Grit

CHAPTER XI.
THE MIDNIGHT VISIT

Grit was not aware that Brandon had discovered his secret, but still was not unprepared for a night visit. As we already know, he had but ten cents left of the two dollars he had reserved, and this coin he put into a small leather purse, which he usually carried.

"If Mr. Brandon searches for money, he will be disappointed," he said to himself, with a quiet smile. "He won't find enough to pay him for his trouble."

Grit was not anxious enough about his money to keep awake. When, therefore, his stepfather entered his chamber, he was fast asleep. Brandon listened for a moment to the deep breathing of the boy, and felt that there was no need of caution. He therefore boldly advanced, candle in hand, to the bedside. The candle he set on the bureau, and then took up Grit's clothes, which hung over a chair, and proceeded to examine the pockets.

His countenance changed as he continued the search.

At last he came to the purse, but it felt empty, and he did not open it with much confidence. Thrusting in his finger, he drew out the solitary dime which it contained.

"Only ten cents!" he exclaimed, with intense disappointment. "It isn't worth taking. On second thoughts, I'll take it, though, for it will pay for a drink."

He pocketed the coin, and resumed his search.

"The boy must have a pocketbook somewhere," he muttered. "He wouldn't carry bank-bills in a purse. Where can he keep it?" Once more he explored the pockets of his stepson, but he met with no greater success than before.

It is a curious circumstance that sometimes in profound sleep a person seems vaguely aware of the presence of an intruder, and the feeling is frequently strong enough to disturb slumber. Grit was a sound sleeper, but, however we may account for it, whether it was the instinctive feeling I have mentioned, or the glare of the candle, he woke up, and his glance rested on the kneeling figure of his stepfather rummaging his pockets. Instantly Grit realized the situation, and he felt more amused than indignant, knowing how poorly the searcher would be rewarded.

Brandon's back was turned to him, and our hero felt inclined to try the effect of a practical joke.

In a deep, sepulchral voice, he called out:

"What are you doing there?"

Brandon, taken by surprise, started as if he had been shot, and sprang to his feet in confusion. Turning to the bed, he saw Grit surveying him calmly. Then his natural hardihood restored his self-possession.

"Where do you keep your money, you young cub?" he demanded.

"Where do I keep it? I suspect you know well enough. Haven't you looked into my purse?"

"Yes, and I only found ten cents."

"Did you take it?" asked Grit.

"Yes."

"Then it's lucky I had no more in it."

"Where is the rest of your money?" demanded Brandon.

"What do you mean by the rest of my money?"

"I mean the sixty dollars you had with you to-day."

Grit whistled.

"So you heard I had sixty dollars?" he said.

"Yes."

"It is in a safe place."

"Ha! You own that you had so much money. You wanted to keep it from me, did you?" demanded Brandon, with a frown.

"Yes, I did," admitted Grit. "Did Phil Courtney tell you I had it?"

"No matter how I heard. I know that you are trying to conceal a large sum of money, which ought to be in my hands."

"Indeed! How do you make that out?"

"I am your stepfather and natural guardian. I am the best person to take care of your money."

"I don't think so, and I propose to keep it myself," said Grit firmly.

"Do you defy me?" demanded Brandon angrily.

"If you call my refusing to give you my own money by that name, then I do."

"Boy, you don't know me!" said Brandon, in a tone intended to strike terror into the heart of his stepson. "Hitherto you have had only your mother to look after you, and she has been foolishly indulgent. Now you have a man to deal with. Once more, will you hand me that money?"

"I decline," said Grit firmly.

"Then on your head be the consequences," said Brandon. "You will hear from me again, and soon."

So saying, he stalked majestically from the chamber.

"I wonder what he means to do?" thought Grit.

But the thought did not keep him awake.

CHAPTER XII.
GRIT'S MISFORTUNE

The next morning Grit came down to breakfast nearly an hour later than usual. It might have been because he was unusually fatigued, or it may have been on account of his slumbers having been interrupted. When he came down-stairs, he looked at the clock, and realized that he had overslept himself.

"I am nearly an hour late, mother," he said. "Why didn't you call me?"

"I thought you were tired, Grit, and needed sleep."

"Where is Mr. Brandon? I suppose he has not got up!"

"Yes, he has had his breakfast and gone out."

"He is in a great hurry to spend my ten cents," said Grit, laughing.

"What do you mean, Grit?"

"I had a visit from him last night," Grit explained. "He rummaged my pockets, and was successful in finding a dime."

"Is it possible?"

"Why should you be surprised, mother? I was not."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"Yes; he has found out somehow about the sixty dollars, and he asked me to give it to him."

"Oh, Grit, I am afraid there will be trouble," said Mrs. Brandon anxiously. "He won't rest till he gets the money."

"Then he won't rest at all," said Grit firmly.

"I am afraid you will have to give it to him, Grit."

"Not if I know what I am about. No, mother, the money is safe, where he won't find it. I won't tell you, for he might annoy you till you told him."

"No, Grit; don't tell me. I would rather not know. How happy we were before he came, and how rich we should feel if this money had come to you before Mr. Brandon came home!"

"That is true, mother. It's a shame that he should come home to give us so much trouble."

"I can't see how it's all going to end," murmured Mrs. Brandon sadly.

"Nor I; but I mean to resist Mr. Brandon till he finds it's of no use trying to appropriate my money. When he finds he can't get anything out of us except a bare living, he may become disgusted and leave us."

"He won't do it while he has any hope left. What do you think he has been trying to persuade me to do, Grit?"

"I don't know."

"He wants me to mortgage this cottage, and give him the money."

"Just like him, mother. I hope you were firm?"

"Yes, Grit. I told him I would not consent. It is all we have. I cannot part with our home and the roof that shelters us."

"Of course not, mother. You would be very foolish if you did. Did he mention any one that wanted to buy it?"

"Yes, he said that Mr. Green would be willing to advance money upon it."

"Mr. Green—the landlord of the hotel? I don't doubt it. He knows that Brandon would pay back the whole for drink in a short time."

"I am afraid that would be the case."

"Mother," said Grit, with energy, "promise me that you will never consent to this wicked plan."

"No, Grit, I won't. I consider that the house is as much yours as mine, and I am not willing to leave you without a home."

"I don't so much mind that, for I could shift for myself somehow, but I want you to keep it in your own hands, and I am not willing that Mr. Brandon should sacrifice it for drink."

"I agree with you, Grit. Whatever it may cost me, I won't consent."

"The sooner he becomes convinced that he has nothing to hope from either of us, the sooner he will leave us," said Grit. "If I thought he would go away and never come back, I would be willing to let him have the sixty dollars, but it would only make him stay, in the hope of getting more."

By this time Grit had finished his breakfast.

"I must get to work, mother," he said. "I'll be home to dinner at the usual time, if I can."

"If not, I will save something for you, Grit."

The young boatman made his way to the river. Here an unpleasant surprise awaited him. His boat was not where he had left it. He looked in all directions, but it had disappeared.

"What can have become of it?" thought Grit, in perplexity.

CHAPTER XIII.
GRIT'S BOAT IS SOLD

Brandon was not usually an early riser, and would not on this occasion have got up so soon if a bright idea had not occurred to him likely to bring money to his purse.

It was certainly vexatious that Grit so obstinately refused to pay into his hands the money he had managed in some way unknown to his stepfather to accumulate. Perhaps some way of forcing the boy to do so might suggest itself, but meanwhile he was penniless; that is, with the exception of the dime he had abstracted during the night. Possibly his wife might have some money. He proceeded to sound her on the subject.

"Mrs. B.," said he, "I shall have to trouble you for a little money."

"I gave you a dollar yesterday," said Mrs. Brandon.

"What's a dollar? I have none of it left now."

"Did you spend it at the tavern?" asked his wife gravely.

"I am not willing to be catechized upon that point," returned Brandon, in a tone of lofty dignity.

"It is quite impossible to supply you with money for such a purpose," continued Mrs. Brandon. "What money Grit earns is wanted for necessary expenses."

"I am not so easily deceived," said her husband, nodding sagaciously.

"It is quite true."

"I won't argue the point, Mrs. B. Have you any change now? That is the question."

"No, I have not."

"Be it so. I have only to remark that you and your son will have occasion to regret the unfriendly and suspicious manner in which you see fit to treat me."

So saying, Mr. Brandon sat down to his breakfast, which he ate with an appetite such as is usually earned by honest toil.

When he rose from the table, he left the cottage without a word.

"How it all this to end?" thought Mrs. Brandon, following his retreating form with an anxious glance. "He has not been here twenty-four hours yet, and he has spent a dollar of Grit's hard earnings, and is dissatisfied because we will not give him more. Besides, he has already broached the subject of mortgaging the house, and all to gratify his insatiable thirst for strong drink."

Certainly the prospects were not very bright, and Mrs. Brandon might well be excused for feeling anxious.

Though Brandon had ten cents in his pocket, the price of a glass of whisky, he did not go at once to the tavern, as might have been expected. Instead of this, he bent his steps toward the river.

He knew about where Grit kept his boat, and went directly to it.

"Ha! a very good boat!" he said, after surveying it critically. "It ought to be worth ten dollars, at least, though I suppose I can't get over five for it. Well, five dollars will be a lift to me, and if Grit wants another boat he's got the money to buy one. I can get even with him this way, at least. He'd better have treated me well and saved his boat."

The boat was tied fast, but this presented no insurmountable difficulty.

Brandon pulled a jack-knife out of his pocket, and after awhile—for it was very dull—succeeded in severing the rope.

Then he jumped into the boat and began to row out into the stream.

He was a little at a loss at first as to where he would be most likely to find a purchaser. In his five years' absence from the neighborhood he had lost his former acquaintances, and there had been, besides, changes in the population.

As he was rowing at random, he chanced to look back to the shore he had left, and noticed that a boy was signaling to him.

He recognized him as the boy whom he had heard speaking of Grit's treasure, and, being desirous of hearing more on the subject, he at once began to pull back to the river bank.

The boy, as the reader will surmise, was Phil Courtney.

"Hello, there!" said Phil; "isn't that Grit Morris' boat?"

"No, it's mine."

"It is the same Grit usually rows in," said Phil, beginning to suspect Brandon of theft.

"That may be, but the boat is mine."

"Did he sell it to you?"

"No."

"Who are you, then?"

"I am Mr. Brandon, Grit's stepfather."

Phil whistled.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" he said, surveying Brandon, not over respectfully, for he knew where he had spent the last five years. "So you've come home?"

"Yes, but I might as well have stayed away."

"How is that?" asked Phil, regarding the man before him with curiosity.

Brandon was not too proud to speak of his domestic grievances, as he regarded them, to a stranger.

"My wife and son treat me like a stranger," he said. "Instead of giving me a warm welcome after my long absence, they seem to be sorry to see me."

"I don't wonder much," thought Phil, but he did not say so, not being averse to drawing Brandon out on this subject.

"And that reminds me, young gentleman; I was walking behind you last evening, and I heard you say something about Grit's having a large sum of money."

"Yes; he showed me sixty dollars yesterday."

"Are you sure there was as much as that?" inquired Brandon eagerly.

"Yes, I am sure, for my cousin counted it in my presence."

"It might have belonged to some one else," suggested Brandon.

"No; I thought so myself, but Grit said it belonged to him."

"Did he say where he got it?"

"No; he's mighty close about his affairs. I couldn't help wondering myself, and asked him, but he wouldn't tell me."

"If he's got as much money as that, he ought to give it to me to take care of."

"Why don't you make him give it to you?" suggested Phil maliciously.

"I did ask him, but he refused. A boy of his age ought not to carry about so much money. Did he carry it in a roll of bills, or in a pocketbook?"

"He had it in a wallet."

"I didn't see the wallet," thought Brandon. "I only found the purse. The boy must have hidden it somewhere. I must look for it."

"What are you going to do about it?" asked Phil. "Are you going to let him keep it?"

"Not if I can find it. I will take it away from him if I get the chance."

"I wish he would," thought Phil. "It would soon go for drink, and then Master Grit wouldn't put on so many airs."

"May I ask your name?" asked Brandon.

"I am Phil Courtney, the son of Squire Courtney, the president of the bank," answered Phil pompously.

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Brandon, in a tone of flattering deference. "I am proud to know you. You come of a fine family."

"Yes, my father stands pretty high," remarked Phil complacently.

"Really," thought he, "this man has very good manners, even if he has just come from the penitentiary. He treats me with a good deal more respect than Grit does. If I could help him to get the money I would."

"Not a man in town stands higher," said Brandon emphatically. "Are you a friend of my stepson?"

"Well, hardly," answered Phil, shrugging his shoulders. "You must excuse my saying so, but Grit hasn't very good manners, and, though I patronize him by riding in his boat, I cannot regard him as a fitting associate."

"You are entirely right, young gentleman," said Brandon. "Though Grit is my stepson, I am not blind to his faults. He has behaved very badly to me already, and I shall be obliged to require him to treat me with more respect. If he would only copy you, I should be very glad."

"You are very polite, Mr. Brandon," said Phil, flattered. "I hope, for your sake, that Grit will improve."

"By the way, Mr. Courtney"—Phil swelled with conscious pride at this designation—"do you know any one who would like to buy a boat?"

"What boat do you refer to?" asked Phil.

"This boat."

"But I thought it was Grit's."

"I am his stepfather, and have decided to sell it."

"What'll you take?" asked Phil, not unwilling to buy a good boat, especially as he knew it would annoy Grit.

"It is worth ten dollars, but I will sell it for six dollars cash."

"Say five, and I'll take it."

"Very well, Mr. Courtney, seeing it's you, I will say five."

"It's a bargain."

Phil had his money in his pocket, and he lost no time in binding the bargain by paying the money.

"I think I'll take a row myself," he said.

He jumped into the boat, and Brandon, with five dollars in his pocket, took the nearest road to the tavern.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE BILL OF SALE

A sudden thought struck Phil, and he called back Brandon.

"What's wanted now?" asked the latter impatiently.

"I want you to give me a bill of sale of the boat," said Phil.

"What's the use of that?"

"I don't want Grit to charge me with taking his boat without leave."

"Oh, bother! it's all right. I haven't got any paper," said Brandon, who was anxious to reach the tavern, and take his morning dram.

"I have," said Phil promptly, as he drew out a small note-book and tore out a leaf, which he handed, with a pencil, to Brandon.

"What do you want me to write?" asked the latter.

Phil dictated a form, which Brandon wrote down and signed.

"Will that do?" he asked.

"Yes, that will do. Now I am all right, and the boat is mine in spite of all Grit may say."

"I have made a good bargain," said Phil, to himself, complacently. "This boat is worth at least twice what I have paid for it. I will get it painted, and a new name for it, and it will pass for a new boat. Won't Grit be mad when he hears what his stepfather has done?"

This was, on the whole, the pleasantest reflection connected with the purchase. It was not creditable to Phil to cherish such malice against a boy, simply because he would not treat him with as much deference as he expected; but human nature is often betrayed into petty meannesses, and Phil was a very human boy, so far, at least, as such traits were concerned.

We now come back to Grit, who stood on the river's bank in perplexity, when he discovered that his boat had been abstracted.

"Who can have taken it?" he thought.

Here he felt quite at a loss. It did not occur to him that his stepfather had had anything to do with his boat, for he could not understand of what advantage it would be to him. He did not comprehend fully, however, how serious the loss was likely to prove, since it took away his means of living.

He stooped over and examined the rope. Clearly, it had been cut, and this showed that the boat had been taken by some unauthorized person.

"I can't understand who would serve me such a trick," thought Grit. "I don't know that I have any enemies."

But at this point he could not help thinking of Phil Courtney, who, if not an enemy, was certainly not a friend.

"Is it possible that Phil would play me such a trick?" he asked himself. "No; he would think too much of himself. He would not condescend to do such a thing."

Grit walked up and down along the river bank, looking here and there to see if anywhere he could descry his boat. At length he saw a boat, but the boat was not his. It belonged to Jesse Burns, the son of the postmaster, and was of about the same size and build as his own.

"Jesse!" he called out, putting his hands to his mouth to increase the volume of sound.

Jesse heard the call, and rowed toward where Grit was standing.

"What is it, Grit?"

"My boat has been taken, and I don't know what has become of it."

"Is that so?" asked Jesse, in surprise. "Why, I saw Phil Courtney out on the river with it. I passed him only fifteen minutes since. I thought you had let it to him."

"Phil Courtney!" exclaimed Grit, angry and surprised. "I didn't think he would take it without leave."

"Did he?"

"Yes, I found the rope cut."

"That doesn't seem like Phil. He's mean enough to do anything, but I didn't think he would do that."

"Nor I. I'll give him a good piece of my mind when we meet. Where did you meet him?"

"Just above Glen Cove."

"Do me a favor, Jesse. Take me into your boat, and row me up there, so that I may meet him, and recover my boat."

"All right, Grit. I'm very glad to do you a favor."

"Are you sure it is my boat Phil had?" asked Grit, still unwilling to believe that Phil had deliberately taken his boat.

"Yes, I know your boat as well as my own. Besides, there was the name, Water Lily, on it, as plain as day. There is no doubt about it."

"Well," said Grit, closing his lips firmly, "all I can say is, I'll make him pay for the use of the boat, or there'll be trouble."

"You won't challenge him, will you, Grit?" asked Jesse, smiling.

"That's just what I will do. I should be justified in thrashing him, without notice, but I will give him a chance to defend himself."

"If you want a second, call on me," said Jesse. "I don't like Phil any better than you do, and I shan't object to seeing his pride humbled. It's bad for your business, having the boat taken."

"Yes, I shall lose the chance of two passengers who wanted to go across to Portville an hour from now."

"You may use my boat for that, Grit."

"Thank you, Jesse; I should like to, if I don't get back my own. Did you speak to Phil?"

"No. I said 'good morning,' but, with his usual politeness, he only gave a slight nod, and did not answer. I wanted to ask him how it happened that he was using your boat so early in the morning, but, you see, I got no chance."

"It is queer. I can't guess what he will have to say for himself."

"There he is now!" said Jesse suddenly, looking up the river.

"Where?"

"Don't you see? He is rowing this way. His back is turned, and he hasn't seen us yet."

Yes, it was Phil. He had enjoyed a good row, and now was on his return course. He was rowing slowly and lazily, as if fatigued.

"You will soon hear what he has to say, Grit," said Jesse.

At that moment Phil chanced to turn round, and he saw and recognized the boys that were approaching him. He did not, however, seem confused or embarrassed; neither did he change his course. He merely smiled, and continued to row toward his pursuers.

"He sees us, and still he comes on. There's cheek for you!" ejaculated Jesse.

Grit said nothing, but his mouth closed firmly, and his eyes sparkled with anger. He waited till Phil was within earshot, and then he demanded sternly:

"What are you doing there with my boat, Phil Courtney?"

Phil would have resented Grit's tone, but he gloated over the triumphant answer he was able to make, and thought he would tantalize Grit a little.

"To what boat do you allude?" he asked, in a nonchalant tone.

"To what boat do I allude?" repeated Grit, provoked. "I allude to my boat, in which you are rowing."

"You are mistaken," said Phil composedly. "I am rowing in my own boat."

"Isn't that the Water Lily?" asked Jesse, coming to the help of his friend.

"It is at present. I shall change the name for one I like better."

"Look here, Phil Courtney!" said Grit indignantly, "this is carrying the joke a little too far. You have taken my boat without leave or license from me, and now you actually claim it as your own. Do you mean to say that isn't the boat I have been rowing on this river for the last year?"

"I never said it wasn't."

"Isn't it the boat in which I carried you across the river yesterday?"

"Of course."

"Then what business had you to cut the rope and carry it off?"

"I didn't."

"Then how did you come by it?"

"I bought it!"

"Bought it!" exclaimed Grit and Jesse simultaneously.

"Yes, I bought it, and it is mine," continued Phil, with a smile of triumph. "It's just as much mine to-day as it was yours yesterday."

"I never sold it to you," said Grit, perplexed.

"No, but your stepfather, Mr. Brandon, did. If the rope was cut, he cut it."

"Can you prove this, Phil Courtney?" asked Grit.

"If you will row up alongside, I will satisfy your curiosity."

Jesse pulled his boat alongside, and Phil drew from his vest pocket a paper and handed it to Grit.

"Read that," he said.

Grit read as follows:

"In consideration of five dollars, to me paid, I make over and sell the boat called the Water Lily to Philip Courtney.

Nathan Brandon."

"There!" said Philip triumphantly, "what have you to say now?"