The policemen crossed the street and separated outside the shop. One of them stood looking at the articles exhibited in the window for a little while, and then quickly entered the shop. “Is Peter Dreyer here?” he asked haughtily.
“I’m he,” answered Peter, withdrawing behind the counter. “But I advise you not to touch me! I can’t bear the touch of a policeman’s hands.”
“You’re arrested!” said the policeman shortly, following him.
Pelle laid his hand upon his arm. “You should go to work with a little gentleness,” he said. But the man pushed him roughly away. “I’ll have no interference from you!” he cried, blowing his whistle. Peter started, and for a moment his thoughts were at a standstill; then he leaped like a cat over the iron railing, of the workshop steps. But the other policeman was there to receive him, and he sprang once more into the shop, close up to his pursuer. He had his revolver in his hand. “I’ve had enough of this, confound you!” he hissed.
Two shots sounded, one immediately after the other. The policeman just managed to turn round, but fell forward with his head under the counter, and Peter dropped upon the top of him. It looked as if he had tripped over the policeman’s leg; but when Pelle went to help him up he saw that the blood was trickling from a hole in his temple. The policeman was dead.
Peter opened his eyes with difficulty when Pelle raised his head. “Take me away!” he whispered, turning his head toward the dead man with an expression of loathing. He still kept a convulsive hold upon his revolver.
Pelle took it from him, and carried him in to the sofa in the office. “Get me a little water!” said Pelle to the old librarian, who was standing trembling at the door, but the old man did not hear him.
Peter made a sign that he needed nothing now. “But those two,” he whispered. Pelle nodded. “And then—Pelle—comrade—” He tried to fix his dying gaze upon Pelle, but suddenly started convulsively, his knees being drawn right up to his chin. “Bloodhounds!” he groaned, his eyes converging so strongly that the pupils disappeared altogether; but then his features fell once more into their ordinary folds as his head sank back, and he was dead.
The policeman came in. “Well, is he dead?” he asked maliciously. “He’s made fools of us long enough!”
Pelle took him by the arm and led him to the door. “He’s no longer in your district,” he said, as he closed the door behind him and followed the man into the shop, where the dead policeman lay upon the counter. His fellow-policeman had laid him there, locked the outer door, and pulled down the blinds.
“Will you stop the work and tell the men what has happened?” said Pelle quietly to Brun. “There’s something else I must see to. There’ll be no more work done here today.”
“Are you going?” asked the old man anxiously.
“Yes, I’m going to take Peter’s meeting for him, now that he can’t do it himself,” answered Pelle in a low voice.
They had gone down through the workshop, where the men were standing about, looking at one another. They had heard the shots, but had no idea what they meant. “Peter is dead!” said Pelle. His emotion prevented him from saying anything more. Everything seemed suddenly to rush over him, and he hastened out and jumped onto a tramcar.
Out on one of the large fields behind Nörrebro a couple of thousand unemployed were gathered. The wind had risen and blew gustily from the west over the field. The men tramped backward and forward, or stood shivering in their thin clothes. The temper of the crowd was threatening. Men continued to pour out from the side streets, most of them sorry figures, with faces made older by want of work. Many of them could no longer show themselves in the town for want of clothes, and took this opportunity of joining the others.
There was grumbling among them because the meeting had not begun. Men asked one another what the reason was, and no one could tell. Suppose Peter Dreyer had cheated them too, and had gone over to the corporation!
Suddenly a figure appeared upon the cart that was to be used as a platform, and the men pressed forward on all sides. Who in the world was it? It was not Peter Dreyer! Pelle? What smith? Oh, him from The Great Struggle—“the Lightning”! Was he still to the fore? Yes, indeed he was! Why, he’d become a big manufacturer and a regular pillar of society. What in the world did he want here? He had plenty of cheek!
Suddenly a storm of shouts and hisses broke out, mingled with a little applause.
Pelle stood looking out over the crowd with an expression of terrible earnestness. Their demonstration against him did not move him; he was standing here in the stead of a dead man. He still felt Peter’s heavy head on his arm.
When comparative quiet was restored he raised his head. “Peter Dreyer is dead!” he said in a voice that was heard by everyone. Whispers passed through the crowd, and they looked questioningly at one another as though they had not heard correctly. He saw from their expression how much would go to pieces in their lives when they believed it.
“It’s a lie!” suddenly cried a voice, relieving the tension. “You’re hired by the police to entice us round the corner, you sly fellow!”
Pelle turned pale. “Peter Dreyer is lying in the factory with a bullet through his head,” he repealed inexorably. “The police were going to arrest him, and he shot both the policeman and himself!”
For a moment all the life in the crowd seemed to be petrified by the pitiless truth, and he saw how they had loved Peter Dreyer. Then they began to make an uproar, shouting that they would go and speak to the police, and some
