Grit. Alger Horatio Jr.
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Grit disdainfully.
"I am afraid our quiet, happy life is at an end, Grit," sighed his mother.
Grit did not answer for a moment, but he looked stern and determined. Finally, he answered:
"I don't want to make any disturbance, mother, or to act improperly, but I feel sure that we ought not to submit to such treatment."
"What can we do, Grit?"
"If Mr. Brandon cares to stay here we will provide him a home, give him his board, but, as to supplying him with money, we ought not to do it."
"I agree with you, Grit, but I don't see how we can help it. Mr. Brandon is a man, and you are only a boy. I don't want you to quarrel with him."
"I won't if I can help it. By the way, mother, I don't think it will be prudent to leave all this money in the house."
"What can we do with it?"
"I will put it out of my hands. Perhaps I had better not tell you what I am going to do with it, for Mr. Brandon might ask you, and it is better that you should be able to tell him that you don't know."
"You are right, Grit."
"I will attend to that matter at once, mother. I will be back in half or three-quarters of an hour," and the young boatman hurried from the house.
He bent his steps to the house of his particular friend, Fred Lawrence, the son of a lawyer in the village. Mr. Lawrence was rated as wealthy by the people in the village, and lived in a house quite as good as Mr. Courtney's, but his son Fred was a very different style of boy. He had no purse-pride, and it never occurred to him that Grit was unfit to associate with, simply because he was poor, and had to earn a living for himself and his mother by ferrying passengers across the Kennebec. In fact, he regarded Grit as his most intimate friend, and spent as much time in his company as their differing engagements would allow.
Phil Courtney, though he condescended to Grit, regarded Fred as his social equal, and wished to be intimate with him; but Fred did not fancy Phil, and the latter saw, with no little annoyance, that the young boatman's company was preferred to his. It displayed shocking bad taste on the part of Fred, but he did not venture to express himself to the lawyer's son as he would not scruple to do to the young ferryman.
Naturally, when Grit felt the need of advice, he thought of his most intimate friend, and sought the lawyer's house.
He met Fred on the way.
"Hello, Grit!" said Fred cordially. "Where are you going?"
"I was going to your house."
"Then turn round, and we will go there."
"I can talk with you in the street. I want your advice and help."
"My advice is probably very valuable," said Fred, smiling, "considering my age and experience. However, my help you can rely upon, if I can give it."
"Did you hear that Mr. Brandon had got home?" asked Grit abruptly.
"Your stepfather?"
"Yes; I am sorry to say that there is that tie between us. I presume you know where he has spent the last five years?"
"Yes," answered Fred.
"Of course, I am glad for his sake that he is free; but I am afraid he is going to give us trouble."
"How does he appear?"
"I have not seen him yet."
"How's that?"
"He only arrived to-day, and I was absent when he reached home."
"Does he mean to live here?"
"I am afraid so; and, what is more, I am afraid he means that mother and I shall pay his expenses. He has already told mother that he shall require me to account to him for my daily earnings."
"That will be hard on you."
"Yes; I need all I can make to pay our daily expenses, and I don't feel like letting mother suffer for the necessaries of life in order to supply Mr. Brandon with money for drink."
"You are right there, Grit. I sympathize with you; but how can I help it?"
"That is what I am coming to. I want to deposit my money with you—that is, what I don't need to use."
"I suppose you haven't much. It might not be well to trust me too far," said Fred, smiling.
"I have sixty dollars here, which I would like to put in your hands—that is, all but two dollars."
"Sixty dollars! Where on earth did you get so much money, Grit?" asked his friend, opening his eyes wide in astonishment.
Grit told the story briefly, and received the warm congratulations of his friend.
"You deserve it all, Grit," he said, "for your brave deed."
"Don't flatter me, Fred, or I may put on airs like Phil Courtney. But, to come back to business—will you do me this favor?"
"Of course, I will. Father has a safe in his office, and I will put the money in there. Whenever you want any of it, you have only to ask me."
"Thank you. That will suit me. I shan't break in upon it unless I am obliged to, as I would like to have it in reserve to fall back upon."
"Come and take supper with us, Grit, won't you?" asked Fred cordially.
"Thank you, Fred; not to-night. I haven't seen Mr. Brandon yet, and I may as well get over the first interview as soon as possible. We shall have to come to an understanding, and it is better not to delay it."
"Good night, then; I shall see you to-morrow, for I am going to Portville, and I shall go over in your boat."
"Then we can have a chat together. Good night."
Meanwhile, Mr. Brandon, having slept off his debauch, had come down-stairs.
"Where's the cub?" he asked.
"I wish you wouldn't call him by that name," said his wife. "He wouldn't like it."
"I shall call him what I please. Hasn't he been in?"
"Yes, Grit has been in."
"Grit?"
"That's a nickname the boys have given him, and as everybody calls him so, I have got into that way."
"Oh, well, call him what you like. Has he been in?"
"Yes."
"Where is he now?"
"He went out for a short time. I expect him in every minute."
"Did he leave his day's earnings with you?"
"No," answered Mrs. Brandon, with a troubled look. "He has the best right to that himself."
"Has he, hey? We'll see about that. I, as his stepfather and legal guardian, shall have something to say to that."
Mrs. Brandon was not called upon to reply, for the door opened just then, and the young boatman stood in the presence of his worthy stepfather.
CHAPTER IX.
A LITTLE DISCUSSION
Grit was only ten years old when his stepfather began to serve out his sentence at the penitentiary, and the two had not seen each other since. Instead of the small boy he remembered, Brandon saw before him a boy large and strong for his age, of well-knit frame and sturdy look. Five years had made him quite a different boy. His daily exercise in rowing had strengthened his muscles and developed his chest, so that he seemed almost a young man.
Brandon stared in surprise at the boy.
"Is that—the cub?" he asked.
"I object to that name, Mr. Brandon," said Grit quietly.
"You've grown!" said Brandon, still regarding him with curiosity.
"Yes, I ought to have grown some in five years."
It occurred to Mr. Brandon that it might not be so easy as he had expected to bully his stepson. He resolved at first to be conciliatory.
"I'm glad to see you," he said. "It's long since