Grit

CHAPTER XVIII.
A STORMY TIME

"What does this mean?" demanded Grit, in a stern voice. "What have these men been doing?"

"Oh, Grit, I am glad you are here!" said his mother. "Mr. Brandon has brought this man here against my will, and he has treated me rudely."

Travers looked round and saw the boy.

"Hello, my young friend!" he said. "You didn't tell me that my friend Brandon was your stepfather."

"Because I was ashamed of it," answered Grit promptly.

"D'ye hear that, Brandon?" said Travers. "The boy says he is ashamed of you."

"I'll settle with him when I feel better," said Brandon, who realized that he was not in a condition even to deal with a boy. "He's a bad-mannered cub, an' deserves a floggin'."

"You won't give it to me!" said Grit contemptuously. "What is the name of this man you have brought into the house?"

"He's my frien' Travers," answered Brandon. "My frien' Travers is a gen'l'man."

"A gentleman isn't insolent to ladies," retorted Grit. "Mr. Travers, if that is your name, my mother wishes you to leave the house."

"Couldn't do it," said Travers, leering. "My frien' Brandon wants me to stay—don't you, Brandon?"

"Certainly, Travers. This is my house, an' I'm master of the house. Don't you mind what Mrs. B. or this cub says. Just stay where you are, and stand by me."

"I'll do it with pleasure," said Travers. "My friend Brandon is the master of this house, and what he says I will do."

"Mr. Travers," said Grit firmly, "you shall not stay here. This house belongs to my mother, and she wishes you to go. I suppose you can understand that?"

"My dear boy, you may as well shut up. I shan't go."

"You won't!" said Grit menacingly.

"Oh, Grit, don't get into any difficulty," said his mother, becoming alarmed.

Travers puffed away at his pipe, surveying Grit with an insulting smile.

"Listen to your mother, boy!" he said. "She talks sense."

"Mother," said Grit quietly, "will you be kind enough to go up-stairs for five minutes? I will deal with these men."

"I will go if you think it best, Grit; but do be cautious. I am sure Mr. Travers will see the impropriety of his remaining here against my wishes."

"I may see it in a few days," said Travers insolently. "Don't trouble yourself, ma'am. The law is on my side, and I am the guest of my friend Brandon. Isn't that so, Brandon?"

"To be sure, Travers," said Brandon, in a drowsy tone.

"Mr. Brandon's friends are not welcome here," said Grit, "nor is he himself welcome."

"That's an unkind thing for your own boy to say," said Brandon, in a tone which he tried to make pathetic. "Because I've been unfortunate, my own family turn against me."

"If you had behaved decently, Mr. Brandon, we would have tolerated your presence," said Grit; "but during the short time you have been here, you have annoyed and robbed my mother and myself, and spent the money you stole at the tavern. We have had enough of you!"

"Do you hear that, Travers?" asked Brandon, by a ludicrous transition shedding maudlin tears. "Do you hear that ungrateful boy?"

Meanwhile, Mrs. Brandon, in accordance with Grit's request, had left the room.

Grit felt that the time had come for decisive measures. He was not a quarrelsome boy, nor was he given to fighting, but he had plenty of spirit, and he was deeply moved and provoked by the insolence of Travers.

Some consideration he perhaps owed to his mother's husband; but to his disreputable companion, none whatever.

"Mr. Travers," he said, with cool determination, turning toward the intruder, "did you hear me say that my mother desired you to leave the house?"

"I don't care that for your mother!" said Travers, snapping his fingers. "My friend Brandon–"

He did not complete the sentence. Grit could not restrain himself when he heard this insolent defiance of his mother, and, without a moment's hesitation, he approached Travers, with one sweep of his arm dashed the pipe he was smoking into a hundred pieces, and, seizing the astonished visitor by the shoulders, pushed him forcibly to the door and thrust him out.

Travers was so astonished that he was quite unable to resist, nor indeed was he a match for the strong and muscular boy in his present condition.

"Well, that beats all I ever heard of!" he muttered, as he stumbled into a sitting position on the door-step.

Brandon stared at Grit and his summary proceeding in a dazed manner.

"Wha—what's all this, Grit?" he asked, trying to rise from his chair. "How dare you treat my friend Travers so rudely?"

Grit's blood was up. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes sparkled with resentment.

"Mr. Brandon," he said, "we have borne with you, my mother and I, but this has got to stop. When you bring one of your disreputable friends here to insult my mother, you've got me to deal with. Don't you dare bring that man here again!"

This was, I admit, rather a singular tone for a boy of Grit's age to assume, but it must be considered what provocation he had. Circumstances had made him feel older than he really was. For nearly five years he had been his mother's adviser, protector, and dependence, and he felt indignant through and through at the mean and dastardly course of his stepfather.

"Don't be sassy, Grit," said Brandon, slipping back into his chair. "I'm the master of this house."

"That is where you are mistaken, Mr. Brandon," said Grit.

"Perhaps you are," retorted Brandon, with mild sarcasm.

"This house has no master. My mother is the mistress and owner," said Grit.

"I'm goin' to flog you, Grit, when I feel better."

"I'm willing to wait," said Grit calmly.

Here there was an interruption. The ejected guest rose from his sitting posture on the steps, and essayed to lift the latch and gain fresh admittance.

He failed, for Grit, foreseeing the attempt, had bolted the door.

Finding he could not open the door, Travers rattled the latch and called out:

"Open the door, Brandon, and let me in!"

"Open the door, Grit," said his stepfather, not finding it convenient to rise.

"I refuse to do so, Mr. Brandon," said Grit, in a firm tone.

"Why don't you let me in?" was heard from the outside, as Travers rattled the latch once more.

"I'll have to open it myself," said Brandon, half rising and trying to steady himself.

The attempt was vain, for he had already drunk more than was good for him when he met Travers, and had drunk several glasses on top of that.

Instead of going to the door, he sank helpless and miserable on the floor.

"That disposes of him," said Grit, eying the prostrate form with a glance of disgust and contempt. "I shall be able to manage the other one now with less trouble."

"Let me in, Brandon!" repeated Travers, beginning to pound on the door.

Grit went to a window on a line with the door, and, raising it, looked out at the besieging force.

"Mr. Travers," he said, "you may as well go away; you won't get back into the house."

"My friend Brandon will let me in. You're only a boy. My friend Brandon is the master of the house. He will let me in."

"Your friend Brandon is lying on the floor, drunk, and doesn't hear you," said Grit.

"Then I'll let myself in!" said Travers, with an oath.

He picked up a rock, and began to pound the door, to the imminent danger of breaking the panels. "There's more than one way to get in. When I get in, I'll mash you!"

The time had come for decisive action. Drunk as he was, Travers would sooner or later break down the door, and then there would be trouble.

Grit seized an old pistol which lay on the mantel-piece. It had long been disused, and was so rusty that it was very doubtful whether any use could have been made of it. Still it presented a formidable appearance, as the young boatman pointed it at Travers.

"Stop pounding that door, or I fire!" Grit exclaimed, in a commanding tone.

Travers turned quickly at the word, and as he saw the rusty weapon pointed at him, his small stock of courage left him, and he turned pale, for he was a coward at heart.

"For the Lord's sake, don't fire!" he cried hastily.

CHAPTER XIX.
TRAVERS PICKS UP A FRIEND

Travers looked the picture of fright as he beheld the rusty pistol which Grit pointed at him.

"Don't fire, for the Lord's sake!" he repeated, in alarm.

"Will you go away, then, and give up troubling us?" demanded the young boatman sternly.

"Yes, yes, I'll go," said Travers hurriedly. "Lower that pistol. It might go off."

Grit lowered the weapon, as desired, seeing that Travers was likely to keep his word.

"Tell Brandon I want to see him. I will be at the tavern this afternoon at four o'clock."

"I'll tell him," said Grit, who preferred that his stepfather should be anywhere rather than at home.

Having got rid of Travers, Grit turned to survey his stepfather, who was lying on the floor, breathing heavily. His eyes were closed, and he seemed in a drunken stupor.

"How long have we got to submit to this?" thought Grit. "I must go up and consult with mother about what is to be done."

He went up-stairs, and found his mother seated in her chamber, nervously awaiting the issue of the interview between Grit and the worthy pair below.

"Are they gone, Grit?" she asked quickly.

"Travers is gone, mother. I turned him out of the house."

"Did you have any trouble with him?"

"I should have had, but he was too weak to resist me, on account of having drunk too much."

"I thought I heard him pounding on the door."

"So he did, but I frightened him away with the old pistol," and Grit laughed at the remembrance. "He thought it was loaded."

"He may come back again," said Mrs. Brandon apprehensively.

"Yes, he may. Brandon is likely to draw such company. I wish we could get rid of him, too."

"What a fatal mistake I made in marrying that man!" said Mrs. Brandon mournfully.

"That is true, mother but it can't be helped now. The question is, what shall we do?"

"Where is he?"

"Lying on the floor, drunk," said Grit, in a tone of disgust. "We may as well leave him there for the present."

"He has hardly been home twenty-four hours, yet how he has changed our quiet life. If he would only reform!"

"Not much chance of that, mother."

"What shall we do, Grit?" asked Mrs. Brandon, who was wont to come to Grit, young as he was, for advice.

"I have thought of two ways. I might buy him a ticket for Boston, if I thought he would use it. It would be of no use to give him the money, or he would spend it at the tavern instead."

"If he would only leave us to ourselves, it would a blessing."

"If he won't hear of that, there is another way."

"What is it?"

"I could engage board for you and myself at the house of one of our neighbors for a week."

"What good would that do, Grit?"

"You would prepare no meals at home, and Mr. Brandon would be starved out. While he can live upon us, and raise money to buy liquor at the tavern, there is little chance of getting rid of him."

"I don't know, Grit. It seems a harsh thing to do."

"But consider the circumstances, mother. We can't allow him to continue annoying us as he has done."

"Do as you think best, Grit."

"Then I will go over to Mrs. Sprague's and ask if she will take us for a few days. That will probably be sufficient."

Going down-stairs, Grit saw his stepfather still lying on the floor. Grit's step aroused him, and he lifted his head.

"'S'that you Grit?" he asked, in thick accents.

"Yes, sir."

"Where's my frien' Travers?"

"He's gone."

"Where's he gone?"

"To the tavern. He said he would meet you there at four o'clock."

"What time is it?" asked Brandon, trying to get up.

"Two o'clock."

"I'll be there. You tell him so, Grit."

"I will if I see him."

Grit went on his way to Mrs. Sprague's, and had no difficulty in making the arrangement he desired for his mother and himself, when she learned that Mr. Brandon was not to come, too.

"I feel for your mother, Grit," she said. "If I can help her in this trial, I certainly will."

"Thank you, Mrs. Sprague. I will return and tell her. Perhaps she may come over by the middle of the afternoon. I don't like to leave her alone in the house with Mr. Brandon."

"She will be welcome whenever she comes, Grit."

"You had better go over at once, mother," said Grit, on his return. "A drunken man is not fit company for you."

Mrs. Brandon was easily persuaded to take the step recommended, and her husband was left in the house alone.

Meanwhile, Travers went on his way to the tavern. It was rather a serious thing for him to be turned out of his friend's house, for he had but a scanty supply of money, and his appearance was not likely to give him credit.

"Confound that boy!" he muttered. "He's just reckless enough to shoot me, if I don't give up to him. I pity Brandon, having such a son as that."

It would have been more in order to pity Grit for having such a stepfather, but Travers looked upon the matter from his own point of view, which, it is needless to say, was influenced by his own interests.

"Will they take me at the tavern?" he thought to himself. "If they won't, I shall have to sleep out, and that would be hard for a gentleman like me."

When we are in a tight place, help often comes from unexpected quarters, and this to those who hardly deserve such a favor. So it happened in the case of Travers.

As he was walking slowly along, his face wrinkled with perplexity, he attracted the attention of a tall man, dressed in black, who might readily have passed for a clergyman, so far as his externals went. He crossed the street, and accosted Travers.

"My friend," he said, "you appear to be in trouble."

"So I am," answered Travers readily.

"Of what nature?"

"I've just been turned out of the house of the only friend I have in the village, and I don't know where to go."

"Go to the tavern."

"So I would if I had money enough to pay my score. You haven't got five dollars to spare, have you?"

Travers had no expectation of being answered in the affirmative, and he was surprised, as well as gratified, when the stranger drew out his wallet, and, taking therefrom a five-dollar bill, put it into his hand.

"There," said he.

"Well!" exclaimed the astonished Travers, "you're a gentleman if ever there was one. May I know the name of such an—an ornament to his species?"

The stranger smiled.

"I am glad you appreciate my little favor," he said. "As to my name, you may call me Colonel Johnson."

"Proud to know you, colonel," said Travers, clasping the hand of his new acquaintance warmly.

"What is your name?" asked Johnson.

"Thomas Travers."

"I am glad to know you, Mr. Travers," said the colonel. "Let me drop you a hint. There's more money where that came from."

"You couldn't lend me any more, could you?" asked Travers eagerly.

"Well, not exactly lend, Mr. Travers, but perhaps we can enter into a little business arrangement."

"All right, colonel," said Travers briskly. "I'm out of business. Fact is, I've been in seclusion lately—confined to the house in fact, and haven't been able to earn anything."

"Just so. Suppose we take a walk in yonder field, and I will tell you what I have in view."

They got over a fence, and walked slowly along a path that led a quarter of a mile farther on into the woods.

Here they sat down under a tree, and Colonel Johnson, producing a couple of cigars and a match, said:

"I can always talk better when I am smoking. Have one, Travers."

"You're a man after my own heart, colonel," said Travers enthusiastically. "Now, if I only had a nip I should be in clover."

"Take one, then," said the colonel, producing a pocket-flask of brandy.

Travers was by no means bashful in accepting this invitation.

CHAPTER XX.
A PROMISING PLAN

The conference between Colonel Johnson and Travers was apparently of great interest to the latter. It is important that the reader should be made acquainted with its nature.

"I take it for granted, Mr. Travers," said the colonel, after their potation, "that you are ready to undertake a job if there is money in it."

"That's as true as you live," said Travers emphatically.

"Am I also right in concluding that you are not squeamish as to how the money is earned? You are not overburdened with conscientious scruples, eh?"

"Not much! They're all nonsense," returned Travers.

"Good! I see you are the sort of a man I took you for. Now you must, to begin with, promise that you will regard as confidential what I am about to say to you."

"Tom Travers can be relied upon, colonel. He's safe every time."

"Good again! Then I shall not hesitate to unfold to you my little plan. I believe you have a bank in the village?"

"Yes; but, colonel, I am a stranger here. I only know one person here—my friend Brandon."

"Is he—the same kind of a man as yourself?" inquired Johnson.

"The same identical kind, colonel. What is it Shakespeare, or some other poet, says:

 
"'Two flowers upon a single stalk,
Two hearts that beat as one.'"
 

"I compliment you on your knowledge of poetry, Mr. Travers. I didn't think it was in you."

Travers looked complimented.

"I've had an education, colonel," he said complacently, "though circumstances have been against me for the last four years. As for my friend Brandon, he's one you can rely upon."

"I shall probably require his services as well as yours," said Johnson. "Now let me proceed. You agree with me that bank capitalists are grasping monopolists, that they grind down the poor man, and live in luxury at the expense of the poor laborer."

"Just my notion, colonel!"

"And whatever we can get out of them is what they richly deserve to lose?"

"Just so!"

"Well and good! I see you agree with me. And now, friend Travers, I will tell you what I have in view, and why it is that I need the services of two gentlemen like you and your friend. The fact is"—here Johnson dropped the mask, being assured of the character of his listener—"there's a good haul to be made within three days—a haul which, if successful, will make all three of us easy in our circumstances for years to come."

"Go ahead, colonel. I'm with you, and my friend Brandon, too. I'll answer for him. We both need a lift mightily."

"I learn—no matter how"—said Johnson, lowering his voice, "that a messenger from the bank goes to Boston day after to-morrow with a package of thirty thousand dollars in government bonds. He's to carry them to the Merchant's National Bank in Boston. These bonds are not registered, but coupon bonds, and can easily be sold. They are at a premium of fifteen or sixteen per cent., which would bring up the value to nearly or quite thirty-five thousand dollars."

Travers listened with eager interest. He began to understand the service that was expected of him, but it did not apparently shock him.

"Well?" he said.

"My plan," continued Colonel Johnson, "is for you and your friend to follow this bank messenger, and between here and Boston to relieve him of this package. You will meet me at a spot agreed upon in or near the city, and I will take the package."

"You will take the package?" repeated Travers blankly.

"Yes, but I will reward you liberally for your service. You and Brandon will each receive from me, in case the affair succeeds, the sum of five thousand dollars."

"I thought we would share and share alike," said Travers, in a tone of disappointment.

"Nonsense, man! Isn't it my plan? Am I to reap no benefit from my own conception? Besides, shall I not have the care and responsibility of disposing of the bonds? This will involve danger."

"So will our part involve danger," objected Travers.

"That is true, but your hazard is small. There will be two of you to one bank messenger. Besides, I take it for granted that you will be adroit enough to relieve the messenger without his knowing anything about it. When he discovers his loss you will be out of sight. It strikes me you will be rewarded very handsomely for the small labor imposed upon you."

Travers made a further effort to secure better terms, but his new acquaintance was firm in refusing them. The result was, that Travers unconditionally accepted for himself and Brandon.

"When shall you see your friend Brandon, as you call him?" inquired the colonel.

"This very afternoon," answered Travers promptly.

"Good! I like your promptness."

"That is, if I can," continued Travers, a shade doubtfully, for he remembered the summary manner in which he had been ejected from the house of his congenial companion and friend.

"Very well. Then we will postpone further debate till you have done so. I shall stay at the tavern here, and you can readily find me."

"I will stay there, too. I was staying with my friend Brandon, but his wife and her son did not treat me well, and I left them. They want to separate us—old friends as we are."

"They are jealous of you," suggested Johnson, smiling.

"Just so, but I'll euchre them yet."

The two walked together to the road, and there they separated, Johnson suggesting that it might be prudent for them not to be seen together too much.

Travers assented, and turned back in the direction of the house he had recently left under rather mortifying circumstances.

"The boy'll be gone to his boat," he thought, "and I don't care for the old lady. She doesn't like me, but I can stand that. I must see my friend Brandon, if I can."

Although Travers decided that Grit had returned to his boat, he approached the house cautiously. He thought it possible that Grit might still be on guard with the formidable pistol which he had pointed at him an hour or more earlier, and he did not like the looks of the weapon.

"It might go off!" he thought. "That plaguy boy is awfully reckless, and he wouldn't mind shooting a gentleman, if he felt like it. I'd like to pitch him into the water, pistol and all," he ejaculated fervently, in conclusion.

As I have said, Travers approached the little cottage with cautious steps. Drawing near, he listened to see if he could hear any sound of voices that would betray the presence of the boy he wished to avoid.

All was still. Nothing was to be heard but the deep breathing of Brandon, who still lay on the floor in a stupor. Grit was back at his boat, and Mrs. Brandon had already left the house and gone to spend the remainder of the afternoon with her neighbor. Brandon was, therefore, the only occupant of the cottage.

"I hear my friend Brandon," said Travers to himself. "I can hear nothing of the boy. He must be away."

By way of ascertaining definitely, Travers moved round to the window and peered in. He caught sight of the prostrate figure of Brandon, but could see no one else.

"It's all right," he said to himself, in a satisfied tone.

He tried the door, and found it unlocked.

He entered, and stooping over, seized Brandon by the shoulder, and called him loudly by name.

"I say, Brandon, wake up!"

"Go away, Grit," said Brandon drowsily.

"It isn't Grit. It's I—your friend Travers," said that gentleman.

"Thought my friend Travers was gone," muttered Brandon, opening his eyes.

"So I did go, but I've come back. I want to see you on important business."

"'Portant business?" repeated Brandon.

"Yes, very important business. Do you want to earn five thousand dollars?"

"Five thousand dollars!" said Brandon, roused by this startling inquiry. "'Course I do."

"Then rouse yourself, and I'll tell you all about it. Here, let me bring you some water, and you can dip your face in it. It will bring you to yourself sooner than anything else."

Brandon acceded to the proposal, and was soon in a clearer state of mind.

Travers proceeded to unfold his plan, after learning that Mrs. Brandon was out; but he had a listener he did not know of. Grit had come home for something he had forgotten, and, with his ear to the keyhole, heard the whole plot. He listened attentively. When all was told, he said to himself:

"I'll foil them, or my name isn't Grit!"