Fritz had stiffened the grasp of his fingers to a painful clutch; and he had yet to learn that Melville was habitually “sore all over,” outwardly as well as within.
The clutch succeeded where the gentler touch had failed, and the sick lad opened his eyes with such suddenness that his disturber fairly jumped.
“What the dickens are you doing here again?” roared Melville.
Fritz trembled. Still, he did not retreat; he was far too much in earnest.
“I come—I come—” began the child, and paused, confused. He somehow found this humiliation of himself vastly harder than any of the many similar confessions he had previously made. He was accustomed to having his “I’m sorrys” met more than half way by the friendly interpretation of love.
But there was no love in the scowling brow upon the pillow, and only a very present memory of the indignity which its owner had suffered.
“Yes, I see you’ve ‘come.’ Why? That’s what I want to know!” thundered the invalid.
“What is it, Melville? Did you call me, darling?” sleepily asked Grandmother Capers, coming to the doorway; and Fritz’s ready attention was drawn away from his cousin to her.
He looked; he stared; and as he stared his eyes grew bigger and bigger, which was quite unnecessary, since they were very round and wide open at all times. He had never seen any such person, and instantly he decided that the old lady was the “Witch of Endor,” about whom his guardian was continually talking when things went wrong in his great business house. “The ‘Witch of Endor’ is to pay!” was Uncle Fritz’s most vehement expression; and little Fritz thought that this must be she, and he did not at all wonder that big Fritz dreaded her.
His feet began to shake in their ill-adjusted shoes, and, if his hair had not been so well deluged by those two dabs of the brush and bath water, it might have stood upright.