for I am going to Portville, and I shall go over in your boat."
"Then we can have a chat together. Good night."
Meanwhile, Mr. Brandon, having slept off his debauch, had come down-stairs.
"Where's the cub?" he asked.
"I wish you wouldn't call him by that name," said his wife. "He wouldn't like it."
"I shall call him what I please. Hasn't he been in?"
"Yes, Grit has been in."
"Grit?"
"That's a nickname the boys have given him, and as everybody calls him so, I have got into that way."
"Oh, well, call him what you like. Has he been in?"
"Yes."
"Where is he now?"
"He went out for a short time. I expect him in every minute."
"Did he leave his day's earnings with you?"
"No," answered Mrs. Brandon, with a troubled look. "He has the best right to that himself."
"Has he, hey? We'll see about that. I, as his stepfather and legal guardian, shall have something to say to that."
Mrs. Brandon was not called upon to reply, for the door opened just then, and the young boatman stood in the presence of his worthy stepfather.
CHAPTER IX.
A LITTLE DISCUSSION
Grit was only ten years old when his stepfather began to serve out his sentence at the penitentiary, and the two had not seen each other since. Instead of the small boy he remembered, Brandon saw before him a boy large and strong for his age, of well-knit frame and sturdy look. Five years had made him quite a different boy. His daily exercise in rowing had strengthened his muscles and developed his chest, so that he seemed almost a young man.
Brandon stared in surprise at the boy.
"Is that—the cub?" he asked.
"I object to that name, Mr. Brandon," said Grit quietly.
"You've grown!" said Brandon, still regarding him with curiosity.
"Yes, I ought to have grown some in five years."
It occurred to Mr. Brandon that it might not be so easy as he had expected to bully his stepson. He resolved at first to be conciliatory.
"I'm glad to see you," he said. "It's long since we met."
"Yes," answered Grit.
He was not prepared to return the compliment, and express pleasure at his stepfather's return.
"I'm glad you and your mother have got along so well while I was away."
Grit felt tempted to say that they had got along better during Mr. Brandon's absence than when he was with them, but he forbore. He did not want to precipitate a conflict, though, from what his mother had said, he foresaw that one would come soon enough.
"Your mother tells me that you make money by your boat," continued Mr. Brandon.
"Yes, sir."
"That's a good plan. I approve it. How much money have you made to-day, now?"
"I have a dollar or two in my pocket," answered Grit evasively.
"Very good!" said Brandon, in a tone of satisfaction. "You may as well hand it to me."
So the crisis had come! Mrs. Brandon looked at her son and her husband with anxiety, fearing there would be a quarrel, and perhaps something worse. She was tempted to say something in deprecation, but Grit said promptly:
"Thank you, Mr. Brandon, but I would prefer to keep the money myself."
Brandon was rather taken aback by the boy's perfect coolness and self-possession.
"How old are you?" he asked, with a frown.
"Fifteen."
"Indeed!" sneered Brandon. "I thought, from the way you talked, you were twenty-one. You don't seem to be aware that I am your legal guardian."
"No, sir, I was not aware of it."
"Then it's time you knew it. Ain't I your stepfather?"
"I suppose so," said Grit, with reluctance.
"Ha, you admit that, do you? I'm the master of this house, and it's my place to give orders. Your wages belong to me, but if you are obedient and respectful, I will allow you a small sum daily, say five cents."
"That arrangement is not satisfactory, Mr. Brandon," said Grit firmly.
"Why isn't it?" demanded his stepfather, frowning.
"I use my money to support the family."
"Did I say anything against it? As the master of the house, the bills come to me to be paid, and therefore I require you to give me every night whatever you may have taken during the day."
"Do you intend to earn anything yourself?" asked Grit pointedly; "or do you expect to live on us?"
"Boy, you are impertinent," said Brandon, coloring.
"Don't provoke Mr. Brandon," said Grit's mother timidly.
"We may as well come to an understanding," said Grit boldly. "I am willing to do all I can for you, mother, but Mr. Brandon is able to take care of himself, and I cannot support him, too."
"Is this the way you talk to your father, you impertinent boy?" exclaimed Brandon wrathfully.
"You are not my father, Mr. Brandon," said Grit coldly.
"It is all the same; I am your mother's husband."
"That's a different thing."
"Once more, are you going to give me the money you have in your pocket?"
"No, sir."
Brandon looked at Grit, and he felt that it would have given him pleasure to shake the rebellion out of his obstinate stepson, but supper was almost ready, and he felt hungry. He decided that it would be as well to postpone an open outbreak. Grit was in the house, and not likely to run away.
"We'll speak of this another time," he said, waving his hand. "You will find, young man, that it is of no use opposing me. Mrs. Brandon, is supper almost ready?"
"Nearly," answered his wife, glad to have the subject postponed.
"Then serve it as soon as possible," he said, in a lordly tone. "I am to meet a gentleman on business directly afterward."
Supper was on the table in fifteen minutes.
Mr. Brandon ate with evident enjoyment. Indeed, it was so short a time since he had been restricted to prison fare that he relished the plain but well-cooked dishes which his wife prepared.
"Another
