“You have a small opinion of me, Miss Fielding!” he exclaimed.
“That is your fault, not mine,” she told him coolly. “And I hope you will show me that I am wrong.”
He went away without further word, and in a little while she heard somebody drawing the nails from the doorframe.
“Who is that?” she asked before she unlocked the door.
“It’s me, ma’am,” said the rather drawling voice of the man Boldig called “Fritz.”
He did not seem to be a typical German at least. When Ruth opened her door she found the man to be rather a simple-looking fellow. He grinned and touched his forelock.
“I’m to show you where they cook, Miss, and how to find the mess tins and all. There’s a good fire in one of the galley ranges. The boys is all your friends, Miss. You needn’t be afraid of us.”
“I am not at all afraid of you, Fritz,” she said, smiling at him. “I count you as my friend aboard here, if nobody else is.”
“Sure you can count on me, Miss. You know,” he added confidentially, “I ain’t a reg’lar German. Not like Mr. Boldig and these other fellers. I was born in Boston, and I’d rather be right there now than over on this side of the pond. But you needn’t tell anybody I said so.”
“I won’t say anything about it,” she told him, following him through the passages toward the steward’s and cook’s quarters. “But why, then, if your heart is not in this business, why did you join in the expedition to take charge of the Admiral Pekhard?”