Grit or The Young Boatman of Pine Point 1

Grit or The Young Boatman of Pine Point 1

Grit or The Young Boatman of Pine Point

 

Author: Horatio Alger Jr.

 

CHAPTER I.

 

GRIT.

 

 

"Grit!"

 

"Well, mother, what is it?"

 

The speaker was a sturdy, thick-set boy of fifteen, rather short for his

age, but strongly made. His eyes were clear and bright, his __EXPRESSION__

was pleasant, and his face attractive, but even a superficial observer

could read in it unusual firmness and strength of will. He was evidently

a boy whom it would not be easy to subdue or frighten. He was sure to

make his way in the world, and maintain his rights against all

aggression. It was the general recognition of this trait which had led

to the nickname, "Grit," by which he was generally known. His real name

was Harry Morris, but even his mother had fallen into the habit of

calling him Grit, and his own name actually sounded strange to him.

 

"Well, mother, what is it?" he asked again, as his mother continued to

look at him in silence, with an __EXPRESSION__ of trouble on her face.

 

"I had a letter this morning, Grit."

 

"From--_him_?"

 

"Yes, from your father."

 

"Don't call him my father!" said the boy hastily. "He isn't my father."

 

"He is your stepfather--and my husband," said Mrs. Morris soberly.

 

"Yes, worse luck for you! Well, what does he say?"

 

"He's coming home."

 

An __EXPRESSION__ of dismay quickly gathered on the boy's face.

 

"How can that be? His term isn't out."

 

"It is shortened by good behavior, and so he comes out four months

before his sentence would have expired."

 

"I wouldn't have him here, mother," said Grit earnestly. "He will only

worry and trouble you. We are getting on comfortably now without him."

 

"Yes, thanks to my good, industrious boy."

 

"Oh, don't talk about that," said Grit, who always felt embarrassed when

openly praised.

 

"But it is true, Grit. But for the money you make in your boat, I might

have to go to the poorhouse."

 

"You will never go while I live, mother," said Grit quickly.

 

"No, Grit, I feel sure of that. It seems wicked to rejoice in your

father's misfortune and disgrace----"

 

"Not my father," interrupted Grit.

 

"Mr. Brandon, then. As I was saying, it seems wicked to feel relieved by

his imprisonment, but I can't help it."

 

"Why should you try to help it? He has made you a bad husband, and only

brought you unhappiness. How did you ever come to marry him, mother?"

 

"I did it for the best, as I thought, Grit. I was left a widow when you

were four years old. I had this cottage, to be sure, and about two

thousand dollars, but the interest of that sum at six per cent. only

amounted to a hundred and twenty dollars, and I was not brave and

self-reliant like some, so when Mr. Brandon asked me to marry him, I did

so, thinking that he would give us a good home, be a father to you, and

save us from all pecuniary care or anxiety."

 

"You were pretty soon undeceived, mother."

 

"No, not soon. Your stepfather had a good mercantile position in Boston,

and we occupied a comfortable cottage in Newton. For some years all went

well, but then I began to see a change for the worse in him. He became

fond of drink, was no longer attentive to business, picked up bad

associates, and eventually lost his position. This was when you were ten

years of age. Then he took possession of my little capital and went into

business for himself. But his old habits clung to him, and of course

there was small chance of success. He kept up for about a year, however,

and then he failed, and the creditors took everything----"

 

"Except this house, mother."

 

"Yes, this house was fortunately settled upon me, so that my husband

could not get hold of it. When we were turned out of our home in Newton,

it proved a welcome refuge for us. It was small, plain, humble, but

still it gave us a home."

 

"It has been a happy home, mother--that is, ever since Mr. Brandon left

us."

 

"Yes; we have lived plainly, but I have had you, and you have always

been a comfort to me. You were always a good boy, Grit."

 

"I'm not quite an angel, mother. Ask Phil Courtney what he thinks about

it," said Grit, smiling.

 

"He is a bad, disagreeable boy," said Mrs. Brandon warmly.

 

"So I think, mother; but Phil, on the other hand, thinks I am a low,

vulgar boy, unworthy of associating with him."

 

"I don't want you to associate with him, Grit."

 

"I don't care to, mother; but we are getting away from the subject. How

did Mr. Brandon behave after you moved here?"

 

"He did nothing to earn money, but managed to obtain liquor at the

tavern, and sometimes went off for three or four days or a week, leaving

me in ignorance of his whereabouts. At last he did not come back at all,

and I heard that he had been arrested for forgery, and was on trial. The

trial was quickly over, and he was sentenced to imprisonment for a term

of years. I saw him before he was carried to prison, but he treated me

so rudely that I have not felt it my duty to visit him since. Gradually

I resumed your father's name, and I have been known as Mrs. Morris,

though my legal name of course is Brandon."

 

"It is a pity you ever took the name, mother," said Grit hastily.

 

"I agree with you, Grit; but I cannot undo the past."

 

"The court ought to grant you a divorce from such a man."

 

"Perhaps I might obtain one, but it would cost money, and we have no

money to spend on such things."

 

"If you had one," said Grit thoughtfully, "Mr. Brandon would no longer

have any claim upon you."

 

"That is true."

 

"You said you had a letter from him. When did you receive it?"

 

"While you were out, this morning. Mr. Wheeler saw it in the

post-office, and brought it along, thinking we might not have occasion

to call."

 

"May I see the letter, mother?"

 

"Certainly, Grit; I have no secrets from you."

 

Mrs. Morris--to call her by the name she preferred--took from the

pocket of her dress a letter in a yellow envelope, which, however, was

directed in a neat, clerky hand, for Mr. Brandon had been carefully

prepared for mercantile life, and had once been a bookkeeper, and wrote

a handsome, flowing hand.

 

"Here it is, Grit."

 

Grit opened the letter, and read as follows:

 

 

"'---- PRISON, May 10.

 

"MY AFFECTIONATE WIFE: I have no doubt you will be overjoyed to

hear that my long imprisonment is nearly over, and that on the

fifteenth, probably, I shall be set free, and can leave these

cursed walls behind me. Of course, I shall lose no time in seeking

out my loving wife, who has not deigned for years to remember that

she has a husband. You might at least have called now and then, to

show some interest in me.'

 

 

"Why should you?" ejaculated Grit indignantly. "He has only illtreated

you, spent your money, and made you unhappy."

 

"You think, then, I was right in staying away, Grit?" asked his mother.

 

"Certainly I do. You don't pretend to love him?"