When the master was not present, little Nikas would sometimes
indulge in tittle-tattle with the older apprentices. Remarks were
made at such times which opened new spheres of thought to Pelle, and
he had to ask questions; or they would talk of the country, which
Pelle knew better than all of them put together, and he would chime
in with some correction. _Smack!_ came a box on his ears that
would send him rolling into the corner; he was to hold his tongue
until he was spoken to. But Pelle, who was all eyes and ears, and
had been accustomed to discuss everything in heaven or earth with
Father Lasse, could not learn to hold his tongue.

Each exacted with a strong hand his quantum of respect, from
the apprentices to the old master, who was nearly bursting with
professional pride in his handicraft; only Pelle had no claim to any
respect whatever, but must pay tribute to all. The young master was
the only one who did not press like a yoke on the youngster's neck.
Easygoing as he was, he would disregard the journeyman and the rest,
and at times he would plump himself down beside Pelle, who sat there
feeling dreadfully small.

Outside, when the sun was shining through the trees in a particular
way, and a peculiar note came into the twittering of the birds,
Pelle knew it was about the time when the cows began to get on their
feet after their midday chewing of the cud. And then a youngster
would come out from among the little fir-trees, lustily cracking his
whip; he was the general of the whole lot--Pelle, the youngster--who
had no one set over him. And the figure that came stumbling across
the arable yonder, in order to drive the cows home--why, that was
Lasse!