Grit

CHAPTER XV.
GRIT ENGAGES ANOTHER BOAT

When Phil displayed the bill of sale, made out in due form by Brandon, Grit was for the moment taken aback.

"Whose boat is it now?" continued Phil triumphantly.

"It is mine," answered Grit quietly; "for Mr. Brandon had no right to sell it."

"I have nothing to do with that," said Phil. "He is your stepfather—you ought to feel proud of having a jail-bird in the family—and he told me the boat was his."

"I shall not contest your claim at present," said Grit. "As long as it passes out of my hands, you may as well have it as any one."

"I'll sell it back for ten dollars," said Phil, who had a keen scent for a bargain.

"Thank you, I don't care to buy back my own property. Besides, Mr. Brandon would be ready to sell it again to-morrow. As to what you say of him, I shan't undertake to defend him. I am not particularly proud of the relationship."

"What are you going to do for a boat to ferry your passengers?" asked Phil.

"I don't know."

"I'll let you this for fifty cents a day."

"That would be about half of my receipts, and you would get your money back in ten days. I don't care about making such a bargain as that."

"You'll have to give up your business, then," said Phil.

"No, he won't," said Jesse Burns. "I will give him the use of mine, and won't charge him a cent."

"Thank you, Jesse. You are a true friend," said Grit warmly. "You are doing me a great favor."

"And I am glad to do it. Suppose we pull to land? There are three persons at the landing who look as if they wanted to be ferried across."

Grit seized the oars and impelled the boat to land. As Jesse had said, there were three persons waiting, a gentleman and two ladies, who at once engaged the services of the young boatman.

For this service he received thirty cents, and, finding two persons at the other end who wished to come to Chester, the first hour in his new boat brought him fifty cents.

Grit's spirits rose. His misfortune was not irremediable, after all. He had feared that his means of living were taken away, and though he had money enough to buy a new boat, he did not dare to do so, lest Brandon should also sell that.

"I'll give him a piece of my mind," he thought. "It's contemptible to come home and live on us, and then to take away my means of living."

Meanwhile, Brandon had gone to the tavern, which he entered with a swagger, and immediately called for a glass of whisky.

The barkeeper hesitated.

"My orders are not to sell on credit," he said.

"Who wants you to sell on credit?" asked Brandon haughtily.

"You had no money last night."

"I've got some now. What do you say to that?" and he displayed the five-dollar bill he had received from Phil Courtney.

"That alters the case," said the barkeeper complaisantly. "Your money is as good as anybody's."

"I should say so. Give me another."

When Brandon left the barroom, he had spent a dollar, having drunk himself and treated others.

"Wonder if Grit has found out about his boat?" he said to himself, with a waggish smile, as he walked homeward with unsteady steps. "Serves the boy right for treating me so disrespectfully."

It was not much out of his way to go down to the margin of the river, and he did so. It happened that, as he reached it, Grit had just arrived from Portville with a second load of passengers. Fortune, as if to compensate him for his loss of a boat, had brought him an unusual number of passengers, so that he had already earned a dollar.

When Brandon saw Grit engaged in his usual avocation, he opened wide his eyes in surprise.

"Has the boy got his boat back again?" he asked himself.

He was not familiar with the appearance of the boat, and the name had slipped from his recollection. Then, also, Jesse's boat looked very much like Grit's.

When the passengers had walked away Brandon took measures to gratify his curiosity.

"Where did you get that boat, Grit?" he asked.

"Ah, it's you, is it?" said Grit, seeing his stepfather for the first time. "What business had you to sell my boat, Mr. Brandon?"

"Ain't I your stepfather, I'd like to know?" retorted Brandon.

"I am sorry to say you are," answered Grit; "but that doesn't give you any authority to steal and sell my boat."

"Don't you dare to charge me with stealin', you—you young puppy!" exclaimed Brandon, indignantly. "If you had behaved as you ought to me, I wouldn't have meddled with your boat."

"I understand you, Mr. Brandon. Because I wouldn't give you the money that I need to support my mother, you meanly and maliciously plot to take away my means of living."

"You wouldn't give me your money to take care of for you."

"You take care of my money for me!" returned Grit disdainfully. "I know very well how you would take care of it. You've already spent a part of the five dollars you received for stolen property at the tavern, and the result is that you can't walk straight."

"You lie! I can walk as straight as you!" said Brandon, and proceeded to prove it by falling against a tree, and recovering his equilibrium with difficulty.

"I see you can," said Grit sarcastically.

"Of course I can. Where did you get that boat? Is it the same–"

"The same you stole from me? No, it isn't."

"Have you bought it?" inquired Brandon, with a cunning look.

"No, I haven't, and I don't intend to buy another boat for you to sell. I have borrowed it of my friend, Jesse Burns."

Mr. Brandon looked disappointed. He had thought the new boat would prove a second bonanza, and he was already considering whether he could find another purchaser for it.

"Have you made much money this mornin', Grit?" next inquired Brandon, changing the conversation.

"I decline to tell you," answered Grit shortly.

"Grit, you don't seem to reflect that I am your stepfather, and set in authority over you."

"I am not very likely to forget that I have a stepfather I am ashamed of," said Grit.

"This is unkind, Grit," said Brandon, in a voice tremulous with maudlin sentiment. "Because I've been unfortunate, and have been shut out from all enjoyment for five years, you mock and insult me when I get home and pine for domestic happiness."

"If you would behave decently, you wouldn't be reminded of the past," said Grit. "But how is it? You haven't been home but twenty-four hours, and have already borrowed all the money mother had, and have sold my boat, to gratify your taste for rum. There may be more contemptible men in the world, but I never met with one."

"Grit, if you talk to me in that way," said Brandon, with attempted dignity, "I shall be under the necessity of flogging you."

"You'd better not try it, Mr. Brandon. I wouldn't stand still while you were doing it. I promise you that."

Just then two gentlemen came down to Phil's pier, and one asked:

"Can you take us across to Portville?"

"Yes, sir," answered Grit promptly.

The two gentlemen got in, and Grit was about to push off, when Brandon said:

"Stop, Grit; I'll go, too."

"You'll have to wait, Mr. Brandon," said Grit coolly, and a determined push sent the boat out into the stream, and frustrated the design of his stepfather.

"You don't want any more passengers, I see," said one of the gentlemen, smiling.

"Not of that kind," answered Grit.

"You are right. The man had evidently been drinking, and his presence would have been disagreeable to us."

When the boat reached the opposite shore, the gentleman who had engaged him handed Grit half a dollar.

Grit was about to offer change, but the passenger said:

"No, keep the change, my lad. You'll find a use for it, I make no doubt."

"After all," thought Grit, who did not forget to thank his liberal patron, "this isn't going to be so bad a day for me."

Five minutes later a man with a heavy black beard and rather shabbily attired presented himself as a passenger.

"I say, boy," said he, "do you know a man named Brandon that has recently gone to Chester?"

"Yes," answered Grit.

"All right. When we get over on the other side, you can just point out to me where he lives."

CHAPTER XVI.
MR. BRANDON'S FRIEND

It was clear that Grit's new passenger was a stranger in the neighborhood. Had he been a resident of Chester or Portville, the young boatman would have known him. It must be confessed, however, that the appearance of the newcomer was not such as to render any one anxious to make his acquaintance. He was a black-haired, low-browed man, with a cunning, crafty look, and, to sum up, with the general appearance of a tramp.

He seated himself comfortably, and scanned the young boatman critically.

"Where do you live?" he asked abruptly.

"In Chester," answered Grit briefly.

"That's where my friend Brandon lives, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Do you know him?"

"Yes."

Grit felt reluctant to admit that any tie existed between himself and the returned convict.

"Brandon's wife is living, isn't she?"

"Yes."

"There's a kid, isn't there?"

"Mrs. Brandon has a son, if that's what you mean," said Grit.

"Of course, that's what I mean. Mrs. Brandon got any property?"

Grit was getting provoked. He did not fancy discussing his mother's affairs with a man of this stamp.

"You seem to feel considerable interest in the family," he could not help saying.

"S'pose I do! That's my business, isn't it?"

"I suppose so," answered Grit.

"Well, why don't you answer my question?" demanded the passenger impatiently.

"I haven't agreed to answer your questions; I have engaged to row you across the river, and I am doing it."

"Look here, boy!" said the passenger, bending his brows, "I don't want you to talk back to me—do you hear?"

"Yes, I hear; but if you ask me questions I shall answer as I please."

"You will, hey? I've a great mind to throw you into the river."

"That wouldn't do you any good. You wouldn't get over any quicker, and, besides, you would find yourself under arrest before night."

"And you would drown."

"Not if I could help it. I can swim across the river easily."

"You're a cool hand. Then you are not willing to answer my questions?"

"I will, if you will answer mine."

"Go ahead. I'll see about it."

"Where did you meet Mr. Brandon?"

"Where? Well, let that pass."

It so happened that the two had first met as fellow prisoners—a confession the passenger did not care to make. Grit inferred this from the reluctance displayed in giving the answer.

"What is your name?"

"Thomas Travers," answered the passenger, rather slowly. "What is yours?"

"Harry Morris."

This answer revealed nothing, since Travers did not know the name of Brandon's wife before marriage.

"Do you make much, ferrying passengers across the river?"

"I do pretty well."

"What is your fare?"

"Ten cents."

"Pretty good. I'd do it for that myself."

"There's a chance to run opposition to me," said Grit, smiling.

"I've got more important business on hand. So you know Brandon, do you?"

"Yes, I know him."

"Do you know his wife?"

"Yes."

"Has she property?"

"She owns the small cottage she lives in."

"Good!" said Travers, nodding. "That's luck for Brandon."

"How is it?" asked Grit, desirous of drawing out Travers, as he probably knew Mr. Brandon's intentions, and it was important that these should be understood.

"It's a good thing to have property in the family. My friend Brandon is short of funds, and he can sell the house, or raise money on it."

"Without his wife's consent?"

"Oh, she'll have to give in," said Travers nonchalantly.

"We'll see about that," said Grit to himself, but he did not utter his thoughts aloud.

By this time they had reached the opposite shore of the river, and Travers stepped out of the boat.

He felt in his vest pocket, as a matter of form, but did not succeed in finding anything there.

"I've got no change, boy," he said. "I'll get some from Brandon, and pay you to-morrow."

"Mr. Brandon's credit isn't good with me," said Grit.

"Ha, does he owe you money?"

"I refused to take him across the river this morning," answered Grit.

"Look here, young fellow, that isn't the way to carry on business. When you insult my friend Brandon, you insult me. I've a great mind never to ride across on your boat again."

"I don't mind losing your patronage," repeated Grit. "It doesn't pay."

"We'll discuss that another time. Where does my friend Brandon live?"

"You can inquire," returned Grit, by no means anxious to point out the way to his mother's house to this objectionable stranger.

"You're the most impudent boy I've met lately," said Travers angrily. "I'll settle you yet."

"Better settle with me first, Mr. Travers," said Grit coolly, and he pushed his boat back into the stream.

"I wonder who he is," thought Travers, as he walked away from the boat landing. "I must ask Brandon. I wish I could meet him. I'm precious short of funds, and I depend on him to take care of me for a few days."

Thomas Travers passed by the little cottage on the bluff, quite unaware that it was the house he was in search of. He kept on his way toward the village, not meeting any one of whom he could ask the proper direction.

At length, greatly to his relief, he espied in the distance the familiar figure of Brandon, walking, or, more properly, reeling, toward him.

"That's he—that's my friend Brandon!" he exclaimed joyfully. "Now I'm all right. Say, old fellow, how are you?"

"Is it you, Travers?" said Brandon, trying to steady himself.

"Yes, it's I—Tom Travers."

"When did you get out?"

"Sh! Don't speak too loud!" said Travers, looking about him cautiously. "I got out two days after you."

"What are you doing here?"

"Just come. Come to see you, old boy. I can stay with you, can't I?"

Brandon looked dubious.

"I don't know what Mrs. B. will say," he answered slowly.

"You're boss in your own house, ain't you?"

"Well, that's where it is! It isn't my own house. It belongs to Mrs. B."

"Same thing, I take it."

"No, it isn't. The old lady's bound to keep it in her own hands."

"Can't you sell or mortgage it?"

"She won't let me."

"Bah! Can't you control a woman?" returned Travers disdainfully.

"I might, but for the cub."

"The boy?"

"Yes. He's the most obstinate, perverse, independent young kid you ever saw."

"You don't say so!"

"Fact! It's pretty hard on me."

"Then he'll make a pretty good match for the boy I met this morning."

"Where?"

"The boy that ferried me across the river. He's as sassy a young kid as I ever saw."

"Why, that's him—that's Grit."

"Grit! He told me his name was Harry Morris."

"So it is, and his mother was Mrs. Morris before I married her."

"You don't mean to say that boy is your stepson?"

"Yes, he is."

"Whew!" whistled Travers. "Well, he doesn't seem to admire you very much," continued the visitor.

"No, doesn't treat me with any respect. If it wasn't for him, I could manage his mother. He sets her against me, and gets her to stand out against anything I propose. It's hard, Travers," continued Brandon, showing an inclination to indulge in maudlin tears.

"Then why do you submit to it, Brandon? Ain't you a match for a boy like that? Why, you ain't half the man I thought you was."

"Ain't I? I was too much for Grit this morning, anyway," said Brandon, with a cunning smile.

"What did you do?"

"I sold his boat before he was up, and he had to borrow another."

"Good!" exclaimed Travers, delighted. "You're a trump. Have you got any of the money left?"

"A little."

"Then steer for the tavern, old fellow. I'm awfully thirsty."

The next hour was spent in the barroom, and then the worthy and well-matched pair bent their steps toward the little cottage, Travers supporting his friend Brandon as well as he could.

CHAPTER XVII.
AN UNWELCOME VISITOR

Mrs. Brandon was laying the cloth for dinner when she heard a scuffling sound, as of footsteps, in the entry.

"Who is with Mr. Brandon?" she thought. "It can't be Grit. They wouldn't be likely to come home together."

Her uncertainty was soon at an end, for the door was opened, and her husband reeled in, sinking into the nearest chair, of necessity, for his limbs refused to support him. Just behind him was Mr. Thomas Travers, who was also under the influence of his recent potations, but not to the same extent as his companion.

"How do, Mrs. B.?" said her liege lord. "Mrs. B., I have the pleasure of introducin' my frien' Travers. Come in, Travers."

Mrs. Brandon surveyed the two with a look of disgust, and did not speak.

"I hope I see you well, ma'am," said Travers, rather awkwardly, endeavoring, with some difficulty, to maintain an erect attitude. "Sorry to intrude, but my old friend Brandon insisted."

"You can come in if you like," said Mrs. Brandon coldly.

"I say, Mrs. B., is dinner almost ready? My frien', Mr. Travers, is hungry, an' so'm I."

"Dinner is nearly ready. I suppose, Mr. Brandon, you have just come from the tavern."

"Yes, Mrs. B., I've come from the tavern," hiccoughed Brandon. "Have you anything to say against it?"

"I would say something if it would do any good," said his wife despondently.

"If you think—hic—that I've been drinking Mrs. B., you're mistaken; ain't she, Travers?"

"You didn't drink enough to hurt you, Brandon," said his companion, coming to his assistance.

Mrs. Brandon looked at Travers, but did not deign to answer him. It was clear that his assurance possessed no value in her eyes.

She continued her preparations, and laid the dinner on the table.

Then she went to the door, and, shading her eyes, looked out, hoping to see Grit on his way home. But she looked in vain. Just as he was about fastening his boat, or, rather, the boat he had borrowed, two passengers came up and wished to be conveyed across the river.

"My dinner can wait," thought Grit. "I must not disappoint passengers."

So his coming home was delayed, and Brandon and his friend had the field to themselves.

When dinner was ready, Brandon staggered to the table and seated himself.

"Sit down, Travers," he said. "You're in my house, and you must make yourself at home."

He said this a little defiantly, for he saw by Mrs. Brandon's expression that she was not pleased with his friend's presence.

"I'm glad to hear it," said Travers, with a knowing smile. "I was told that the house belonged to your wife."

"It's the same thing, isn't it, Mrs. B.?" returned Brandon.

"Not quite," answered his wife bitterly. "If it were, we should not have a roof over our heads."

"There you go again!" said Brandon fiercely, pounding the table with the handle of his knife. "Don't let me hear no more such talk. I'm master here, d'ye hear that?"

"That's the talk, Brandon!" said Travers approvingly. "I like to hear a man show proper independence. Of course you're master here."

Mrs. Brandon was of a gentle nature, but she was roused to resentment by this rudeness. Turning to Travers, she said:

"I don't know who you are, sir, but your remarks are offensive and displeasing."

"I'm the friend of my friend Brandon," said Travers insolently, "and as long as he don't complain of my remarks, I shall remark what I please. What d'ye say, Brandon?"

"Quite right, Travers, old boy! You're in my house, and I expect you to be treated accordingly. Mrs. B., you will be kind enough to remember that this gen'leman is a frien' of mine," and Brandon closed the sentence with a drunken hiccough.

"I think it necessary to say that this house belongs to me," said Mrs. Brandon, "and that no one is welcome here who does not treat me with respect."

"Spunky, eh?" said Travers, laughing rudely.

"Yes, she's spunky," said Brandon, "but we'll cure her of that, eh, Travers?—the same way as I cured that boy of hers."

"That was good!" laughed Travers. "He's an impudent young rascal."

Mrs. Brandon was alarmed. What did they mean by these references? What had been done to Grit, and how had he been served? Was it possible that Brandon had dared to use violence to the boy? The very thought hardened her, and gave her courage.

"Mr. Brandon," she said, with flashing eyes, "what do you mean? What have you done to Grit? Have you dared to illtreat him? If you have, it will be a bad day's work for you."

"Ha! She threatens you, Brandon. Now, brace up, man, and show your spunk," said Travers, enjoying the scene.

"I'm not accountable to you, Mrs. B.," stammered Brandon, in what he essayed to make a dignified tone. "Grit is my stepson, and I'm his natural guardian."

"Mr. Brandon, what have you done to Grit?" persisted his wife, with flashing eyes. "Have you dared to lay a finger upon him?"

"I'll lay two fingers, three fingers, on him, if I like," said Brandon doggedly. "He's a sassy puppy, Mrs. B."

Mrs. Brandon became more and more anxious. Generally, Grit was home by this time, and his failure to appear led the anxious mother to conclude that he had been injured by her husband.

"Where is Grit?" she asked, with startling emphasis.

"He's all right," stammered Brandon.

"He's all right, but he isn't happy," said Travers, laughing. "That was a good move of yours, selling his boat."

"Did you sell Grit's boat, Mr. Brandon?" demanded his wife quickly.

"Yes, I did, Mrs. B. Have you got anything to say against it?"

"I say that it was a mean, contemptible, dishonest act!" said Mrs. Brandon warmly. "You have taken away the poor boy's means of living, in order to gratify your love of drink. The food which you are eating was bought with his earnings. How do you expect to live, now that you have taken away his boat?"

"He'll get along; he's got sixty dollars," said Brandon thickly.

"Sixty dollars won't last forever. To whom did you sell the boat?"

"Phil Courtney."

"He was just the boy to buy it. Little he cared for the harm he was doing my poor Grit. How much did he pay you?"

"Five dollars."

"And how much of the money have you got left?"

Brandon drew out two silver half-dollars from his pocket.

"That's all I've got left," he said.

"And you have actually squandered four dollars on liquor, you and your friend!" said Mrs. Brandon—"nearly the whole sum you received for my poor boy's boat!"

"Hush up, Mrs. B.! It's none of your business," said Brandon.

"That's the way to talk, Brandon!" said Travers, surveying the scene with boorish delight. "I like to see a man show the proper spirit of a man. I like to see a man master in his own house."

"You would not insult me so if Grit were here!" said Mrs. Brandon, with a red spot on either cheek. "Mr. Brandon, I tolerate your presence here, because I was foolish enough to accept you as my husband. As for this man whom you have brought here, he is unwelcome. He has dared to insult me while sitting at my table, and I ask him in your presence to leave the house."

"Travers is my frien'; he will stay here, Mrs. B., and don't you forget it!"

Brandon pounded the table as he spoke, and nodded his head vigorously.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Brandon," said Travers impudently, "but when my friend Brandon tells me to stay, stay I must. If you don't enjoy my being here, let me suggest to you, in the politest manner, to go and take a walk. Eh, Brandon?"

"Yes, go take a walk!" said Brandon, echoing his friend's remark. "I'll have you to know, Mrs. B., that this is my house, an' I am master here. My frien' Travers will stay here as long as he pleases."

"That's the talk, Brandon. I knew you weren't under petticoat government. You're too much of a man for that."

"Yesh, I'm too much of a man for that," said Brandon sleepily.

Travers took from his pocket a clay pipe, and, deliberately filling the bowl with tobacco, began to smoke.

As he leaned back in his chair, winking insolently at Mrs. Brandon, the poor woman cried:

"Will no one relieve me from this insolent intruder?"

The words caught the ears of Grit, who entered at this moment.

He looked from one to the other of the two men who sat at his mother's table, and his eyes flashed, and his boyish form dilated with passion.