Grit

"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.

"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."