“Thank thee, Tante Frieda, I can’t come in this time. It’s hard, though, to resist that odour of gingerbread,” Fritz added with a smile; “but the father will come home to-night, and I must be there to greet him.”
“Thy father will be tired from his journey, so thou must have something hot for him when he comes.”
“Yes, old Gesta promised to make one of her famous stews for him, and I’ll get out a bottle of his favourite wine.”
“Did he sell all of his toys in Nüremberg?” Frau Hofer asked.
“Yes, and he has orders for all that he can make between now and Christmas.”
“Then that means thou wilt have to turn toymaker in earnest now, and help him. Thou hast already had some training in the work. It would be good to walk along the street and see a sign that read ‘Conrad Albrecht and Son, Toymakers.’”
Fritz made a wry face and shook his head.
“My tools and these fingers would never be at peace. They were not intended for each other. Look at my hands, tante; can’t you see that they are far too clumsy for such work?”
And saying this, the boy held up his broad little palms and stretched his fingers wide apart.
“But,” he added with a smile, “if my work-bench were only a ship, I’d sail away to distant lands; then, if there were mountains in the way, I’d tunnel through them, and over the rivers I’d throw great bridges. And, maybe, when tired of all this,” he added, looking knowingly at Katrina, “I’d get into my ship again, and sail away and away in search of the greatest of all treasures.”