writhing as he loosed himself. Something sticky and slippery slipped
through his fingers with the waxed-end; it was bloody hair, and
across his neck the thread had bitten its way in a gutter of lymph
and molten wax. But Pelle no longer felt the pain, his head was
boiling so, and he felt a vague but tremendous longing to pick up
a hammer and strike them all to the ground, and then to run through
the street, banging at the skulls of all he met. But then the
journeyman took the lasts off him, and the pain came back to him,
and his whole miserable plight. He heard Jeppe's squeaky voice,
and looked at the young master, who sat there submissively, without
having the courage to express his opinion, and all at once he felt
terribly sorry for himself.

"That was right," buzzed old Jeppe, "a shoemaker mustn't be afraid
to wax his hide a little. What? I believe it has actually brought
the water to his eyes! No, when I was apprentice we had a real
ordeal; we had to pass the waxed-end twice round our necks before we
were allowed to pull. Our heads used to hang by a thread and dangle
when we were done. Yes, those were times!"

Pelle stood there shuffling, in order to fight down his tears; but
he had to snigger with mischievous delight at the idea of Jeppe's
dangling head.

"Then we must see whether he can stand a buzzing head," said the
journeyman, getting ready to strike him.

"No, you can wait until he deserves it," said Master Andres hastily.
"You will soon find an occasion."