Grit or The Young Boatman of Pine Point 17
"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.
CHAPTER XVII.
AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.
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.
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