Grit

CHAPTER IV.
A BOY IN THE WATER

Mr. Jackson was a slender, dark-complexioned man of forty, or thereabouts. He was fashionably dressed, and had the air of one who lives in a city. He had an affable manner, and seemed inclined to be social.

"Is this your business, ferrying passengers across the river?" he asked of Grit.

"Yes, sir," answered the young boatman.

"Does it pay?" was the next inquiry—an important one in the eyes of a city man.

"Yes, sir; I make more in this way than I could in any other."

"How much, for instance?"

"From five to seven dollars. Once—it was Fourth of July week—I made nearly ten dollars."

"That is a great deal more than I made at your age," said Mr. Jackson.

"You look as if you made more now," said Grit, smiling.

"Yes," said the passenger, with an answering smile. "I am afraid I couldn't get along on that sum now."

"Do you live in the city?" asked Grit, with a sudden impulse.

"Yes, I live in what I regard as the city. I mean New York."

"It must be a fine place," said the young boatman thoughtfully.

"Yes, it is a fine place, if you have money enough to live handsomely. Did you ever hear of Wall Street?"

"Yes, sir."

"I am a Wall Street broker. I commenced as a boy in a broker's office. I don't think I was any better off than you at your age—certainly I did not earn so much money."

"But you didn't have a mother to take care of, did you, sir?"

"No; do you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You are a good boy to work for your mother. My poor boy has no mother;" and the gentleman looked sad. "What is your name?"

"Grit."

"Is that your real name?"

"No, sir, but everybody calls me so."

"For a good reason, probably. Willie, do you like to ride in the boat?"

"Yes, papa," answered the little boy, his bright eyes and eager manner showing that he spoke the truth.

"Grit," said Mr. Jackson, "I see we are nearly across the river. Unless you are due there at a specified time, you may stay out, and we will row here and there, prolonging our trip. Of course, I will increase your pay."

"I shall be very willing, sir," said Grit. "My boat is my own, and my time also, and I have no fixed hours for starting from either side."

"Good! Then we can continue our conversation. Is there a good hotel in Chester?"

"Quite a good one, sir. They keep summer boarders."

"That was the point I wished to inquire about. Willie and I have been staying with friends in Portville, but they are expecting other visitors, and I have a fancy for staying a while on your side of the river—that is, if you live in Chester."

"Yes, sir; our cottage is on yonder bluff—Pine Point, it is called."

"Then I think I will call at the hotel, and see whether I can obtain satisfactory accommodations."

"Are you taking a vacation?" asked Grit, with curiosity.

"Yes; the summer is a dull time in Wall Street, and my partner attends to everything. By and by I shall return, and give him a chance to go away."

"Do people make a great deal of money in Wall Street?" asked Grit.

"Sometimes, and sometimes they lose a great deal. I have known a man who kept his span of horses one summer reduced to accept a small clerkship the next. If a broker does not speculate, he is not so liable to such changes of fortune. What is your real name, since Grit is only a nickname?"

"My real name is Harry Morris."

"Have you any brothers or sisters?"

"No, sir; I am an only child."

"Were you born here?"

"No, sir; I was born in Boston."

"Have you formed any plans for the future? You won't be a boatman all your life, I presume?"

"I hope not, sir. It will do well enough for the present, and I am glad to have such a chance of earning a living for my mother and myself; but when I grow up I should like to go to the city, and get into business there."

"All the country boys are anxious to seek their fortune in the city. In many cases they would do better to stay at home."

"Were you born in the city, sir?" asked Grit shrewdly.

"No; I was born in the country."

"But you didn't stay there."

"No; you have got me there. I suppose it was better for me to go to the city, and perhaps it may be for you; but there is no hurry. You wouldn't have a chance to earn six dollars a week in the city, as you say you do here. Besides, it would cost much more for you and your mother to live."

"I suppose so, sir. I am contented to remain where I am at present."

"Is your father dead?"

"Yes, sir."

"It is a great loss. Then your mother is a widow?"

"I wish she were," said Grit hastily.

"But she must be, if your father is dead," said Mr. Jackson.

"No, sir; she married again."

"Oh, there is a stepfather, then? Don't you and he get along well together?"

"There has been no chance to quarrel for nearly five years."

"Why?"

"Because he has been in prison."

"Excuse me if I have forced upon you a disagreeable topic," said the passenger, in a tone of sympathy. "His term of confinement will expire, and then he can return to you."

"That is just what troubles me, sir," said Grit bluntly. "We are expecting him in a day or two, and then our quiet life will be at an end."

"Will he make things disagreeable for you?"

"Yes, sir."

"At least, you will not have to work so hard."

"Yes, sir. I shall have to work harder, for I shall have to support him, too."

"Won't he be willing to work?"

"No, sir, he is very lazy, and if he can live without work, he will."

"That is certainly unfortunate."

"It is worse than having no father at all," said Grit bluntly. "I don't care to have him remain in prison, if he will only keep away from us, but I should be glad if I could never set eyes upon him again."

"Well, my boy, you must bear the trial as well as you can. We all have our trials, and yours comes in the shape of a disagreeable stepfather–"

He did not finish the sentence, for there was a startling interruption.

Mr. Jackson and Grit had been so much engaged in their conversation that they had not watched the little boy. Willie had amused himself in bending over the side of the boat, and dipping his little fingers in the rippling water. With childish imprudence he leaned too far, and fell head first into the swift stream.

A splash told the startled father what had happened.

"Good Heaven!" he exclaimed, "my boy is overboard, and I cannot swim."

He had scarcely got the words out of his mouth than Grit was in the water, swimming for the spot where the boy went down, now a rod or two distant, for the boat had been borne onward by the impulse of the oars.

The young boatman was an expert swimmer. It would naturally have been expected, since so much of his time had been spent on the river. He had often engaged in swimming-matches with his boy companions, and there was no one who could surpass him in speed or endurance.

He struck out boldly, and, as Willie rose to the surface for the second time, he seized him by the arm, and, turning, struck out for the boat. The little boy struggled, and this made his task more difficulty but Grit was strong and wary, and, holding Willie in a strong grasp, he soon gained the boat.

Mr. Jackson leaned over, and drew the boy, dripping, into its safe refuge.

"Climb in, too, Grit!" he said.

"No, I shall upset it. If you will row to the shore, I will swim there."

"Very well."

Mr. Jackson was not wholly a stranger to the use of oars, and the shore was very near. In three minutes the boat touched the bank, and almost at the same time Grit clambered on shore.

"You have saved my boy's life," said Mr. Jackson, his voice betraying the strong emotion he felt. "I shall not forget it."

"Willie is cold!" said the little boy.

"Our house is close by," said Grit. "Let us take him there at once, and mother will take care of him, and dry his clothes."

The suggestion was adopted, and Mr. Jackson and his two young companions were soon standing at the door of the plain cottage on the bluff.

When his mother admitted them, Grit noticed that she looked disturbed, and he seized the first chance to ask her if anything were the matter.

"Your stepfather has come!" she answered.

CHAPTER V.
THE STEPFATHER

Grit was disagreeably surprised at the news of Mr. Brandon's arrival, and he looked about him in the expectation of seeing his unwelcome figure, in vain.

"Where is he, mother?" the boy inquired.

"Gone to the tavern," she answered significantly.

"Did you give him any money?"

"I gave him a dollar," she replied sadly. "It is easy to tell how it will be spent."

Grit had no time to inquire further at that time, for he was assisting his mother in necessary attentions to their guests, having hurriedly exchanged his own wet clothes for dry ones.

Mr. Jackson seemed very grateful to Mrs. Morris for her attention to Willie. She found an old suit of Grit's, worn by him at the age of eight, and dressed Willie in it, while his own wet suit was being dried. The little boy presented a comical spectacle, the suit being three or four sizes too large for him.

"I don't like it," he said. "It is too big."

"So it is, Willie," said his father; "but you won't have to wear it long. You would catch your death of cold if you wore your wet clothes. How long will it take to dry his clothes, Mrs. Morris?"

"Two or three hours at least," answered the widow.

"I have a great mind to go back to Portville, and get a change of garments," said the father.

"That would be the best thing, probably."

"But I should have to burden you with Willie; for I should need to take Grit with me to ferry me across."

"It will be no trouble, sir. I will take good care of him."

"Willie, will you stay here while I go after your other clothes?" asked Mr. Jackson.

Willie readily consented, especially after Grit had brought him a picture-book to look over. Then he accompanied the father to the river, and they started to go across. While they were gone, Mr. Brandon returned to the cottage. His flushed face and unsteady gait showed that he had been drinking. He lifted the latch, and went in.

When he saw Willie sitting in a small chair beside his wife, he gazed at the child in astonishment.

"Is that the cub?" he asked doubtfully. "Seems to me he's grown smaller since I saw him."

"I ain't a cub," said Willie indignantly.

"Oh! yer ain't a cub, hey?" repeated Brandon mockingly.

"No, I ain't. My name is Willie Jackson, and my papa lives in New York."

"What is the meaning of this, Mrs. Brandon?" asked the inebriate. "Where did you pick up this youngster?"

His wife explained in a few words.

"I thought it wasn't the cub," said Mr. Brandon indistinctly. "Where is he?"

"He has gone to row Mr. Jackson over to Portville."

"I say, Mrs. B., does he earn much money that way?"

"He earns all the money that supports us," answered his wife coldly.

"I must see to that," said Brandon unsteadily. "He must bring me his money every night—do you hear, Mrs. B.?—must bring me his money every night."

"To spend for liquor, I suppose?" she responded bitterly.

"I'm a gentleman. My money—that is, his money is my money. D'ye understand?"

"I understand only too well, Mr. Brandon."

"That's all right. I feel tired. Guess I'll go and lie down."

To his wife's relief he went up-stairs, and was soon stretched out on the bed in a drunken sleep.

"I am glad he is out of the way. I should be ashamed to have Mr. Jackson see him," thought Grit's mother, or Mrs. Brandon, as we must now call her.

"Who is that man?" asked Willie anxiously.

"His name is Brandon," answered Grit's mother.

"He isn't a nice man. I don't like him."

Mrs. Brandon said nothing. What could she say? If she had spoken as she felt, she would have been compelled to agree with the boy. Yet this man was her husband, and was likely to be to her a daily source of anxiety and annoyance.

"I am afraid Grit and he won't agree," she thought anxiously. "Oh I why did he ever come back? For the last five years we have been happy. We have lived plainly and humbly, but our home has been peaceful. Now, Heaven knows what trouble is in store for us."

Half an hour later Mr. Jackson and Grit returned.

CHAPTER VI.
GRIT'S RECOMPENSE

No time was lost in arraying Willie in clothes more suitable for him. The little boy was glad to lay aside Grit's old suit, which certainly was not very becoming to him.

"Are we going now, papa?" asked the little boy.

"Yes, Willie; but first I must express to this good lady my great thanks for her kindness."

"I have done but little, sir," said Mrs. Brandon; "but that little I was very glad to do."

"I am sure of that," said the visitor cordially.

"If you remain in the neighborhood, I shall hope to see your little boy again, and yourself, also."

"I will come," said Willie promptly.

"He answers for himself," said his father, smiling, "and he will keep his promise. Now, Grit," he said, turning to the young boatman, "I will ask you to accompany me to the hotel."

"Certainly, sir."

When they had passed from the cottage, Mr. Jackson turned to the boy and grasped his hand.

"I have not yet expressed to you my obligations," he said, with emotion, "for the great service you have done me—the greatest in the power of any man, or boy."

"Don't speak of it, sir," said Grit modestly.

"But I must. You have saved the life of my darling boy."

"I don't know, sir."

"But I do. I cannot swim a stroke, and but for your prompt bravery, he would have drowned before my eyes."

Grit could not well contradict this statement, for it was incontestably true.

"It was lucky I could swim," he answered.

"Yes, it was. It seems providential that I should have had with me so brave a boy, when Willie's life was in peril. It will be something that you will remember with satisfaction to the end of your own life."

"Yes, sir, there is no doubt of that," answered Grit sincerely.

"I shudder to think what a sad blank my own life would have been if I had lost my dear boy. He is my only child, and for this reason I should have missed him the more. Your brave act is one that I cannot fitly reward–"

"I don't need any reward, Mr. Jackson," said Grit hastily.

"I am sure you do not. You do not look like a mercenary boy. But, for all that, I owe it to myself to see that so great a favor does not go unacknowledged. My brave boy, accept this wallet and what it contains, not as the payment of a debt, but as the first in the series of my acknowledgments to you."

As he spoke, he put into the hand of the young boatman a wallet.

"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Jackson," said Grit, "but I am not sure that I ought to take this."

"Then let me decide for you," said the broker, smiling. "I am older, and may be presumed to have more judgment."

"It will seem as if I took pay for saving Willie from drowning."

"If you did, it would be perfectly proper. But you forget that I have had the use of your boat and your own services for the greater part of the afternoon."

"I presume you have paid me more than I ask for such services."

"Very likely," answered Mr. Jackson. "In fact, outside of my obligations to you, I have formed a good opinion of a boy who works hard and faithfully to support his mother. I was a poor boy once, and I have not forgotten how to sympathize with those who are beginning the conflict with narrow means. Mind, Grit, I don't condole with you. You have good health and strong hands, and in our favored country there is no reason why, when you reach my age, you may not be equally well off."

"I wish I might—for mother's sake," said Grit, his face lighting up with hope.

"I shall see more of you while I am here, but I may as well say now that I mean to bear you in mind, and wish you to come to me, either here or in the city, when you stand in need of advice or assistance."

Grit expressed his gratitude. Mr. Jackson selected a room at the hotel, and promised to take up his quarters there the next day. Then Grit once more took up his oars and ferried Willie and his father across the river.

It was not for some time, therefore, that he had a chance to examine the wallet which had been given him.

CHAPTER VII.
GRIT ASTONISHES PHIL

Grit was not wholly without curiosity, and, as was natural, he speculated as to the amount which the wallet contained. When Mr. Jackson and Willie had left him, he took it out of his pocket and opened it.

He extracted a roll of bills and counted them over. There were ten five-dollar bills, and ten dollars in notes of a smaller denomination.

"Sixty dollars!" ejaculated Grit, with a thrill of pleasure. "I never was so rich in all my life."

He felt that the sum was too large for him to accept, and he was half tempted to run after Mr. Jackson and say so. But quick reflection satisfied him that the generous New Yorker wished him to retain it, and, modest though he was, he was conscious that in saving the little boy's life he had placed his passenger under an obligation which a much larger sum would not have overpaid. Besides, he saw two new passengers walking toward his boat, who doubtless wished to be ferried across the river. They were Phil Courtney and Marion Clarke.

"We are just in time, Mr. Grit," said the young lady, smiling.

"Yes, my good fellow," said Phil condescendingly, "we will employ you again."

"You are very kind," answered Grit, with a smile of amusement.

"I like to encourage you," continued Phil, who was not very quick to interpret the looks of others.

Grit looked at Marion, and noticed that she, too, looked amused.

"Have you had any passengers since we came over?" asked Phil, in a patronizing tone.

He was quite ready to employ his old schoolmate, provided he would show proper gratitude, and be suitably impressed by his condescension.

"I have been across several times," answered Grit briefly.

"And how much have you made now?" asked Phil, with what he intended to pass for benevolent interest.

If Phil had been his friend, Grit would not have minded telling him; but he had the pride of self-respect, and he objected to being patronized or condescended to.

"I haven't counted up," he answered.

"I might have brought my own boat," said Phil, "but I like to encourage you."

"Really, Phil, you are appearing in a new character," said Marion. "I never should have taken you for a philanthropist before. I thought you told your mother it would be too much bother to row over in your own boat."

"That was one reason," said Phil, looking slightly embarrassed. "Besides, I didn't want to interfere with Grit's business. He is poor, and has to support his mother out of his earnings."

This was in bad taste, and Grit chafed against it.

"That is true," he said, "but I don't ask any sympathy. I am prosperous enough."

"Oh, yes; you are doing well enough for one in your position, I don't doubt. How much would you give, now, to have as much money as I carry in this pocketbook?" asked Phil boastfully.

He had just passed his birthday, and had received a present of ten dollars from his father, and five dollars each from his mother and an aunt. He had spent a part of it for a hat and in other ways, but still he had seventeen dollars left.

"Perhaps I have as much money," answered Grit quietly.

"Oho! That's a good joke," said Phil.

"No joke at all," said Grit. "I don't know how much money you have in your pocketbook, but I presume I can show more."

Phil's face grew red with anger. He was one of those disagreeable boys who are purse-proud, and he was provoked at hearing such a ridiculous assertion from a poor boy who had to earn his own living.

Even Marion regarded Grit with some wonder, for she happened to know how much money her cousin carried, and it seemed to her very improbable that the young boatman should have as much in his possession.

"Don't make a fool of yourself, Grit!" said Phil sharply.

"Thank you; I don't propose to."

"But you are doing it."

"How?"

"Didn't you say you had more money than I?"

"I think I have."

"Hear him talk!" said Phil, with a glance of derision.

By this time the young boatman's grit was up, if I may use the expression, and he resolved to surprise and mortify his young adversary.

"If you are not afraid to test it," he said, "I will leave it to the young lady to decide. Let her count the money in your pocketbook, and I will then give her my wallet for the same purpose."

"Done!" said Phil promptly.

Marion, wondering a little at Grit's confidence, took her cousin's pocketbook, and counted the contents.

"Well, Marion, how much is there?" said Phil exultingly.

"Seventeen dollars and thirty-seven cents," was the announcement of the fair umpire.

Phil smiled triumphantly.

"You didn't think I had so much—eh, Grit?" he said.

"No, I didn't," Grit admitted.

"Now hand over your wallet."

"With pleasure, if Miss Marion will take the trouble," answered the young boatman, with a polite bow.

When Marion opened the wallet, and saw the roll of bills, both she and Phil looked astonished. She proceeded to count the bills, however, and in a tone of serious surprise announced:

"I find sixty dollars here."

"That is right," said Grit quietly, as he received back his wallet, and thrust it into his pocket.

Phil hardly knew whether he was more surprised or mortified at this unexpected result. But a thought struck him.

"Whose money is that?" he demanded abruptly.

"It is mine."

"I don't believe it. You are carrying it over to some one in Chester."

"Perhaps I am; but, if so, that some one is my mother."

"You don't mean to say that you have sixty dollars of your own?"

"Yes, I do. You didn't think I had so much money—eh, Phil?" he retorted, with a smile.

"I don't believe a word of it," returned Phil crossly. "It is ridiculous that a boy like you should have so much money. It can't be yours."

"Do you doubt it, Miss Marion?" asked Grit, turning to the young lady.

"No; I believe that it is yours since you say so."

"Thank you."

"If it is yours, where did you get it?" asked Phil, whose curiosity overcame his mortification sufficiently to induce him to ask the question.

"I don't feel called upon to tell you," answered Grit.

"Then I can guess."

"Very well. If you guess right, I will admit it."

"You found it, and won't be long before finding the owner."

"You are wrong. The money is mine, and was paid me in the course of business."

Phil did not know what to say, but Marion said pleasantly:

"Allow me to congratulate you, Mr. Grit, on being so well off. You are richer than either of your passengers. I never had sixty dollars of my own in my life."

By this time they had reached the other side of the river, and the two passengers disembarked.

"Well, Phil, you came off second best," said his cousin.

"I can't understand how the boy came into possession of such a sum of money," said Phil, frowning.

"Nor I; but I am sure of one thing."

"What is that?"

"That he came by it honestly."

"Don't be too sure of that," said Phil, shaking his head.

"Phil, you are too bad," said Marion warmly. "You seem to have taken an unaccountable prejudice against Grit. I am sure he seems to me a very nice boy."

"You're welcome to the young boatman's society," said Phil, with a sneer. "You seem to be fond of low company."

"If you call him low company, then perhaps I am. I never met Grit before this morning, but he seems a very polite, spirited boy, and it is certainly to his credit that he supports his mother."

"I can tell you something about him that may chill your ardor? His father is in jail."

"I heard that it was his stepfather."

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter which."

"In one sense, no. The boy isn't to blame for it."

"No, but it shows of what stock he comes."

Meanwhile, Grit, having fastened his boat, made his way to the cottage on the bluff. He wanted to tell his mother of his good fortune.