Fritz and Eric - The Brother Crusoes

John C. (John Conroy) Hutcheson

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• Publié par: uddi
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 21
• Langue: English

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fritz and Eric, by John Conroy Hutcheson
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Title: Fritz and Eric
The Brother Crusoes
Author: John Conroy Hutcheson
Release Date: April 16, 2007 [EBook #21108]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRITZ AND ERIC ***
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
John Conroy Hutcheson
"Fritz and Eric"
Chapter One.
“Good-Bye!”
“Time is getting on, little mother, and we’ll soon have to say farewell!”
“Aye, my child. The parting is a sad one to me; but I hope and trust the good God
will hold you in His safe keeping, and guide your footsteps back home to me
again!”
“Never you fear, little mother. He will do that, and in a year’s time we shall all
meet again under the old roof-tree, I’m certain. Keep your heart up, mother
mine, the same as I do; remember, it is not a ‘Farewell’ I am saying for ever, it is
merely ‘Auf wiedersehen!’”
“I hope so, Eric, surely; still, we cannot tell what the future may bring forth!” said
the other sadly.
Mother and son were wending their way through the quaint, old-fashioned,
sleepy main street of Lubeck that led to the railway station—a bran-new modern
structure that seemed strangely incongruous amidst the antique surroundings of
the ancient town. Although it was past the midday hour, hardly a soul was to be
seen moving about; and the western sun lighted up the green spires of the
churches and red-tiled pointed roofs of the houses, glinting from the peculiar
eye-shaped dormer windows of some of the cottages with the most grotesqueeffect and making them appear as if winking at the onlooker. It seemed like a
scene of a bygone age reproduced on the canvas of some Flemish artist; and,
but that Eric and his mother were accustomed to it, they must have rubbed their
eyes, like Rip Van Winkle when he came down from the goblin-haunted mountain
into the old village of his youth, in doubt whether all was real, thinking it might be
a dream. Presently, however, they were at the railway station, and they would
have been convinced, if they had felt inclined to believe otherwise, that they
were living in the present. But, even here, amid all the hissing of steam, and
creaking of carriages, and whirr of moving machinery, the queer old-world
costumes of the peasantry, with their quaint hats and mantles, which more
resembled the stage properties of a Christmas pantomime than the known dress
of any people of the period, all spoke of the past—a past when the great
Barbarossa reigned in Central Europe, and when there were “Robbers of the
Rhine,” and “Forty thousand virgins,” in company with Saint Ursula, canonising
the sainted and scented city of Cologne. Ah, those days of long ago!
“Here we are at last, mother,” said Eric, slinging the bag containing his sea kit on
to the railway platform. “The old engine is getting its steam up, and we’ll soon be
off. Cheer up, little mother! As I’ve told you, it is not a good-bye for ever!”
“So you say, my son. The young ever look forward; but old people like myself
look back, and it makes us reflect how few of the noble aspirations and longing
anticipations of our youth are ever realised!”
“Old people like yourself indeed, little mother!” said Eric indignantly, tossing up
his lion-like head, and looking as if he would like to see any one else who would
dare to make such an assertion, the next moment throwing his arms round her
neck, and hugging her fondly. “I won’t have you calling yourself old, you dear
little mother, with your nice glossy brown hair, and beautiful bright blue eyes and
handsome face—a face which I fail not to see Burgher Jans gaze on with
eloquent expression every Sunday when we go to the Dom Kirche. Ah, I know—”
“Fie, my son!” exclaimed Madame Dort, interrupting him by placing her hand
across his mouth, a process which soon stopped his indiscreet impetuosity, a
warm blush the while mantling her comely countenance; for she was yet in the
bloom of middle-aged womanhood. “Suppose, now, any one were to overhear
you, audacious child!”
“Ah, but I know, though,” repeated the boy triumphantly, when he had again
regained his freedom of speech. “I won’t tell, little mother; still, I must make a
bargain with you, as I don’t intend that fusty old Burgher Jans to have my
handsome young mutterchen, that’s poz! But, to change the subject, why are
you so despondent about my leaving you now, dear mother? I’ve been already
away from you two voyages, and yet have returned safe and sound to Lubeck.”
“You forget, my child, that the pitcher sometimes goes once too often to the
well. The ocean is treacherous, and the perils of the sea are great, although you,
in boy-like fashion, may laugh at them. Strong men have but too often to
acknowledge the supremacy of the waves when they bear them down to their
watery grave, leaving widows and orphans, alas! to mourn their untimely fate
with sad and bitter tears! Don’t you remember your poor father’s end, my son?”
“I do, mother,” answered the boy gravely; “still, all sailors are not drowned, nor is
a seafaring life always dangerous.”
“Granted, my child,” responded his mother to this truism; “but, those who go
down to the sea in ships, as the Psalmist says, see the perils of the deep, and
lead a venturesome calling! Besides, Eric, I must tell you that I—I do not feel
myself so strong as I was when you first left home and became a sailor boy; and,
although I have no doubt a good Providence will watch over you, and preserve
you in answer to my heartfelt prayers, yet you are now starting on a longervoyage than you have yet undertaken, and perchance I may not live to greet you
on your return!”
“Oh, mother, don’t say that, don’t say that!” exclaimed Eric in a heart-broken
voice; “you are not ill, you are not ailing, mother dear?” and he peered anxiously
with a loving gaze into her eyes, to try and read some meaning there for the
sorrowful presage that had escaped thus inadvertently from her lips, drawn forth
by the agony of parting.
“No, my darling, nothing very alarming,” she said soothingly, wishing to avoid
distressing him needlessly by communicating what might really be only, as she
hoped, a groundless fear on her part. “I do not feel exactly ill, dear. I was only
speaking about the natural frail tenure of this mortal life of ours. This saying
‘Good-bye’ to you too, my darling, makes me infected with morbid fear and
nervous anxiety. Fancy me nervous, Eric—I whom you call your strong-minded
mother, eh?” and the poor lady smiled bravely, so as to encourage the lad, and
banish his easily excited fears on her account. It was but a sickly smile, however,
for it did not come genuinely from the heart, prompted though the latter was
with the fullest affection. Still, Eric did not perceive this, and the smile quickly
dismissed his fears.
“Ha, ha,” he laughed in his light-hearted, ringing way. “The idea of your being
nervous, like I remember old grandmother Grimple was when I used to jump
suddenly in at the door or fire my popgun! I would never believe it, not even if
you yourself said it. Ah, now you look better already, and like my own dear little
mother who will keep safe and well, and welcome me back next year, surely; and
then, dear one, we’ll have no end of a happy time!”
“I hope so, Eric; I hope so with all my heart,” said she, pressing the eager lad to
her bosom in a fond embrace; “and you may be sure that none will be so glad to
welcome you back as I!”
“Think, mother,” said Eric presently, after a moment’s silence, in which the
feelings of the two seemed too great to find expression in words of common
import. “Why, by that time I will have nearly sailed round the world; for in my
voyage to Java and back I will have to ‘double the Cape,’ as sailors say!”
“Yes, that you will, my boy,” chimed in his mother, anxious to sustain this
buoyant change in his humour, and drive away the somewhat melancholy tone
she had unwittingly introduced into their last parting conversation. “You’ll be a
regular little travelled monkey, like the one belonging to the Dutchman that we
were reading about the other day which could do everything almost but speak,
although I don’t think anybody would accuse you of any want of ability on the
latter score, you chatterbox!”
“No, no, little mother; I think not likewise,” chuckled Eric complacently. “I’m not
one of your silent ones, not so! But, hurrah!—There comes Fritz turning in under
the old gateway. He said he would