Grit or The Young Boatman of Pine Point 13
"Oh, it's you, is it?" he said, surveying Brandon, not over
respectfully, for he knew where he had spent the last five years. "So
you've come home?"
"Yes, but I might as well have stayed away."
"How is that?" asked Phil, regarding the man before him with curiosity.
Brandon was not too proud to speak of his domestic grievances, as he
regarded them, to a stranger.
"My wife and son treat me like a stranger," he said. "Instead of giving
me a warm welcome after my long absence, they seem to be sorry to see
me."
"I don't wonder much," thought Phil, but he did not say so, not being
averse to drawing Brandon out on this subject.
"And that reminds me, young gentleman; I was walking behind you last
evening, and I heard you say something about Grit's having a large sum
of money."
"Yes; he showed me sixty dollars yesterday."
"Are you sure there was as much as that?" inquired Brandon eagerly.
"Yes, I am sure, for my cousin counted it in my presence."
"It might have belonged to some one else," suggested Brandon.
"No; I thought so myself, but Grit said it belonged to him."
"Did he say where he got it?"
"No; he's mighty close about his affairs. I couldn't help wondering
myself, and asked him, but he wouldn't tell me."
"If he's got as much money as that, he ought to give it to me to take
care of."
"Why don't you make him give it to you?" suggested Phil maliciously.
"I did ask him, but he refused. A boy of his age ought not to carry
about so much money. Did he carry it in a roll of bills, or in a
pocketbook?"
"He had it in a wallet."
"I didn't see the wallet," thought Brandon. "I only found the purse. The
boy must have hidden it somewhere. I must look for it."
"What are you going to do about it?" asked Phil. "Are you going to let
him keep it?"
"Not if I can find it. I will take it away from him if I get the
chance."
"I wish he would," thought Phil. "It would soon go for drink, and then
Master Grit wouldn't put on so many airs."
"May I ask your name?" asked Brandon.
"I am Phil Courtney, the son of Squire Courtney, the president of the
bank," answered Phil pompously.
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Brandon, in a tone of flattering
deference. "I am proud to know you. You come of a fine family."
"Yes, my father stands pretty high," remarked Phil complacently.
"Really," thought he, "this man has very good manners, even if he has
just come from the penitentiary. He treats me with a good deal more
respect than Grit does. If I could help him to get the money I would."
"Not a man in town stands higher," said Brandon emphatically. "Are you a
friend of my stepson?"
"Well, hardly," answered Phil, shrugging his shoulders. "You must excuse
my saying so, but Grit hasn't very good manners, and, though I patronize
him by riding in his boat, I cannot regard him as a fitting associate."
"You are entirely right, young gentleman," said Brandon. "Though Grit is
my stepson, I am not blind to his faults. He has behaved very badly to
me already, and I shall be obliged to require him to treat me with more
respect. If he would only copy you, I should be very glad."
"You are very polite, Mr. Brandon," said Phil, flattered. "I hope, for
your sake, that Grit will improve."
"By the way, Mr. Courtney"--Phil swelled with conscious pride at this
designation--"do you know any one who would like to buy a boat?"
"What boat do you refer to?" asked Phil.
"This boat."
"But I thought it was Grit's."
"I am his stepfather, and have decided to sell it."
"What'll you take?" asked Phil, not unwilling to buy a good boat,
especially as he knew it would annoy Grit.
"It is worth ten dollars, but I will sell it for six dollars cash."
"Say five, and I'll take it."
"Very well, Mr. Courtney, seeing it's you, I will say five."
"It's a bargain."
Phil had his money in his pocket, and he lost no time in binding the
bargain by paying the money.
"I think I'll take a row myself," he said.
He jumped into the boat, and Brandon, with five dollars in his pocket,
took the nearest road to the tavern.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE BILL OF SALE.
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."
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