It was a very grave and tear-bedimmed little lad who sat on his
guardian’s knee. It had been a gentle but earnest talk which had caused
the tears; and somehow the boy understood well just what it was in his
behavior which had so troubled Fritzy Nunky’s heart, “down deep.”
The trouble had not been just the same as that one about the untruth;
but it had come nearest to that of any emotion the dear face had ever
shown.
“You see, don’t you, little man?”
“Yes--I see,” Fritz made answer, between those long, swelling sobs
which are so distressing to the child lover. “It’s this here way: I am
a good boy, and you know I am a good boy. An’ you want these new folks
to know I ain’t a reg’lar fighter, but I’m pretty good. But you see,
it don’t--it isn’t--I couldn’t,--well, I couldn’t just help pitchin’
into that Melville. I didn’t do it for ugly, but I couldn’t ’pear to
help it, nohow! I hope I don’t want to do it again; but if I do, how’m
I goin’ to help it? It’s the quickness inside of me that makes my fists
go double up. It isn’t--me!”
“How, then, art thou going to prove to these kinsfolk that it isn’t
‘me?’ I fear the dear grandmother thinks it is the real ‘me’; and I am
sure the Aunt Ruth does.”
“But can’t you make her understand diff’runt? Couldn’t you tell her how
good I am, Fritzy Nunky?” asked the unhappy child, coaxingly.
“Be sure I will do that. But how am I to make it seem real to her? Thou
wilt have to make her understand that--I cannot. Fritzy Nunky does know
about the good heart, and the fair intentions; but if they do not show
on the outside, what then?”
The question was too deep for little Fritz. He waived it, asking
another:--
“Who is the ‘Witch of Endor?’ I ain’t a-going to fight her no more, you
bet!”
Uncle Fritz smiled, but not very happily. “She was a very wise old lady
who lived in ancient times.” Then, thinking to disabuse the lad’s mind
of mistaken notions, he added: “She must have been a kindly soul, too;
for when the King Saul,--a man who fought, and intended to fight, so
was not like my boy,--when this fighting king came to her, though she
was afraid he would kill her, yet she made him a dinner of her fatted
calf and a wheaten cake.”
“Calf? That’s veal, isn’t it? Suppose it was a veal pot-pie, like Aunt
Ruth had for dinner?”
“Maybe.”
“Must ha’ been good! And did the fighter have her ‘to pay?’”
Poor Uncle Fritz laughed. Then he enlarged upon the good qualities of
the ancient dame with “the familiar spirit,” hoping to arouse some
liking for her in his nephew’s breast, and craftily leading the child
on to understand that all these excellent things were repeated and
strengthened in the present person of Mrs. Margaret Capers.
“But if she was so good, why do you still have her ‘to pay?’”
“Because I am a foolish man. I use words and expressions that I should
not. I get vexed when things go wrong, and then I feel I must say
something. That expression which has so misled you came most natural;
and now, indeed, I do have ‘to pay’ by seeing what a muddle I have led
you into.”
There was much more of this talk, during which the guardian did not
exempt himself from a generous share of the blame. If he had “had more
wisdom” his charges would have made a better showing on their first
appearance at their new home, and not have appeared so much like a lot
of “untrained savages.” Consequently, their reception would have been
more cordial.
For it must be confessed that the friendly Aunt Ruth had not treated
her younger nephew with much consideration after his second pugilistic
exploit. She did not care to have history repeat itself in that way. It
was one thing when the victim was that exasperating Melville, and quite
another when a frail old lady was the sufferer. She had not said very
much, and therein congratulated herself for being unusually prudent;
but, as Fritz had expressed it, “she had looked with her eyes” in a
way that meant volumes, and “talking eyes” had been the one thing he
had ever feared most. Uncle Fritz “talked eyes” when he was the most
deeply aggrieved; and little Fritz found it most unpleasant to have an
American relative addicted to the same bad habit.
She came into the room just then and there, and, seeing the two Fritzes
in such confidential discussion, would have speedily withdrawn, had not
the gentleman risen and begged her to remain. It was as good a time as
another to explain how matters really were.
So Aunt Ruth sat down and listened patiently; but with an unbelieving
manner which hurt the kindly German far more than she dreamed.
“Yes, I doubt not they are excellent children, as children go; but I
have had little experience.”
Mr. Pickel smiled.
“Your tone indicates that you have still had all that you desire--”
“No, no; thee must not say that, nor think it,” interrupted the lady
quickly. “They are my sister’s children. It is right that I should be
bothered with them, as well as that thee should be. Thee has certainly
had thy share of their care.”
“Please do not look at it in that light, dear Fräulein. It is not the
care that I dislike; indeed, that I never feel. It is that you and
your mother should misjudge my children, and not understand how really
good and delightful they are. Fritzy, now--” Here Ruth intercepted a
grateful glance which the child raised to his uncle’s face, and could
not fail to be touched by it. “Fritzy is a wonderfully obedient and
honorable child.”
“Fritzy” began to prick up his ears; but he let them droop, so to
speak, at sound of his aunt’s expressive “Humph!” But he was very tired
of the whole subject, and longed to make an end of it. It was already
afternoon of that day which had opened with such bright anticipations
of a new donkey friendship, and all he had been able to accomplish in
the way of it was to stand sorrowfully in the doorway of the passage,
where Uncle Fritz had bidden him remain, and sigh in sympathy with
Don’s mournful bray. At that very moment the echo of it came to their
ears, and the boy left his uncle to walk to the window and look out.
Young as he was, Fritzy still hated to make promises, for he had
already learned by observation that it is a very difficult matter
to keep them. But he suddenly determined to run the risk of one,
thinking by that means to cut short this wearisome talk and his own
imprisonment, as well as bring back the right kind of a smile to
his pretty aunt’s face. So he walked toward her, watching her eyes
intently, and was relieved to find them “talking” no longer, or only in
a gentle way.
“Aunt Ruth, I won’t never fight anybody any more. Truly, never.”
“That is a rash thing to say, Fritzy; how about the ‘quickness inside
of you?’” asked his guardian, cautiously.
“Oh, I s’pose it’ll bother me like ginger; but if I say I won’t, I
won’t; will I, uncle?”
“I think he is to be trusted, Fräulein,” testified that witness.
Ruth stooped down and raised Fritzy to her lap.
“Listen, little one; we are Friends--Quakers--in this household. Our
yea is yea, and our nay, nay. Thee is Quaker, too, on thy mother’s
side, and I am going to believe it is she who speaks through thee. Now
thee may kiss me and go to Don.”
“I hope he will not be tempted to break his word,” commented Aunt Ruth,
as the lad disappeared like a flash through the open doorway.
“He may be tempted, but he will not break it,” answered Uncle Fritz,
quietly.
“Thee speaks strongly, and he is--such a child.”
“Because he is--_such_ a child, dear Fräulein. They are all dear and
delightful, but little Fritz,--he is my one ‘sweet pickle.’”
Smiling at this very evident truth, Aunt Ruth, with a greatly relieved
heart, followed “little Fritz.”