Grit or The Young Boatman of Pine Point 36

Grit or The Young Boatman of Pine Point 36

"Yes, sir."

 

"What's his name?"

 

"Ephraim Carver."

 

"Why was he not employed? Why should you be sent in his place?"

 

"I think you had better ask Mr. Graves," said Grit independently.

 

"Why? Don't you know?"

 

"Even if I did I should consider that I had no right to tell."

 

"You are a very conscientious and honorable young man," said Johnson

sneeringly.

 

"Thank you, sir," returned Grit, choosing not to show that he

understood the sneer.

 

"Where is your stepfather?" inquired Johnson, changing the subject

abruptly.

 

"In Portland."

 

"How do you know?"

 

"I met him in the street while on my way through the city."

 

"Did you speak with him?"

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"What did he say?" asked Johnson suspiciously.

 

"He wished to borrow twenty-five cents," answered Grit, with a smile.

 

"Did you lend it to him?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Very dutiful, on my word!"

 

"I have no feeling of that sort for Mr. Brandon," said Grit frankly. "I

thought it the easiest way to get rid of him."

 

Johnson changed the subject again.

 

"Is Ephraim Carver likely to lose his situation as bank messenger?" he

asked.

 

"I think you had better ask Mr. Graves," said Grit, on his guard.

 

Johnson frowned, for he did not like Grit's independence.

 

"It is reported that you are intriguing for his position," he continued.

 

"That is not true."

 

"Do you think there is any likelihood of your being appointed in his

place?"

 

"No, sir; I never dreamed of it."

 

"Yet there is a possibility of it. Don't suppose that I am particularly

interested in this Carver. So far as I am concerned, I should not object

to your succeeding him."

 

"What does all this mean?" thought Grit.

 

"If you should do so, I might have a proposal to make to you that would

be to your advantage."

 

Knowing what he did, Grit very well understood what was meant. Johnson,

no doubt, wished to hire him to betray the confidence reposed in him by

the bank, and deliver up any valuable package entrusted to him for a

money consideration. Like any right-minded and honorable boy, Grit felt

that the very hint of such a thing was an insult to him, and his face

flushed with indignation. For the moment he forgot his prudence.

 

"I don't think there is the least chance of my getting such a position,"

he said; "but even if I did, it would not do you any good to make me a

proposal."

 

"How do you know what sort of a proposal I should make?" demanded

Johnson keenly.

 

"I don't know," answered Grit, emphasizing the last word.

 

"It appears to me, young man, that you are a little ahead of time," said

Johnson. "You shouldn't crow too soon."

 

"I think I will bid you good evening," said Grit, rising.

 

"Why so soon? You haven't seen Mr. Weaver."

 

"On the whole, I don't think I should wish to engage with him."

 

Our hero felt that if Mr. Weaver were a friend of the man before him, it

would be safest to have nothing to do with him. On the principle that a

man is known by the company he keeps, the friend of Colonel Johnson

could hardly be a desirable person to serve.

 

"You seem to be in a hurry, especially as you have not seen my friend

Weaver."

 

"You will be kind enough to explain to him that I have changed my

plans," said Grit.

 

"Resume your seat for five minutes," said Johnson, "and I will call

Weaver. You had better see him for yourself."

 

"Very well, sir."

 

He reflected that merely seeing Mr. Weaver would not commit him to

anything.

 

Colonel Johnson rose to his feet, and placed his foot firmly on a

particular spot in the floor.

 

To Grit's dismay, the floor seemed to sink beneath him, and chair and

all were lowered a dozen feet into a subterranean cavity, too quickly

for him to help himself.

 

He realized that the chair so conveniently placed in the center of the

apartment rested on a trap-door.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXVI.

 

THE BOY DANIEL.

 

 

Though Grit was not hurt by his sudden descent into the dark cavity

under the room in which he had been seated, he was, nevertheless,

somewhat startled. Indeed, it was enough to startle a person much older.

For the first time it dawned upon him that he was the victim of a

conspiracy, and Mr. Weaver was either an imaginary person, or his offer

was not genuine. It was clear, also, from the tenor of Johnson's

questions that he fully understood, or at least suspected, that his plan

had been known in advance to the bank officials.

 

The young boatman understood how to manage a boat, but in the present

case he found that he was out of his element. The tricks, traps, and

devices of a great city he knew very little about. He had, indeed, read

about trap-doors and subterranean chambers in certain sensational

stories which had come into his possession, but he looked upon them as

mere figments of the imagination, and did not believe they really

existed. Now, here was he himself made an unexpected victim by a

conspiracy of the same class familiar to him in novels.

 

Naturally, the first thing to do was to take a survey of his new

quarters, and obtain some idea of his position. At first everything

seemed involved in thick darkness, but as his eye became accustomed to

it, he could see that he was in a cellar of about the same size as the

room above, though there was a door leading into another. He felt his

way to it, and tried to open it, but found that it was fastened,

probably by a bolt on the other side. There was no other door.

 

"I am like a rat in a trap," thought Grit. "What are they going to do

with me, I wonder?"

 

While it was unpleasant enough to be where he was, he did not allow

himself to despond or give way to unmanly fears. There was no reason, he

thought, to apprehend serious peril or physical violence. Colonel

Johnson probably intended to frighten him, with a view of securing his

compliance with the demands of the conspirators.

 

"He will find he has made a mistake," thought Grit. "I am not a baby,

and don't mean to act like one."

 

He heard a noise, and, looking round, discovered the armchair in which

he had descended being drawn up toward the trap-door. The door was

opened by some agency, the chair disappeared, and again he was in

darkness.

 

"They don't mean to keep me here in luxury," thought Grit. "If I sit

down anywhere, it will have to be on the floor."

 

It was late in the afternoon, as we know, and it seemed likely that our

hero would have to remain in the subterranean chamber all night. As

there was no bed, he would have to lie down on the ground. Grit kneeled

down, and ascertained that the floor was cemented, and not a damp

earthen flooring as he had feared. He congratulated himself, for he was

bound to make the best of the situation.

 

There was another source of discomfort, however. It was already past

Grit's ordinary supper hour, and, except a very slight lunch, consisting

of a sandwich bought in the cars, our hero had had nothing to eat since

breakfast, and an early breakfast at that. Now, Grit was not one of

those delicate boys who are satisfied with a few mouthfuls, but he had

what is called a "healthy appetite," such as belongs to most boys who

have good stomachs and spend considerable time in the open air. He began

to feel an aching void in the region of his stomach, and thought, with a

sigh, of the plain but hearty supper he should have had at home.

 

"I hope Colonel Johnson isn't going to starve me," he thought. "That is

carrying the joke too far. It seems to me I never felt so hungry in all

my life before."