CHAPTER VII.
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!”