name and likeness, and carry on after him.... There lay his belief;
there was nothing to be done about it. And the others began to speak
in hushed voices, in order not to disturb his memories.

Pelle, who concerned himself with everything in heaven and earth,
had been absorbing every word that was spoken with his protruding
ears, but when the conversation turned upon death he yawned. He
himself had never been seriously ill, and since Mother Bengta died,
death had never encroached upon his world. And that was lucky for
him, as it would have been a case of all or nothing, for he had only
Father Lasse. For Pelle the cruel hands of death hardly existed,
and he could not understand how people could lay themselves down
with their noses in the air; there was so much to observe here
below--the town alone kept one busy.

On the very first evening he had run out to look for the other boys,
just where the crowd was thickest. There was no use in waiting;
Pelle was accustomed to take the bull by the horns, and he longed
to be taken into favor.

"What sort of brat is that?" they said, flocking round him.

"I'm Pelle," he said, standing confidently in the midst of the
group, and looking at them all. "I have been at Stone Farm since
I was eight, and that is the biggest farm in the north country."
He had put his hands in his pockets, and spat coolly in front of
him, for that was nothing to what he had in reserve.

"Oh, so you're a farmer chap, then!" said one, and the others
laughed. Rud was among them.