Grit or The Young Boatman of Pine Point 19

Grit or The Young Boatman of Pine Point 19

"Open the door, Grit," said his stepfather, not finding it convenient to

rise.

 

"I refuse to do so, Mr. Brandon," said Grit, in a firm tone.

 

"Why don't you let me in?" was heard from the outside, as Travers

rattled the latch once more.

 

"I'll have to open it myself," said Brandon, half rising and trying to

steady himself.

 

The attempt was vain, for he had already drunk more than was good for

him when he met Travers, and had drunk several glasses on top of that.

 

Instead of going to the door, he sank helpless and miserable on the

floor.

 

"That disposes of him," said Grit, eying the prostrate form with a

glance of disgust and contempt. "I shall be able to manage the other one

now with less trouble."

 

"Let me in, Brandon!" repeated Travers, beginning to pound on the door.

 

Grit went to a window on a line with the door, and, raising it, looked

out at the besieging force.

 

"Mr. Travers," he said, "you may as well go away; you won't get back

into the house."

 

"My friend Brandon will let me in. You're only a boy. My friend Brandon

is the master of the house. He will let me in."

 

"Your friend Brandon is lying on the floor, drunk, and doesn't hear

you," said Grit.

 

"Then I'll let myself in!" said Travers, with an oath.

 

He picked up a rock, and began to pound the door, to the imminent danger

of breaking the panels. "There's more than one way to get in. When I get

in, I'll mash you!"

 

The time had come for decisive action. Drunk as he was, Travers would

sooner or later break down the door, and then there would be trouble.

 

Grit seized an old pistol which lay on the mantel-piece. It had long

been disused, and was so rusty that it was very doubtful whether any use

could have been made of it. Still it presented a formidable appearance,

as the young boatman pointed it at Travers.

 

"Stop pounding that door, or I fire!" Grit exclaimed, in a commanding

tone.

 

Travers turned quickly at the word, and as he saw the rusty weapon

pointed at him, his small stock of courage left him, and he turned pale,

for he was a coward at heart.

 

"For the Lord's sake, don't fire!" he cried hastily.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIX.

 

TRAVERS PICKS UP A FRIEND.

 

 

Travers looked the picture of fright as he beheld the rusty pistol which

Grit pointed at him.

 

"Don't fire, for the Lord's sake!" he repeated, in alarm.

 

"Will you go away, then, and give up troubling us?" demanded the young

boatman sternly.

 

"Yes, yes, I'll go," said Travers hurriedly. "Lower that pistol. It

might go off."

 

Grit lowered the weapon, as desired, seeing that Travers was likely to

keep his word.

 

"Tell Brandon I want to see him. I will be at the tavern this afternoon

at four o'clock."

 

"I'll tell him," said Grit, who preferred that his stepfather should be

anywhere rather than at home.

 

Having got rid of Travers, Grit turned to survey his stepfather, who was

lying on the floor, breathing heavily. His eyes were closed, and he

seemed in a drunken stupor.

 

"How long have we got to submit to this?" thought Grit. "I must go up

and consult with mother about what is to be done."

 

He went up-stairs, and found his mother seated in her chamber, nervously

awaiting the issue of the interview between Grit and the worthy pair

below.

 

"Are they gone, Grit?" she asked quickly.

 

"Travers is gone, mother. I turned him out of the house."

 

"Did you have any trouble with him?"

 

"I should have had, but he was too weak to resist me, on account of

having drunk too much."

 

"I thought I heard him pounding on the door."

 

"So he did, but I frightened him away with the old pistol," and Grit

laughed at the remembrance. "He thought it was loaded."

 

"He may come back again," said Mrs. Brandon apprehensively.

 

"Yes, he may. Brandon is likely to draw such company. I wish we could

get rid of him, too."

 

"What a fatal mistake I made in marrying that man!" said Mrs. Brandon

mournfully.

 

"That is true, mother but it can't be helped now. The question is, what

shall we do?"

 

"Where is he?"

 

"Lying on the floor, drunk," said Grit, in a tone of disgust. "We may as

well leave him there for the present."

 

"He has hardly been home twenty-four hours, yet how he has changed our

quiet life. If he would only reform!"

 

"Not much chance of that, mother."

 

"What shall we do, Grit?" asked Mrs. Brandon, who was wont to come to

Grit, young as he was, for advice.

 

"I have thought of two ways. I might buy him a ticket for Boston, if I

thought he would use it. It would be of no use to give him the money, or

he would spend it at the tavern instead."

 

"If he would only leave us to ourselves, it would a blessing."

 

"If he won't hear of that, there is another way."

 

"What is it?"

 

"I could engage board for you and myself at the house of one of our

neighbors for a week."

 

"What good would that do, Grit?"

 

"You would prepare no meals at home, and Mr. Brandon would be starved

out. While he can live upon us, and raise money to buy liquor at the

tavern, there is little chance of getting rid of him."

 

"I don't know, Grit. It seems a harsh thing to do."

 

"But consider the circumstances, mother. We can't allow him to continue

annoying us as he has done."

 

"Do as you think best, Grit."

 

"Then I will go over to Mrs. Sprague's and ask if she will take us for a

few days. That will probably be sufficient."

 

Going down-stairs, Grit saw his stepfather still lying on the floor.

Grit's step aroused him, and he lifted his head.

 

"'S'that you Grit?" he asked, in thick accents.

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"Where's my frien' Travers?"

 

"He's gone."

 

"Where's he gone?"

 

"To the tavern. He said he would meet you there at four o'clock."

 

"What time is it?" asked Brandon, trying to get up.

 

"Two o'clock."

 

"I'll be there. You tell him so, Grit."

 

"I will if I see him."

 

Grit went on his way to Mrs. Sprague's, and had no difficulty in making

the arrangement he desired for his mother and himself, when she learned

that Mr. Brandon was not to come, too.

 

"I feel for your mother, Grit," she said. "If I can help her in this

trial, I certainly will."

 

"Thank you, Mrs. Sprague. I will return and tell her. Perhaps she may

come over by the middle of the afternoon. I don't like to leave her

alone in the house with Mr. Brandon."

 

"She will be welcome whenever she comes, Grit."

 

"You had better go over at once, mother," said Grit, on his return. "A

drunken man is not fit company for you."

 

Mrs. Brandon was easily persuaded to take the step recommended, and her

husband was left in the house alone.

 

Meanwhile, Travers went on his way to the tavern. It was rather a

serious thing for him to be turned out of his friend's house, for he had

but a scanty supply of money, and his appearance was not likely to give

him credit.

 

"Confound that boy!" he muttered. "He's just reckless enough to shoot

me, if I don't give up to him. I pity Brandon, having such a son as

that."