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?"
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."
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.
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.
"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.
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.