Grit

"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."

"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.