“Ah, you don’t know all that has happened since you left,” said Fritz solemnly.
“Nothing is the matter with mother, dear mutterchen?” asked Eric in a frightened voice.
“No; she’s quite well, thank God,” said Fritz, who then proceeded to give his brother a history of all that had transpired in his absence—the account taking all the longer from Eric’s ignorance of the war and everything connected with it, he not having seen a newspaper from the time of his leaving home until his arrival at Rhode Island, when, the events of the past memorable year being of course stale news, they had no chance of being communicated to him.
“And now,” said Fritz, when he had made an end of his confidences in return for his brother’s story, “I want to know Captain Brown, and thank him for all his kindness to you, Eric.”
As Fritz said this, the broad-shouldered, jolly, seafaring man Eric had pointed out—who was still talking to Fritz’s acquaintance of the steamboat, close to the divan and within sound of the brothers’ voices—hearing his name spoken, looked towards Fritz, who at once raised his hat politely.
“Sarvint, sir,” said he, coming forward and stretching out an open hand about the size of a small-sized ham.
“You’re the brother, I reckon from the likeness, of this young shaver I picked up off the Cape, hey? My name’s Brown, Cap’en Brown, sir, of the Pilot’s Bride, the smartest whaling craft as ever sailed out o’ Providence, I guess. Glad to know you, mister!”