The Project Gutenberg EBook of Grit, by Horatio Alger Jr. This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: Grit or The Young Boatman of Pine Point Author: Horatio Alger Jr. Release Date: February 19, 2017 [EBook #54195] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRIT *** Produced by David Edwards, Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Books project.) Transcriber's Note: A Table of Contents has been added. Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. GRIT OR The Young Boatman of Pine Point BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. author of "the young acrobat," "the store boy," "the tin box," "tom tracy," "sam's chance," "only an irish boy," "joe's luck," and forty-nine other rattling good stories of adventure published in the Medal Library [Pg 1] NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. GRIT. 3 II. THE YOUNG BOATMAN. 11 III. THE LOST HAT. 19 IV. A BOY IN THE WATER. 28 V. THE STEPFATHER. 36 VI. GRIT'S RECOMPENSE. 41 VII. GRIT ASTONISHES PHIL. 45 VIII. GRIT PUTS HIS MONEY AWAY. 53 IX. A LITTLE DISCUSSION. 62 X. BRANDON LEARNS GRIT'S SECRET. 70 XI. THE MIDNIGHT VISIT. 78 XII. GRIT'S MISFORTUNE. 83 XIII. GRIT'S BOAT IS SOLD. 87 XIV. THE BILL OF SALE. 95 XV. GRIT ENGAGES ANOTHER BOAT. 102 XVI. MR. BRANDON'S FRIEND. 110 XVII. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR. 119 XVIII. A STORMY TIME. 127 XIX. TRAVERS PICKS UP A FRIEND. 135 XX. A PROMISING PLAN. 143 XXI. MR. BRANDON LOSES HIS SUPPER. 151 XXII. BANK OFFICIALS IN COUNCIL. 159 XXIII. GRIT GIVES IMPORTANT ADVICE. 167 XXIV. WHAT GRIT OVERHEARD BEHIND THE ELM-TREE. 174 XXV. MRS. BRANDON IS MYSTIFIED. 182 XXVI. THE FALL RIVER MANUFACTURER. 189 XXVII. A FRIEND IN NEED. 197 XXVIII. THE TRAIN ROBBERY. 205 XXIX. THE CONSPIRATORS ARE PERPLEXED. 212 XXX. GRIT IS BETRAYED. 220 XXXI. NEW PLANS. 228 XXXII. GRIT RECEIVES A BUSINESS LETTER. 232 XXXIII. GRIT LEAVES PINE POINT. 235 XXXIV. GRIT REACHES BOSTON. 243 XXXV. CROSS-EXAMINED. 251 XXXVI. THE BOY DANIEL. 257 XXXVII. DANIEL CALLS AT THE PARKER HOUSE. 266 XXXVIII. GRIT MAKES A DISCOVERY. 271 XXXIX. AN UNPLEASANT INTERVIEW. 274 XL. COLONEL JOHNSON COMES TO GRIEF. 278 XLI. CONCLUSION. 282 GRIT. [Pg 3] CHAPTER I. GRIT. "Grit!" "Well, mother, what is it?" The speaker was a sturdy, thick-set boy of fifteen, rather short for his age, but strongly made. His eyes were clear and bright, his expression was pleasant, and his face attractive, but even a superficial observer could read in it unusual firmness and strength of will. He was evidently a boy whom it would not be easy to subdue or frighten. He was sure to make his way in the world, and maintain his rights against all aggression. It was the general recognition of this trait which had led to the nickname, "Grit," by which he was generally known. His real name was Harry Morris, but even his mother had fallen into the habit of calling him Grit, and his own name actually sounded strange to him. "Well, mother, what is it?" he asked again, as his mother continued to look at him in silence, with an expression of trouble on her face. "I had a letter this morning, Grit." "From—him?" "Yes, from your father." "Don't call him my father!" said the boy hastily. "He isn't my father." "He is your stepfather—and my husband," said Mrs. Morris soberly. "Yes, worse luck for you! Well, what does he say?" "He's coming home." An expression of dismay quickly gathered on the boy's face. "How can that be? His term isn't out." "It is shortened by good behavior, and so he comes out four months before his sentence would have expired." "I wouldn't have him here, mother," said Grit earnestly. "He will only worry and trouble you. We are getting on comfortably now without him." "Yes, thanks to my good, industrious boy." "Oh, don't talk about that," said Grit, who always felt embarrassed when openly praised. "But it is true, Grit. But for the money you make in your boat, I might have to go to the poorhouse." "You will never go while I live, mother," said Grit quickly. "No, Grit, I feel sure of that. It seems wicked to rejoice in your father's misfortune and disgrace——" "Not my father," interrupted Grit. "Mr. Brandon, then. As I was saying, it seems wicked to feel relieved by his imprisonment, but I can't help it." "Why should you try to help it? He has made you a bad husband, and only brought you unhappiness. How did you ever come to marry him, mother?" "I did it for the best, as I thought, Grit. I was left a widow when you were four years old. I had this cottage, to be sure, and about two thousand dollars, but the interest of that sum at six per cent. only amounted to a hundred and twenty dollars, and I was not brave and self-reliant like some, so when Mr. Brandon asked me to marry him, I did so, thinking that he would give us a good home, be a father to you, and save us from all pecuniary care or anxiety." "You were pretty soon undeceived, mother." "No, not soon. Your stepfather had a good mercantile position in Boston, and we occupied a comfortable cottage in Newton. For some years all went well, but then I began to see a change for the worse in him. He became fond of drink, was no longer attentive to business, picked up bad associates, and eventually lost his position. This was when you were ten years of age. Then he took possession of my little capital and went into business for himself. But his old habits clung to him, and of course there was small chance of success. He kept up for about a year, however, and then he failed, and the creditors took everything——" "Except this house, mother." "Yes, this house was fortunately settled upon me, so that my husband could not get hold of it. When we were turned out of our home in Newton, it proved a welcome refuge for us. It was small, plain, humble, but still it gave us a home." [Pg 4] [Pg 5] [Pg 6] "It has been a happy home, mother—that is, ever since Mr. Brandon left us." "Yes; we have lived plainly, but I have had you, and you have always been a comfort to me. You were always a good boy, Grit." "I'm not quite an angel, mother. Ask Phil Courtney what he thinks about it," said Grit, smiling. "He is a bad, disagreeable boy," said Mrs. Brandon warmly. "So I think, mother; but Phil, on the other hand, thinks I am a low, vulgar boy, unworthy of associating with him." "I don't want you to associate with him, Grit." "I don't care to, mother; but we are getting away from the subject. How did Mr. Brandon behave after you moved here?" "He did nothing to earn money, but managed to obtain liquor at the tavern, and sometimes went off for three or four days or a week, leaving me in ignorance of his whereabouts. At last he did not come back at all, and I heard that he had been arrested for forgery, and was on trial. The trial was quickly over, and he was sentenced to imprisonment for a term of years. I saw him before he was carried to prison, but he treated me so rudely that I have not felt it my duty to visit him since. Gradually I resumed your father's name, and I have been known as Mrs. Morris, though my legal name of course is Brandon." "It is a pity you ever took the name, mother," said Grit hastily. "I agree with you, Grit; but I cannot undo the past." "The court ought to grant you a divorce from such a man." "Perhaps I might obtain one, but it would cost money, and we have no money to spend on such things." "If you had one," said Grit thoughtfully, "Mr. Brandon would no longer have any claim upon you." "That is true." "You said you had a letter from him. When did you receive it?" "While you were out, this morning. Mr. Wheeler saw it in the post-office, and brought it along, thinking we might not have occasion to call." "May I see the letter, mother?" "Certainly, Grit; I have no secrets from you." Mrs. Morris—to call her by the name she preferred—took from the pocket of her dress a letter in a yellow envelope, which, however, was directed in a neat, clerky hand, for Mr. Brandon had been carefully prepared for mercantile life, and had once been a bookkeeper, and wrote a handsome, flowing hand. "Here it is, Grit." Grit opened the letter, and read as follows: "'—— Prison, May 10. "My Affectionate Wife: I have no doubt you will be overjoyed to hear that my long imprisonment is nearly over, and that on the fifteenth, probably, I shall be set free, and can leave these cursed walls behind me. Of course, I shall lose no time in seeking out my loving wife, who has not deigned for years to remember that she has a husband. You might at least have called now and then, to show some interest in me.' "Why should you?" ejaculated Grit indignantly. "He has only illtreated you, spent your money, and made you unhappy." "You think, then, I was right in staying away, Grit?" asked his mother. "Certainly I do. You don't pretend to love him?" "No, I only married him at his urgent request, thinking I was doing what was best for you. It was a bad day's work for me. I could have got along much better alone." "Of course you could, mother. Well, I will read the rest: "'However, you are my wife still, and owe me some reparation for your long neglect. I shall come to Pine Point as soon as I can, and it is hardly necessary to remind you that I shall be out of money, and shall want you to stir round and get me some, as I shall want to buy some clothes and other things." "How does he think you are to supply him with money, when he has left you to take care of yourself all these years?" again burst from Grit's indignant lips. [Pg 7] [Pg 8] [Pg 9] [Pg 10] He read on: "'How is the cub? Is he as independent and saucy as ever? I am afraid you have allowed him to do as he pleases. He needs a man's hand to hold him in check and train him up properly.'" "Heaven help you if Mr. Brandon is to have the training of you, Grit!" exclaimed his mother. "He'll have a tough job if he tries it!" said Grit. "He'll find me rather larger and stronger than when he went to prison." "Don't get into any conflict with him, Grit," said his mother, a new alarm seizing her. "I won't if I can help it, mother; but I don't mean to have him impose upon me." CHAPTER II. THE YOUNG BOATMAN. Pine Point was situated on the Kennebec River, and from its height overlooked it, so that a person standing on its crest could scan the river for a considerable distance up and down. There was a small grove of pine-trees at a little distance, and this had given the point its name. A hundred feet from the brink stood the old-fashioned cottage occupied by Mrs. Morris. It had belonged, in a former generation, to an uncle of hers, who, dying unmarried, had bequeathed it to her. Perhaps half an acre was attached to it. There had been more, but it had been sold off. When Grit and his mother came to Chester to live—it was in this township that Pine Point was situated—she had but little of her two thousand dollars' remaining, and when her husband was called to expiate his offense against the law in prison, there were but ten dollars in the house. Mrs. Morris was fortunate enough to secure a boarder, whose board- money paid nearly all their small household expenses for three years, the remainder being earned by her own skill as a dressmaker; but when the boarder went to California, never to return, Grit was already thirteen years old, and hit upon a way of earning money. On the opposite bank of the Kennebec was the village of Portville, but there was no bridge at that point. So Grit bought a boat for a few dollars, agreeing to pay for it in instalments, and established a private ferry between the two places. His ordinary charge for rowing a passenger across—the distance being half a mile—was ten cents; but if it were a child, or a poor person, he was willing to receive five, and he took parties of four at a reduction. It was an idea of his own, but it paid. Grit himself was rather surprised at the number of persons who availed themselves of his ferry. Sometimes he found at the end of the day that he had received in fares over a dollar, and one Fourth of July, when there was a special celebration in Portville, he actually made three dollars. Of course, he had to work pretty hard for it, but the young boatman's arms were strong, as was shown by his sturdy stroke. Grit was now fifteen, and he could reflect with pride that for two years he had been able to support his mother in a comfortable manner, so that she had wanted for nothing—that is, for nothing that could be classed as a comfort. Luxuries he had not been able to supply, but for them neither he nor his mother cared. They were content with their plain way of living. But if his stepfather were coming home, Grit felt that his income would no longer be adequate to maintain the household. Mr. Brandon ought to increase the family income, but, knowing what he and his mother did of his ways, he built no hope upon that. It looked as if their quiet home happiness was likely to be rudely broken in upon by the threatened invasion. "Well, mother," said Grit, "I must get to work." "You haven't finished your dinner, my son." "Your news has spoiled my appetite, mother. However, I dare say I'll make up for it at supper." "I'll save a piece of meat for you to eat then. You work so hard that you need meat to keep up your strength." "I haven't had to work much this morning, mother, worse luck! I only earned twenty cents. People don't seem inclined to travel to-day." "Never mind, Grit. I've got five dollars in the house." "Save it for a rainy day, mother. The day is only half over, and I may have good luck this afternoon." As Grit left the house with his quick, firm step, Mrs. Morris looked after him with blended affection and pride. "What a good boy he is!" she said to herself. "He is a boy that any mother might be proud of." And so he was. Our young hero was not only a strong, manly boy, but there was something very attractive in his clear eyes and frank smile, browned though his skin was by constant exposure to the sun and wind. He was a general favorite [Pg 11] [Pg 12] [Pg 13] [Pg 14] [Pg 15] in the town, or, rather, in the two towns, for he was as well known in Portville as he was in Chester. I have said he was a general favorite, but there was one at least who disliked him. This was Phil Courtney, a boy about his own age, the son of an ex-president of the Chester bank, a boy who considered himself of great consequence, and socially far above the young boatman. He lived in a handsome house, and had a good supply of pocket-money, though he was always grumbling about his small allowance. It by no means follows that money makes a boy a snob, but if he has any tendency that way, it is likely to show itself under such circumstances. Now, it happened that Phil had a cousin staying at his house as a visitor, quite a pretty girl, in whose eyes he liked to appear to advantage. As Grit reached the shore, where he had tied his boat, they were seen approaching the same point. "I wonder if Phil is going to favor me with his patronage," thought Grit, as his eyes fell upon them. "Here, you boatman!" called out Phil, in a tone of authority. "We want to go over to Portville." Grit's eyes danced with merriment, as he answered gravely: "I have no objection to your going." The girl laughed merrily, but Phil frowned, for his dignity was wounded by Grit's flippancy. "I am not in the habit of considering whether you have any objection or not," he said haughtily. "Don't be a goose, Phil!" said his cousin. "The boy is in fun." "I would rather he would not make fun of me," said Phil. "I won't, then," said Grit, smiling. "Ahem! you may convey us across," said Phil. "If you please," added the young lady, with a smile. "She is very good-looking, and five times as polite as Phil," thought Grit, fixing his eyes admiringly upon the pretty face of Marion Clarke, as he afterward learned her name to be. "I shall be glad to have you as a passenger," said our hero, but he looked at Marion, not at Phil. "Thank you." "If you've got through with your compliments," said Phil impatiently, "we'd better start." "I am ready," said Grit. "May I help you in?" he asked of Marion. "Yes, thank you." "It is quite unnecessary. I can assist you," said Phil, advancing. But he was too late, for Marion had already availed herself of the young boatman's proffered aid. "Thank you," said Marion again, pleasantly, as she took her seat in the stern. "Why didn't you wait for me?" demanded Phil crossly, as he took his seat beside her. "I didn't want to be always troubling you, cousin Phil," said Marion, with a coquettish glance at Grit, which her cousin did not at all relish. "Don't notice him so much," he said, in a low voice. "He's only a poor boatman." "He is very good-looking, I think," said Marion. Grit's back was turned, but he heard both question and answer, and his cheeks glowed with pleasure at the young lady's speech, though it was answered by a contemptuous sniff from Phil. "I don't admire your taste, Marion," he said. "Hush, he'll hear you," she whispered. "What's his name?" By way of answering, Phil addressed Grit in a condescending tone. "Well, Grit, how is business to-day?" "Rather quiet, thank you." "You see, he earns his living by boating, explained Phil, with the manner of one who was speaking of a very inferior person. "How much have you earned now?" he asked further. [Pg 16] [Pg 17] [Pg 18] "Only twenty cents," answered Grit; "but I suppose," he added, smiling, "I suppose you intend to pay me liberally." "I mean to pay you your regular fare," said Phil, who was not of a liberal disposition. "Thank you; I ask no more." "Do you row across often?" asked Marion. "Sometimes I make eight or ten trips in a day. On the Fourth of July I went fifteen times." "How strong you must be!" "Pooh! I could do more than that," said Phil loftily, unwilling that Grit should be admired for anything. "Oh, I know you're remarkable," said his cousin dryly. Just then the wind, which was unusually strong, took Phil's hat, and it blew off to a considerable distance. "My hat's off!" exclaimed Phil, in excitement. "Row after it, quick. It's a new Panama, and cost ten dollars." CHAPTER III. THE LOST HAT. Grit complied with the request of his passenger, and rowed after Phil's hat. But there was a strong current, and it was not without considerable trouble that he at last secured it. But, alas! the new hat, with its bright ribbon, was well soaked when it was fished out of the water. "It's mean," ejaculated Phil, lifting it with an air of disgust. "Just my luck." "Are you so unlucky, then?" asked his cousin Marion, with a half smile. "I should say so. What do you call this?" "A wet hat." "How am I ever to wear it? It will drip all over my clothes." "I think you had better buy a common one in Portville, and leave this one here to dry." "How am I going round Portville bareheaded?" inquired Phil crossly. "Shall I lend you my hat?" asked Marion. "Wouldn't I look like a fool, going round the streets with a girl's hat on?" "Well, you are the best judge of that," answered Marion demurely. Grit laughed, as the young lady glanced at him with a smile. "What are you laughing at, you boatman?" snarled Phil. "I beg your pardon," said Grit good-naturedly; "I know it must be provoking to have your hat wet. Can I help you in any way? If you will give me the money, and remain in the boat, I will run up to Davis, the hatter's, and get you a new hat." "How can you tell my size?" asked Phil, making no acknowledgment for the offer. "Then I will lend you my hat to go up yourself." Phil's lip curled, as if he considered that there would be contamination in such a plebeian hat. However, as Marion declared it would be the best thing to do, he suppressed his disdain, and, without a word of thanks, put Grit's hat on his head. "Come with me, Marion," he said. "No, Phil; I will remain here with Mr. ——," and she turned inquiringly toward the young boatman. "Grit," he suggested. "Mr. Grit," she said, finishing the sentence. "Just as you like. I admire your taste," said Phil, with a sneer. As he walked away, Marion turned to the young boatman. [Pg 19] [Pg 20] [Pg 21] [Pg 22] "Is your name really Grit?" she asked. "No; people call me so." "I can understand why," she answered with a smile. "You look—gritty." "If I do, I hope it isn't anything disagreeable," responded our hero. "Oh, no," said Marion; "quite the contrary. I like to see boys that won't allow themselves to be imposed upon." "I don't generally allow myself to be imposed upon." "What is your real name?" "Harry Morris." "I suppose you and Phil know each other very well?" "We have known each other a long time, but we are not very intimate friends." "I don't think Phil has any intimate friends," said Marion thoughtfully. "He—I don't think he gets on very well with the other boys." "He wants to boss them," said Grit bluntly. "Yes; I expect that is it. He's my cousin, you know." "Is he? I don't think you are much alike." "Is that remark a compliment to me—or him?" asked Marion, laughing. "To you, decidedly." "Well, Phil can be very disagreeable when he sets out to be. I should not want to be that, you know." "You couldn't," said Grit, with an admiring glance. "That's a compliment," said Marion. "But you're mistaken. I can be disagreeable when I set out to be. I expect Phil finds me so sometimes." "I wouldn't." "You know how to flatter as well as to row, Mr. Grit. It's true. I tease Phil awfully sometimes." By this time Phil came back with a new hat on his head, holding Grit's in the tips of his fingers, as if it would contaminate him. He pitched it into Grit's lap, saying shortly: "There's your hat." "Upon my word, Phil, you're polite," said his cousin. "Can't you thank Mr. Grit?" "Mr. Grit!" repeated Phil contemptuously. "Of course I thank him." "You're welcome," answered Grit dryly. "Here's your fare!" said Phil, taking out two dimes, and offering them to the young boatman. "Thank you." "Phil, you ought to pay something extra for the loan of the hat," said Marion, "and the delay." With evident reluctance Phil took a nickel from his vest pocket, and offered it to Grit. "No, thank you!" said Grit, drawing back, "I wouldn't be willing to take anything for that. I've found it very agreeable to wait," and he glanced significantly at Marion. "I suppose I am to consider that another compliment," said the young lady, with a coquettish glance. "What, has he been complimenting you?" asked Phil jealously. "Yes, and it was very agreeable, as I got no compliments from you. Good afternoon, Mr. Grit. I hope you will row us back by and by." "I hope so, too," said the young boatman, bowing. "Look here, Marion," said Phil, as they walked away, "you take altogether too much notice of that fellow." "Why do I? I am sure he is a very nice boy." "He is a common working boy!" snapped Phil. "He lives with his mother in a poor hut upon the bluff, and makes his [Pg 22] [Pg 23] [Pg 24] [Pg 25] living by boating." "I am sure that is to his credit." "Oh, yes, I suppose it is. So's a ditch-digger engaged in a creditable employment, but you don't treat him as an equal." "I should be willing to treat Grit as an equal. He is very good-looking, don't you think so, Phil?" "Good-looking! So is a cow good-looking." "I've seen some cows that were very good-looking," answered Marion, with a mischievous smile. "I suppose Grit and you are well acquainted." "Oh, I know him to speak to him," returned Phil loftily. "Of course, I couldn't be intimate with such a boy." "I was thinking," said Marion, "it would be nice to invite him round to the house to play croquet with us." "Invite Grit Morris?" gasped Phil. "Yes, why not?" "A boy like him!" "Why, wouldn't he behave well?" "Oh, I suppose he would, but he isn't in our circle." "Then it's a pity he isn't. He's the most agreeable boy I have met in Chester." "You say that only to provoke me." "No, I don't. I mean it." "I won't invite him," said Phil doggedly. "I am surprised that you should think of such a thing." "Propriety, Miss Marion, propriety!" said the young lady, in a tone of mock dignity, turning up the whites of her eyes. "That's just the way my governess used to talk. It's well I've got so experienced a young gentleman to look after me, and see that I don't stumble into any impropriety." Meanwhile, Grit sat in his boat, waiting for a return passenger, and as he waited he thought of the young lady he had just ferried over. "I can't see how such a fellow as Phil Courtney can have such a nice cousin," he said to himself. "She's very pretty, too! She isn't stuck-up, like him. I hope I shall get the chance of rowing them back." He waited about ten minutes, when he saw a gentleman and a little boy approaching the river. "Are you the ferry-boy?" asked the gentleman. "Yes, sir." "I heard there was a boy who would row me across. I want to go to Chester with my little boy. Can you take us over?" "Yes, sir; I shall be happy to do so." "Are you ready to start?" "Yes, sir, just as soon as you get into the boat." "Come, Willie," said the gentleman, addressing his little boy, "won't you like to ride over in the boat?" "Oh, yes, papa," answered Willie eagerly. "I hope you are well acquainted with rowing, and careful," said Mr. Jackson, for this was his name. "I am rather timid about the water, for I can't swim." "Yes, sir, I am as much at home on the water as on the land. I've been rowing every day for the last three years." The gentleman and his little boy sat down, and Grit bent to his oars. CHAPTER IV. A BOY IN THE WATER. Mr. Jackson was a slender, dark-complexioned man of forty, or thereabouts. He was fashionably dressed, and had the air of one who lives in a city. He had an affable manner, and seemed inclined to be social. [Pg 26] [Pg 27] [Pg 28] "Is this your business, ferrying passengers across the river?" he asked of Grit. "Yes, sir," answered the young boatman. "Does it pay?" was the next inquiry—an important one in the eyes of a city man. "Yes, sir; I make more in this way than I could in any other." "How much, for instance?" "From five to seven dollars. Once—it was Fourth of July week—I made nearly ten dollars." "That is a great deal more than I made at your age," said Mr. Jackson. "You look as if you made more now," said Grit, smiling. "Yes," said the passenger, with an answering smile. "I am afraid I couldn't get along on that sum now." "Do you live in the city?" asked Grit, with a sudden impulse. "Yes, I live in what I regard as the city. I mean New York." "It must be a fine place," said the young boatman thoughtfully. "Yes, it is a fine place, if you have money enough to live handsomely. Did you ever hear of Wall Street?" "Yes, sir." "I am a Wall Street broker. I commenced as a boy in a broker's office. I don't think I was any better off than you at your age—certainly I did not earn so much money." "But you didn't have a mother to take care of, did you, sir?" "No; do you?" "Yes, sir." "You are a good boy to work for your mother. My poor boy has no mother;" and the gentleman looked sad. "What is your name?" "Grit." "Is that your real name?" "No, sir, but everybody calls me so." "For a good reason, probably. Willie, do you like to ride in the boat?" "Yes, papa," answered the little boy, his bright eyes and eager manner showing that he spoke the truth. "Grit," said Mr. Jackson, "I see we are nearly across the river. Unless you are due there at a specified time, you may stay out, and we will row here and there, prolonging our trip. Of course, I will increase your pay." "I shall be very willing, sir," said Grit. "My boat is my own, and my time also, and I have no fixed hours for starting from either side." "Good! Then we can continue our conversation. Is there a good hotel in Chester?" "Quite a good one, sir. They keep summer boarders." "That was the point I wished to inquire about. Willie and I have been staying with friends in Portville, but they are expecting other visitors, and I have a fancy for staying a while on your side of the river—that is, if you live in Chester." "Yes, sir; our cottage is on yonder bluff—Pine Point, it is called." "Then I think I will call at the hotel, and see whether I can obtain satisfactory accommodations." "Are you taking a vacation?" asked Grit, with curiosity. "Yes; the summer is a dull time in Wall Street, and my partner attends to everything. By and by I shall return, and give him a chance to go away." "Do people make a great deal of money in Wall Street?" asked Grit. "Sometimes, and sometimes they lose a great deal. I have known a man who kept his span of horses one summer reduced to accept a small clerkship the next. If a broker does not speculate, he is not so liable to such changes of fortune. What is your real name, since Grit is only a nickname?" "My real name is Harry Morris." [Pg 29] [Pg 30] [Pg 31] "Have you any brothers or sisters?" "No, sir; I am an only child." "Were you born here?" "No, sir; I was born in Boston." "Have you formed any plans for the future? You won't be a boatman all your life, I presume?" "I hope not, sir. It will do well enough for the present, and I am glad to have such a chance of earning a living for my mother and myself; but when I grow up I should like to go to the city, and get into business there." "All the country boys are anxious to seek their fortune in the city. In many cases they would do better to stay at home." "Were you born in the city, sir?" asked Grit shrewdly. "No; I was born in the country." "But you didn't stay there." "No; you have got me there. I suppose it was better for me to go to the city, and perhaps it may be for you; but there is no hurry. You wouldn't have a chance to earn six dollars a week in the city, as you say you do here. Besides, it would cost much more for you and your mother to live." "I suppose so, sir. I am contented to remain where I am at present." "Is your father dead?" "Yes, sir." "It is a great loss. Then your mother is a widow?" "I wish she were," said Grit hastily. "But she must be, if your father is dead," said Mr. Jackson. "No, sir; she married again." "Oh, there is a stepfather, then? Don't you and he get along well together?" "There has been no chance to quarrel for nearly five years." "Why?" "Because he has been in prison." "Excuse me if I have forced upon you a disagreeable topic," said the passenger, in a tone of sympathy. "His term of confinement will expire, and then he can return to you." "That is just what troubles me, sir," said Grit bluntly. "We are expecting him in a day or two, and then our quiet life will be at an end." "Will he make things disagreeable for you?" "Yes, sir." "At least, you will not have to work so hard." "Yes, sir. I shall have to work harder, for I shall have to support him, too." "Won't he be willing to work?" "No, sir, he is very lazy, and if he can live without work, he will." "That is certainly unfortunate." "It is worse than having no father at all," said Grit bluntly. "I don't care to have him remain in prison, if he will only keep away from us, but I should be glad if I could never set eyes upon him again." "Well, my boy, you must bear the trial as well as you can. We all have our trials, and yours comes in the shape of a disagreeable stepfather——" He did not finish the sentence, for there was a startling interruption. Mr. Jackson and Grit had been so much engaged in their conversation that they had not watched the little boy. Willie had amused himself in bending over the side of the boat, and dipping his little fingers in the rippling water. With childish imprudence he leaned too far, and fell head first into the swift stream. [Pg 32] [Pg 33] [Pg 34] A splash told the startled father what had happened. "Good Heaven!" he exclaimed, "my boy is overboard, and I cannot swim." He had scarcely got the words out of his mouth than Grit was in the water, swimming for the spot where the boy went down, now a rod or two distant, for the boat had been borne onward by the impulse of the oars. The young boatman was an expert swimmer. It would naturally have been expected, since so much of his time had been spent on the river. He had often engaged in swimming-matches with his boy companions, and there was no one who could surpass him in speed or endurance. He struck out boldly, and, as Willie rose to the surface for the second time, he seized him by the arm, and, turning, struck out for the boat. The little boy struggled, and this made his task more difficulty but Grit was strong and wary, and, holding Willie in a strong grasp, he soon gained the boat. Mr. Jackson leaned over, and drew the boy, dripping, into its safe refuge. "Climb in, too, Grit!" he said. "No, I shall upset it. If you will row to the shore, I will swim there." "Very well." Mr. Jackson was not wholly a stranger to the use of oars, and the shore was very near. In three minutes the boat touched the bank, and almost at the same time Grit clambered on shore. "You have saved my boy's life," said Mr. Jackson, his voice betraying the strong emotion he felt. "I shall not forget it." "Willie is cold!" said the little boy. "Our house is close by," said Grit. "Let us take him there at once, and mother will take care of him, and dry his clothes." The suggestion was adopted, and Mr. Jackson and his two young companions were soon standing at the door of the plain cottage on the bluff. When his mother admitted them, Grit noticed that she looked disturbed, and he seized the first chance to ask her if anything were the matter. "Your stepfather has come!" she answered. CHAPTER V. THE STEPFATHER. Grit was disagreeably surprised at the news of Mr. Brandon's arrival, and he looked about him in the expectation of seeing his unwelcome figure, in vain. "Where is he, mother?" the boy inquired. "Gone to the tavern," she answered significantly. "Did you give him any money?" "I gave him a dollar," she replied sadly. "It is easy to tell how it will be spent." Grit had no time to inquire further at that time, for he was assisting his mother in necessary attentions to their guests, having hurriedly exchanged his own wet clothes for dry ones. Mr. Jackson seemed very grateful to Mrs. Morris for her attention to Willie. She found an old suit of Grit's, worn by him at the age of eight, and dressed Willie in it, while his own wet suit was being dried. The little boy presented a comical spectacle, the suit being three or four sizes too large for him. "I don't like it," he said. "It is too big." "So it is, Willie," said his father; "but you won't have to wear it long. You would catch your death of cold if you wore your wet clothes. How long will it take to dry his clothes, Mrs. Morris?" "Two or three hours at least," answered the widow. "I have a great mind to go back to Portville, and get a change of garments," said the father. "That would be the best thing, probably." "But I should have to burden you with Willie; for I should need to take Grit with me to ferry me across." [Pg 35] [Pg 36] [Pg 37] [Pg 38] "It will be no trouble, sir. I will take good care of him." "Willie, will you stay here while I go after your other clothes?" asked Mr. Jackson. Willie readily consented, especially after Grit had brought him a picture-book to look over. Then he accompanied the father to the river, and they started to go across. While they were gone, Mr. Brandon returned to the cottage. His flushed face and unsteady gait showed that he had been drinking. He lifted the latch, and went in. When he saw Willie sitting in a small chair beside his wife, he gazed at the child in astonishment. "Is that the cub?" he asked doubtfully. "Seems to me he's grown smaller since I saw him." "I ain't a cub," said Willie indignantly. "Oh! yer ain't a cub, hey?" repeated Brandon mockingly. "No, I ain't. My name is Willie Jackson, and my papa lives in New York." "What is the meaning of this, Mrs. Brandon?" asked the inebriate. "Where did you pick up this youngster?" His wife explained in a few words. "I thought it wasn't the cub," said Mr. Brandon indistinctly. "Where is he?" "He has gone to row Mr. Jackson over to Portville." "I say, Mrs. B., does he earn much money that way?" "He earns all the money that supports us," answered his wife coldly. "I must see to that," said Brandon unsteadily. "He must bring me his money every night—do you hear, Mrs. B.?—must bring me his money every night." "To spend for liquor, I suppose?" she responded bitterly. "I'm a gentleman. My money—that is, his money is my money. D'ye understand?" "I understand only too well, Mr. Brandon." "That's all right. I feel tired. Guess I'll go and lie down." To his wife's relief he went up-stairs, and was soon stretched out on the bed in a drunken sleep. "I am glad he is out of the way. I should be ashamed to have Mr. Jackson see him," thought Grit's mother, or Mrs. Brandon, as we must now call her. "Who is that man?" asked Willie anxiously. "His name is Brandon," answered Grit's mother. "He isn't a nice man. I don't like him." Mrs. Brandon said nothing. What could she say? If she had spoken as she felt, she would have been compelled to agree with the boy. Yet this man was her husband, and was likely to be to her a daily source of anxiety and annoyance. "I am afraid Grit and he won't agree," she thought anxiously. "Oh I why did he ever come back? For the last five years we have been happy. We have lived plainly and humbly, but our home has been peaceful. Now, Heaven knows what trouble is in store for us." Half an hour later Mr. Jackson and Grit returned. CHAPTER VI. GRIT'S RECOMPENSE. No time was lost in arraying Willie in clothes more suitable for him. The little boy was glad to lay aside Grit's old suit, which certainly was not very becoming to him. "Are we going now, papa?" asked the little boy. "Yes, Willie; but first I must express to this good lady my great thanks for her kindness." "I have done but little, sir," said Mrs. Brandon; "but that little I was very glad to do." "I am sure of that," said the visitor cordially. [Pg 39] [Pg 40] [Pg 41] "If you remain in the neighborhood, I shall hope to see your little boy again, and yourself, also." "I will come," said Willie promptly. "He answers for himself," said his father, smiling, "and he will keep his promise. Now, Grit," he said, turning to the young boatman, "I will ask you to accompany me to the hotel." "Certainly, sir." When they had passed from the cottage, Mr. Jackson turned to the boy and grasped his hand. "I have not yet expressed to you my obligations," he said, with emotion, "for the great service you have done me—the greatest in the power of any man, or boy." "Don't speak of it, sir," said Grit modestly. "But I must. You have saved the life of my darling boy." "I don't know, sir." "But I do. I cannot swim a stroke, and but for your prompt bravery, he would have drowned before my eyes." Grit could not well contradict this statement, for it was incontestably true. "It was lucky I could swim," he answered. "Yes, it was. It seems providential that I should have had with me so brave a boy, when Willie's life was in peril. It will be something that you will remember with satisfaction to the end of your own life." "Yes, sir, there is no doubt of that," answered Grit sincerely. "I shudder to think what a sad blank my own life would have been if I had lost my dear boy. He is my only child, and for this reason I should have missed him the more. Your brave act is one that I cannot fitly reward——" "I don't need any reward, Mr. Jackson," said Grit hastily. "I am sure you do not. You do not look like a mercenary boy. But, for all that, I owe it to myself to see that so great a favor does not go unacknowledged. My brave boy, accept this wallet and what it contains, not as the payment of a debt, but as the first in the series of my acknowledgments to you." As he spoke, he put into the hand of the young boatman a wallet. "I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Jackson," said Grit, "but I am not sure that I ought to take this." "Then let me decide for you," said the broker, smiling. "I am older, and may be presumed to have more judgment." "It will seem as if I took pay for saving Willie from drowning." "If you did, it would be perfectly proper. But you forget that I have had the use of your boat and your own services for the greater part of the afternoon." "I presume you have paid me more than I ask for such services." "Very likely," answered Mr. Jackson. "In fact, outside of my obligations to you, I have formed a good opinion of a boy who works hard and faithfully to support his mother. I was a poor boy once, and I have not forgotten how to sympathize with those who are beginning the conflict with narrow means. Mind, Grit, I don't condole with you. You have good health and strong hands, and in our favored country there is no reason why, when you reach my age, you may not be equally well off." "I wish I might—for mother's sake," said Grit, his face lighting up with hope. "I shall see more of you while I am here, but I may as well say now that I mean to bear you in mind, and wish you to come to me, either here or in the city, when you stand in need of advice or assistance." Grit expressed his gratitude. Mr. Jackson selected a room at the hotel, and promised to take up his quarters there the next day. Then Grit once more took up his oars and ferried Willie and his father across the river. It was not for some time, therefore, that he had a chance to examine the wallet which had been given him. CHAPTER VII. GRIT ASTONISHES PHIL. Grit was not wholly without curiosity, and, as was natural, he speculated as to the amount which the wallet contained. [Pg 42] [Pg 43] [Pg 44] [Pg 45] When Mr. Jackson and Willie had left him, he took it out of his pocket and opened it. He extracted a roll of bills and counted them over. There were ten five-dollar bills, and ten dollars in notes of a smaller denomination. "Sixty dollars!" ejaculated Grit, with a thrill of pleasure. "I never was so rich in all my life." He felt that the sum was too large for him to accept, and he was half tempted to run after Mr. Jackson and say so. But quick reflection satisfied him that the generous New Yorker wished him to retain it, and, modest though he was, he was conscious that in saving the little boy's life he had placed his passenger under an obligation which a much larger sum would not have overpaid. Besides, he saw two new passengers walking toward his boat, who doubtless wished to be ferried across the river. They were Phil Courtney and Marion Clarke. "We are just in time, Mr. Grit," said the young lady, smiling. "Yes, my good fellow," said Phil condescendingly, "we will employ you again." "You are very kind," answered Grit, with a smile of amusement. "I like to encourage you," continued Phil, who was not very quick to interpret the looks of others. Grit looked at Marion, and noticed that she, too, looked amused. "Have you had any passengers since we came over?" asked Phil, in a patronizing tone. He was quite ready to employ his old schoolmate, provided he would show proper gratitude, and be suitably impressed by his condescension. "I have been across several times," answered Grit briefly. "And how much have you made now?" asked Phil, with what he intended to pass for benevolent interest. If Phil had been his friend, Grit would not have minded telling him; but he had the pride of self-respect, and he objected to being patronized or condescended to. "I haven't counted up," he answered. "I might have brought my own boat," said Phil, "but I like to encourage you." "Really, Phil, you are appearing in a new character," said Marion. "I never should have taken you for a philanthropist before. I thought you told your mother it would be too much bother to row over in your own boat." "That was one reason," said Phil, looking slightly embarrassed. "Besides, I didn't want to interfere with Grit's business. He is poor, and has to support his mother out of his earnings." This was in bad taste, and Grit chafed against it. "That is true," he said, "but I don't ask any sympathy. I am prosperous enough." "Oh, yes; you are doing well enough for one in your position, I don't doubt. How much would you give, now, to have as much money as I carry in this pocketbook?" asked Phil boastfully. He had just passed his birthday, and had received a present of ten dollars from his father, and five dollars each from his mother and an aunt. He had spent a part of it for a hat and in other ways, but still he had seventeen dollars left. "Perhaps I have as much money," answered Grit quietly. "Oho! That's a good joke," said Phil. "No joke at all," said Grit. "I don't know how much money you have in your pocketbook, but I presume I can show more." Phil's face grew red with anger. He was one of those disagreeable boys who are purse-proud, and he was provoked at hearing such a ridiculous assertion from a poor boy who had to earn his own living. Even Marion regarded Grit with some wonder, for she happened to know how much money her cousin carried, and it seemed to her very improbable that the young boatman should have as much in his possession. "Don't make a fool of yourself, Grit!" said Phil sharply. "Thank you; I don't propose to." "But you are doing it." "How?" "Didn't you say you had more money than I?" [Pg 46] [Pg 47] [Pg 48] [Pg 49]