Fräulein Schmidt and Mr. AnstrutherVon Arnim, Elizabeth
General
Fräulein Schmidt and Mr. Anstruther
Von Arnim, Elizabeth
British -- Germany -- Fiction; Epistolary fiction; Germany -- Fiction; Love stories; Young women -- Fiction
'Oh,' she cried suddenly, stamping her foot, 'if I could only get hold
of him--wicked, wicked little wretch!'
'What would you do?' I asked, curious to see if her plans were at all
like mine.
'Gr--r--r--r--r,' said Vicki, clenching all those parts of her, such as
teeth and fists, that would clench.
'Oh so would I!' I cried.
We were almost at the bottom; the road was making its final bend; and,
as we turned the corner, behold the boy, his cap off, his head bent, his
shoulders straining at the rope, pulling the sled laboriously up again.
And there was the beef hung on one runner, and there were the books hung
on the other. We both stopped dead, arrested by this spectacle. He was
almost upon us before he saw us, so intent was he on his business, his
eyes on the ground, the sun shining on his yellow hair, the drops of
labor rolling down his crimson cheeks.
'What?' he panted, pausing when he saw our four boots in a row in his
path, and had looked up and recognized the rest of us, 'what, am I there
already?'
'No,' I cried in the voice of justified anger, 'you are not there--you
are here, at the very beginning of the mountain. Now what have you to
say for yourself?'
'Nothing,' said he, grinning and wiping his face with his sleeve. 'But
it was a good ride.'
'You have only just escaped the police and prison,' I said, still
louder. 'We were on our way to hand you over to them.'
'If I had been there to hand,' said he, winking at Vicki, to whom he had
apparently taken a fancy that was in no way encouraged.
'You had stolen our sled and our parcels,' I continued, glaring down on
him.
'Here they are. They are all here. What more do you want?' said he. 'How
she talks,' he added, turning to Vicki and thrusting out his underlip
with an expression that could only mean disgust.
'You are a very naughty little boy,' said Vicki. 'Give me the rope and
be off.'
'Give me my fifty pfennings.'
'Your fifty pfennings?' we exclaimed with one voice.
'You promised me fifty pfennings.'
'To pull the sled up to the top.'
'I am ready to do it.'
'Thank you. We have had enough. Let the rope go--'
'And get home to your mother--'
'And ask her to give you a thorough--'
'A bargain is a bargain,' said the boy, planting himself squarely in
front of me, while I adjusted the rope over my shoulders and prepared to
pull.
'Now run away, you very naughty little boy,' said I, pulling sideways to
pass him by.
He stepped aside too, and faced me again. 'You promised me fifty
pfennings,' he said.
'To pull the sled up.'
'I am willing to do it.'
'Yes, and coast down again as soon as you have got to the top. Be off
with you. We are not playing games.'
'A promise is a promise,' said the boy.
'Vicki, remove him from my path,' said I.
Vicki took him by the arm and gingerly drew him on one side, and I
started up the hill, surprised to find what hard work it was.
'I am coming too,' said the boy.
'Are you?' said Vicki.
'Yes. To fetch my fifty pfennings.'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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