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Page 24
"Thanks, Mr. Robson," said the old man, overjoyed, as he took out his
pipe, the stem of which was not more than half an inch long, while the
whole was as black as everything else which belonged to Anders.
He pressed down the moist tobacco as hard as he could, in the hope of
getting as much as would last for a day or two; he then picked up a
burning ember from the turf fire, which he applied to the bowl.
It was no easy matter to get the tobacco to light, but the smoke, when
it began to draw, seemed warm and comforting to the old man. He sat
there, crouching on the edge of the bench, eagerly watching Tom each
time he passed him the mug, and not forgetting to say "Thank you, Mr.
Robson," before he took his drink.
Martin grew more and more violent. "Isn't it enough," he yelled, "for us
to work ourselves to death for these creatures? Are they going to watch
every bit we eat, and every drop we drink? Just look at their houses!
look how they live up there! Who has got all that for them? We, I tell
you, grandfather; we who have been toiling here fishing, and going to
sea year after year, son after father, in storm and tempest, watching
night after night in wind and snow, so as to bring back wealth for these
wretches! Just look what we get for it all! What a pig-stye we live in!
And even that does not belong to us. Nothing does! It all belongs to
them--clothes, food, and drink, body and soul, house and home, every
bit!"
Begmand sat rocking himself to and fro, and drawing hard at his pipe.
Woodlouse saw that there was a pause, and so began again.
"Property is robbery--"
But Martin would not let him continue. "There is no one in the whole
world," he shouted, "who puts up with what we do! Why don't we go up and
say, 'Share with us, we who have done all the work'? There has been
enough of this blood-sucking! But no; we are not a bit better than a lot
of old women; not one of us! They would never put up with that sort of
thing in America."
"Ha! ha! good again!" laughed Tom Robson. "I dare say you think people
are willing to share like brothers in America? No, my boy; you would
soon find out you were wrong."
"Do you mean to tell me that workmen in America live like we do?" asked
Martin, somewhat abashed.
"No; but they do what you can't do," answered Tom.
"What do they do?" asked Martin.
"They work; and that is what you and no one else does here!" shouted
Tom, bringing his fist down heavily on the table. He was beginning to
feel the effects of the rum.
"What's that about work? Do you mean to say--?" began the Swede.
"Hold your jaw!" cried Tom. "Let the old un have his say!"
"You are quite wrong, Martin," said Begmand, and this time without
stammering. The watery look of his old eyes told that the beer was
beginning to work. "It's shameful of you to talk like that about the
firm. They have given both your father and your grandfather certain
employment; and you might have had the same if you had behaved yourself.
The old Consul was the first man in the whole world, and the young
Consul is a glorious fellow too. Here's his health!"
"Oh!" broke in Martin, "I don't know what you are talking about,
grandfather. I don't see that you have got much to boast of. What about
my father, and Uncle Svend, and Uncle Reinert,--every one lost in the
Consul's ships; and what have you got by it all? Two empty hands, and
just as much food as will keep body and soul together. Or perhaps you
think," continued he, with a fiendish laugh, "that we have some
connection with the family because of Marianne!"
"Martin, it's--it's--" began the old man, his face crimsoning up to the
very roots of his hair, and struggling vainly with his infirmity.
"Have a drink, old un," said Tom, good naturedly, handing Begmand the
mug.
The old man paused for breath. "Thanks, Mr. Robson," said he, taking a
long breath.
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