Grit

Horatio Alger

Jr. Horatio Alger

Grit / or The Young Boatman of Pine Point

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."

"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