Grit. Alger Horatio Jr.

almost two dollars, and it's likely he earned it all to-day."

      Presently Brandon reached the tavern, and entered the barroom.

      He called for whisky, and swallowed it with gusto.

      "You may charge it to me," said he carelessly; "I'll pay once a week."

      "We don't care to do business that way," said the barkeeper.

      "You ain't afraid I won't pay you?" said Brandon, in a tone of affected indignation.

      "I don't know whether you would or not, but our terms are cash."

      "Oh, well, if you're so strict as that, take it out of this quarter," said Brandon, throwing his sole remaining coin on the counter.

      Fifteen cents were returned to him, and in half an hour that sum was also expended at the bar.

      It might have been supposed that Brandon would be satisfied, but he was not. He made an attempt to obtain another drink on credit, but the barkeeper proved obdurate.

      Then he engaged in a game of cards, and about half-past nine set out to go home, in a better condition than if he had had more money to spend.

      "This will never do!" he muttered, in a discontented tone; "I can't be kept so short as this. It is humiliating to think of me, a grown man, going round without a cent in my pocket, while my stepson is reveling in money. I won't have it, and I'll let him understand it."

      A few feet in front of Brandon two boys were walking. One of them was Phil Courtney, and the other Dick Graham, a poor boy, who, by proper subserviency, had earned a position as chief favorite with his companion.

      Brandon could not help hearing their conversation. He heard Grit's name mentioned, and this made him listen attentively.

      "I can't understand where Grit got his money," Phil was saying.

      "How much did you say he had?" inquired Dick.

      "Sixty dollars!"

      "Whew!"

      Brandon felt like saying "Whew!" too, for his amazement was great, but he wanted to hear more, and remained silent.

      "Are you sure there were sixty dollars?"

      "Yes; my cousin Marion counted it."

      "How did Grit happen to show his money?"

      "He was boasting that he had more money than I, and I challenged him to show his money."

      "I suppose he did show more?"

      "Yes, I had only seventeen dollars. But what I can't understand is, where did a common boatman pick up so much money?"

      "Perhaps he has been saving for a long time."

      "Perhaps so, but I don't believe he could save so much," answered Phil.

      "Perhaps he stole it."

      Phil didn't believe this, but he would like to have believed it true.

      "I shouldn't wonder if he did, though I don't know where he could get the chance."

      "I wonder if he'd lend me five dollars," thought Dick Graham, though he did not care to let Phil know his thought. He resolved to be more attentive to Grit, in the hope of pecuniary favors. Meanwhile, he did not forget that Phil also was well provided.

      "You were pretty well fixed, too," he said. "I wonder how I'd feel if I had seventeen dollars."

      "What do I care about seventeen dollars?" said Phil discontentedly, "when a boy like Grit Morris can show more than three times as much."

      "Oh, well, he'll have to spend it. He won't keep it long. By the way, Phil, will you do me a favor?"

      "What is it?" asked Phil cautiously.

      "Won't you lend me two dollars? I want it the worst way. I haven't got a cent to my name."

      "I can't spare it," said Phil curtly.

      "It will leave you fifteen–"

      "I'm going to use it all. Besides, it would be the same as giving it–"

      "No, I'd pay you back in a week or two."

      "You've been owing me fifty cents for three months. If you'd paid that up punctually, perhaps I would have lent you. You'd better go to Grit."

      "He isn't my friend, and I thought you might not like my going to him."

      "Oh, you can borrow as much as you like of him—the more, the better!" returned Phil, with a laugh.

      "I'll try it, then. I shall have to pretend to be his friend."

      "All right. The faster he gets rid of his money, the better it will suit me."

      Brandon heard no more of the conversation, for the boys turned down a side street. But he had heard enough to surprise him.

      "Grit got sixty dollars!" he repeated to himself. "Why, the artful young villain! Who'd have thought it? And he coolly refuses to let his father have a cent. He's actually rolling in riches, while I haven't got a penny in my purse. And his mother aids and abets him in it, I'll be bound. It's the blackest ingratitude I ever heard of."

      What Grit had to be grateful to him for Mr. Brandon might have found it difficult to instance, but he actually managed to work himself into a fit of indignation because Grit declined to commit his money to his custody.

      Brandon felt very much like a man who has suddenly been informed that a pot of gold was concealed in his back yard. Actually, a member of his family possessed the handsome sum of sixty dollars. How was he to get it into his own hands?

      That was easier to ask than to answer. As he had said, Grit was a stout, strong boy, nearly his equal in size and strength, and he had already had sufficient acquaintance with his firmness, or obstinacy, as he preferred to call it, to make sure that the boy would not give up the money without a struggle. If now he could get hold of the money by stratagem, it would be easier, and make less disturbance.

      Where did Grit keep the money?

      "He may have given it to his mother," thought Brandon. "If so, I can find it in one of her bureau drawers. She always used to keep money there. But it is more likely that the boy keeps it in his own pocket. I know what I'll do. I'll get up in the night, when he and his mother are asleep, and search his pockets. Gad, how astonished he'll look in the morning when he searches for it, and finds it missing!"

      Brandon was very much amused by this thought, and he laughed aloud.

      "Sixty dollars'll set me on my feet again," he reflected. "Let me see. I'll go to Boston, and look round, and see if I can't pick up a job of some kind. There isn't anything to do here in this beastly hole. By the way, I wonder where the boy did get so much money. He must find boatin' more profitable than I had any idea of."

      At this point Brandon entered the little path that led to his wife's cottage.

      "Mrs. B. is sittin' up," he said, as he saw through the window the figure of his wife in a rocking-chair, apparently occupied with some kind of work. "I'll get her off to bed soon, so that I can have a clear field."