A peculiar, secret understanding grew up between Pelle and the
master; it did not manifest itself in words, but in glances, in
tones of the voice, and in the whole conduct of each. When Pelle
stood behind him, it was as though even the master's leather jacket
emitted a feeling of warmth, and Pelle followed him with his eyes
whenever and wherever he could, and the master's behavior to Pelle
was different from his behavior to the others.

When, on his return from running errands in the town, he came to
the corner, he was delighted to see the young master standing in
the doorway, tightly grasping his stick, with his lame leg in an
easy position. He stood there, sweeping his eyes from side to side,
gazing longingly into the distance. This was his place when he was
not indoors, sitting over some book of adventure. But Pelle liked
him to stand there, and as he slipped past he would hang his head
shyly, for it often happened that the master would clutch his
shoulder, so hard that it hurt, and shake him to and fro, and would
say affectionately: "Oh, you limb of Satan!" This was the only
endearment that life had vouchsafed Pelle, and he sunned himself
in it.

Pelle could not understand the master, nor did he understand his
sighs and groans. The master never went out, save as an exception,
when he was feeling well; then he would hobble across to the
beerhouse and make up a party, but as a rule his travels ended at
the house door. There he would stand, looking about him a little,
and then he would hobble indoors again, with that infectious good
humor which transformed the dark workshop into a grove full of
the twittering of birds. He had never been abroad, and he felt no