Grit or The Young Boatman of Pine Point 11

Grit or The Young Boatman of Pine Point 11

Brandon was very much amused by this thought, and he laughed aloud.

 

"Sixty dollars'll set me on my feet again," he reflected. "Let me see.

I'll go to Boston, and look round, and see if I can't pick up a job of

some kind. There isn't anything to do here in this beastly hole. By the

way, I wonder where the boy did get so much money. He must find boatin'

more profitable than I had any idea of."

 

At this point Brandon entered the little path that led to his wife's

cottage.

 

"Mrs. B. is sittin' up," he said, as he saw through the window the

figure of his wife in a rocking-chair, apparently occupied with some

kind of work. "I'll get her off to bed soon, so that I can have a clear

field."

 

Mrs. Brandon looked up when her husband entered, and noticed, with a

feeling of relief, that he was sober. That, however, was not owing to

any intentional moderation on his part, but to his lack of funds.

 

"Sittin' up for me, Mrs. B.?" asked Brandon.

 

"I generally sit up till past this hour," she answered.

 

"I feel rather tired myself," said Brandon, succeeding in yawning.

 

"It isn't on account of having done any work," thought his wife.

 

"I've been walkin' round considerably, and got tired."

 

"Do you come from the tavern?" asked Mrs. Brandon coldly.

 

"Yes, Mrs. B., I expected to meet a gentleman there on business, but he

disappointed me. Where's Grit?"

 

"He has gone to bed. He has got to get up early in the morning, to help

me, and then he spends the day in ferrying passengers across the river."

 

"That's a bright idea of Grit's. I approve it. He makes considerable

money, doesn't he?"

 

"Considerable for a boy. I don't know what I should do if it were not

for Grit."

 

"Just so. But now I'm home, and shall soon get into business. Then you

won't need to depend on him. Of course, I shall need a little money to

start with."

 

Mrs. Brandon did not reply to this obvious hint. She prepared for bed.

An hour later, Brandon, having ascertained that his wife was asleep,

left the room cautiously, and stole into Grit's chamber.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XI.

 

THE MIDNIGHT VISIT.

 

 

Grit was not aware that Brandon had discovered his secret, but still was

not unprepared for a night visit. As we already know, he had but ten

cents left of the two dollars he had reserved, and this coin he put into

a small leather purse, which he usually carried.

 

"If Mr. Brandon searches for money, he will be disappointed," he said

to himself, with a quiet smile. "He won't find enough to pay him for his

trouble."

 

Grit was not anxious enough about his money to keep awake. When,

therefore, his stepfather entered his chamber, he was fast asleep.

Brandon listened for a moment to the deep breathing of the boy, and felt

that there was no need of caution. He therefore boldly advanced, candle

in hand, to the bedside. The candle he set on the bureau, and then took

up Grit's clothes, which hung over a chair, and proceeded to examine the

pockets.

 

His countenance changed as he continued the search.

 

At last he came to the purse, but it felt empty, and he did not open it

with much confidence. Thrusting in his finger, he drew out the solitary

dime which it contained.

 

"Only ten cents!" he exclaimed, with intense disappointment. "It isn't

worth taking. On second thoughts, I'll take it, though, for it will pay

for a drink."

 

He pocketed the coin, and resumed his search.

 

"The boy must have a pocketbook somewhere," he muttered. "He wouldn't

carry bank-bills in a purse. Where can he keep it?" Once more he

explored the pockets of his stepson, but he met with no greater success

than before.

 

It is a curious circumstance that sometimes in profound sleep a person

seems vaguely aware of the presence of an intruder, and the feeling is

frequently strong enough to disturb slumber. Grit was a sound sleeper,

but, however we may account for it, whether it was the instinctive

feeling I have mentioned, or the glare of the candle, he woke up, and

his glance rested on the kneeling figure of his stepfather rummaging his

pockets. Instantly Grit realized the situation, and he felt more amused

than indignant, knowing how poorly the searcher would be rewarded.

 

Brandon's back was turned to him, and our hero felt inclined to try the

effect of a practical joke.

 

In a deep, sepulchral voice, he called out:

 

"What are you doing there?"

 

Brandon, taken by surprise, started as if he had been shot, and sprang

to his feet in confusion. Turning to the bed, he saw Grit surveying him

calmly. Then his natural hardihood restored his self-possession.

 

"Where do you keep your money, you young cub?" he demanded.

 

"Where do I keep it? I suspect you know well enough. Haven't you looked

into my purse?"

 

"Yes, and I only found ten cents."

 

"Did you take it?" asked Grit.

 

"Yes."

 

"Then it's lucky I had no more in it."

 

"Where is the rest of your money?" demanded Brandon.

 

"What do you mean by the rest of my money?"

 

"I mean the sixty dollars you had with you to-day."

 

Grit whistled.

 

"So you heard I had sixty dollars?" he said.

 

"Yes."

 

"It is in a safe place."

 

"Ha! You own that you had so much money. You wanted to keep it from me,

did you?" demanded Brandon, with a frown.

 

"Yes, I did," admitted Grit. "Did Phil Courtney tell you I had it?"

 

"No matter how I heard. I know that you are trying to conceal a large

sum of money, which ought to be in my hands."

 

"Indeed! How do you make that out?"

 

"I am your stepfather and natural guardian. I am the best person to take

care of your money."

 

"I don't think so, and I propose to keep it myself," said Grit firmly.

 

"Do you defy me?" demanded Brandon angrily.

 

"If you call my refusing to give you my own money by that name, then I

do."

 

"Boy, you don't know me!" said Brandon, in a tone intended to strike

terror into the heart of his stepson. "Hitherto you have had only your

mother to look after you, and she has been foolishly indulgent. Now you

have a man to deal with. Once more, will you hand me that money?"

 

"I decline," said Grit firmly.

 

"Then on your head be the consequences," said Brandon. "You will hear

from me again, and soon."

 

So saying, he stalked majestically from the chamber.

 

"I wonder what he means to do?" thought Grit.

 

But the thought did not keep him awake.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XII.

 

GRIT'S MISFORTUNE.

 

 

The next morning Grit came down to breakfast nearly an hour later than

usual. It might have been because he was unusually fatigued, or it may

have been on account of his slumbers having been interrupted. When he

came down-stairs, he looked at the clock, and realized that he had

overslept himself.

 

"I am nearly an hour late, mother," he said. "Why didn't you call me?"

 

"I thought you were tired, Grit, and needed sleep."

 

"Where is Mr. Brandon? I suppose he has not got up!"

 

"Yes, he has had his breakfast and gone out."

 

"He is in a great hurry to spend my ten cents," said Grit, laughing.

 

"What do you mean, Grit?"