Good evening, friend! THE BUTTON-MOULDER. The man’s in a hurry. Why, where is he going? PEER. To a grave-feast. THE BUTTON-MOULDER. Indeed? My sight’s not very good;— Excuse me,—your name doesn’t chance to be Peer? PEER. Peer Gynt, as the saying is. THE BUTTON-MOULDER. That I call luck! It’s precisely Peer Gynt I am sent for to-night. PEER. You’re sent for? What do you want? THE BUTTON-MOULDER. Why, see here; I mould buttons; and you must go into my ladle. PEER. What to do there? THE BUTTON-MOULDER. To be melted up. PEER. To be melted? THE BUTTON-MOULDER. Here it is, empty and scoured. Your grave is dug ready, your coffin bespoke. The worms in your body will live at their ease;— But I have orders, without delay, On Master’s behalf to fetch in your soul. PEER. It can’t be! Like this, without any warning——! THE BUTTON-MOULDER. It’s an old tradition at burials and births To appoint in secret the day of the feast, With no warning at all to the guest of honour. PEER. Ay, ay, that’s true. All my brain’s awhirl. You are——? THE BUTTON-MOULDER. Why, I told you—a button-moulder. PEER. I see! A pet child has many nicknames. So that’s it, Peer; it is there you’re to harbour But these, my good man, are most unfair proceedings! I’m sure I deserve better treatment than this;— I’m not nearly so bad as perhaps you think,— Indeed I’ve done more or less good in the world;— At worst you may call me a sort of a bungler,— But certainly not an exceptional sinner. THE BUTTON-MOULDER. Why that is precisely the rub, my man; You’re no sinner at all in the higher sense; That’s why you’re excused all the torture-pangs, And, like others, land in the casting-ladle. PEER. Give it what name you please—call it ladle or pool;[129] Spruce ale and swipes, they are both of them beer. Avaunt from me, Satan! THE BUTTON-MOULDER. You can’t be so rude As to take my foot for a horse’s hoof? PEER. On horse’s hoof or on fox’s claws[130]— Be off; and be careful what you’re about! THE BUTTON-MOULDER.