Robert Surcouf was born at St. Malo—just one hundred years after Du Guay-Trouin, to whom he was related. And like his famous relative he had been intended for the Church,—but he was always fighting; was insubordinate, and could not be made to study. In fact, he was what is known as a “holy terror.”
Finally good Mamma Surcouf sent him to the Seminary of St. Dinan, saying:
“Now, Robert, be a good boy and study hard thy lessons!”
And Robert said, “Oui, Madame!” But he would not work.
One day the master in arithmetic did not like the method in which young “Bobbie” answered him, and raising a cane, he ran towards the youthful scholar. But Robert had learned a kind of “Jiu-Jitsu” practiced by the youths of France, and he tackled his irate master like an end-rush upon the foot-ball team, when he dives for a runner. Both fell to the ground with a thud. And all the other boys yelled “Fine!” in unison.
Now was a fierce battle, but weight told, and “Bobbie” was soon underneath, with his teeth in the leg of his tutor. They scratched and rolled until “Bobbie” freed himself, and, running to the window, jumped outside—for he was on the ground floor—scaled the garden fence, and made off. Home was twenty miles away.
“I must get there, somehow,” said young “Bobbie.” “I can never go back. I will be spanked so that I cannot seat myself.”
So little “Bob” trudged onward in the snow, for it was winter. It grew dark. It was bitterly cold, and he had no hat. At length—worn out with cold and hunger—he sank senseless to the roadside.
Luck pursues those destined for greatness.
Some fish-merchants happened that way, and, seeing the poor, helpless, little boy, they picked him up; placed him upon a tiny dog-cart; and carried him to St. Malo, where he had a severe attack of pneumonia. But his good mother nursed him through, saying: