boyish pride, the sense of duty that is the
social dower of the poor--the one thing with the other--determined his
choice. He stood the test, but not bravely; he howled loudly the whole
time, while, with his eyes fixed immovably upon the Evil One and his
hell-hounds, he crept back for the sack and then dragged it after him at
a quick run up the street.
No one is perhaps a hero until the danger is over. But even then Pelle
had no opportunity of shuddering at his own courage; for no sooner
was he out of the reach of the black man, than his terror took a new
form. What had become of his father? He had said he would be back
again directly! Supposing he never came back at all! Perhaps he had
gone away so as to get rid of his little boy, who was only a trouble and
made it difficult for him to get a situation.
Pelle felt despairingly convinced that it must be so, as, crying, he went
off with the sack. The same thing had happened to other children with
whom he was well acquainted; but they came to the pancake cottage
and were quite happy, and Pelle himself would be sure to--perhaps find
the king and be taken in there and have the little princes for his

playmates, and his own little palace to live in. But Father Lasse
shouldn't have a thing, for now Pelle was angry and vindictive,
although he was crying just as unrestrainedly. He would let him stand
and knock at the door and beg to come in for three days, and only when
he began to cry--no, he would have to let him in at once, for to see
Father Lasse cry hurt him more than anything else in the world. But he
shouldn't have a single one of the nails Pelle had filled his pockets with
down in the timber-yard; and when the king's wife brought them coffee
in the morning before they were up----
But here both his tears and his happy imaginings ceased, for out of a
tavern at the top of the street came Father Lasse's own living self. He
looked in excellent spirits and held a bottle in his hand.
"Danish brandy, laddie!" he cried, waving the bottle. "Hats off to the
Danish brandy! But what have you been crying for? Oh, you were
afraid? And why were you afraid? Isn't your father's name Lasse--Lasse
Karlsson from Kungstorp? And he's not one to quarrel with; he hits
hard, he does, when he's provoked. To come and frighten good little
boys! They'd better look out! Even if the whole wide world were full of
naming devils, Lasse's here and you needn't be afraid!"
During all this fierce talk he was tenderly wiping the boy's tear- stained
cheeks and nose with his rough hand, and taking the sack upon his back
again. There was something touchingly feeble about his stooping figure,
as, boasting and comforting, he trudged down again to the harbor
holding the boy by the hand. He tottered along in his big waterproof
boots, the tabs of which stuck out at the side and bore an astonishing
resemblance to Pelle's ears; out of the gaping pockets of his old winter
coat protruded on one side his red pocket-handkerchief, on the other the
bottle. He had become a little looser in his knee-joints now, and the
sack threatened momentarily to get the upper hand of him, pushing him
forward and forcing him to go at a trot down the hill. He looked
decrepit, and perhaps his boastful words helped to produce this effect;
but his eyes beamed confidently, and he smiled down at the boy, who
ran along beside him.
They drew near to the shed, and Pelle turned cold with fear, for the

black man was still standing there. He went round to the other side of
his father, and tried to pull him out in a wide curve over the harbor
square. "There he is again," he whimpered.
"So that's what was after you, is it?" said Lasse, laughing heartily; "and
he's made of wood, too! Well, you really are the bravest laddie I ever
knew! I should almost think you might be sent out to fight a trussed
chicken, if you had a stick in your hand!" Lasse went on laughing, and
shook the boy goodnaturedly. But Pelle was ready to sink into the
ground with shame.
Down by the custom-house they met a bailiff who had come too late
for the steamer and had engaged no laborers. He stopped his cart and
asked Lasse if he was looking for a place.
"Yes, we both want one," answered Lasse, briskly.