the reverse direction, for here people grew lively at night!

About half-past six in the morning the master, who slept downstairs,
would strike the ceiling with his stick. Pelle, whose business it
was to reply, would mechanically sit up and strike the side of the
bedstead with his clenched fist. Then, still sleeping, he would fall
back again. After a while the process was repeated. But then the
master grew impatient. "Devil take it! aren't you going to get up
to-day?" he would bellow. "Is this to end in my bringing you your
coffee in bed?" Drunken with sleep, Pelle would tumble out of bed.
"Get up, get up!" he would cry, shaking the others. Jens got nimbly
on his feet; he always awoke with a cry of terror, guarding his
head; but Emil and Peter, who were in the hobbledehoy stage,
were terribly difficult to wake.

Pelle would hasten downstairs, and begin to set everything in order,
filling the soaking-tub and laying a sand-heap by the window-bench
for the master to spit into. He bothered no further about the others;
he was in a morning temper himself. On the days when he had to
settle right away into the cobbler's hunch, without first running
a few early errands or doing a few odd tasks, it took hours to thaw
him.

He used to look round to see whether on the preceding evening he
had made a chalk-mark in any conspicuous place; for then there must
be something that he had to remember. Memory was not his strong
point, hence this ingenious device. Then it was only a matter of not
forgetting what the mark stood for; if he forgot, he was no better
off than before.