Travers looked the picture of fright as he beheld the rusty pistol which Grit pointed at him.

"Don't fire, for the Lord's sake!" he repeated, in alarm.

"Will you go away, then, and give up troubling us?" demanded the young boatman sternly.

"Yes, yes, I'll go," said Travers hurriedly. "Lower that pistol. It might go off."

Grit lowered the weapon, as desired, seeing that Travers was likely to keep his word.

"Tell Brandon I want to see him. I will be at the tavern this afternoon at four o'clock."

"I'll tell him," said Grit, who preferred that his stepfather should be anywhere rather than at home.

Having got rid of Travers, Grit turned to survey his stepfather, who was lying on the floor, breathing heavily. His eyes were closed, and he seemed in a drunken stupor.

"How long have we got to submit to this?" thought Grit. "I must go up and consult with mother about what is to be done."

He went up-stairs, and found his mother seated in her chamber, nervously awaiting the issue of the interview between Grit and the worthy pair below.

"Are they gone, Grit?" she asked quickly.

"Travers is gone, mother. I turned him out of the house."

"Did you have any trouble with him?"

"I should have had, but he was too weak to resist me, on account of having drunk too much."

"I thought I heard him pounding on the door."

"So he did, but I frightened him away with the old pistol," and Grit laughed at the remembrance. "He thought it was loaded."

"He may come back again," said Mrs. Brandon apprehensively.

"Yes, he may. Brandon is likely to draw such company. I wish we could get rid of him, too."

"What a fatal mistake I made in marrying that man!" said Mrs. Brandon mournfully.

"That is true, mother but it can't be helped now. The question is, what shall we do?"

"Where is he?"

"Lying on the floor, drunk," said Grit, in a tone of disgust. "We may as well leave him there for the present."

"He has hardly been home twenty-four hours, yet how he has changed our quiet life. If he would only reform!"

"Not much chance of that, mother."

"What shall we do, Grit?" asked Mrs. Brandon, who was wont to come to Grit, young as he was, for advice.

"I have thought of two ways. I might buy him a ticket for Boston, if I thought he would use it. It would be of no use to give him the money, or he would spend it at the tavern instead."

"If he would only leave us to ourselves, it would a blessing."

"If he won't hear of that, there is another way."

"What is it?"

"I could engage board for you and myself at the house of one of our neighbors for a week."

"What good would that do, Grit?"

"You would prepare no meals at home, and Mr. Brandon would be starved out. While he can live upon us, and raise money to buy liquor at the tavern, there is little chance of getting rid of him."

"I don't know, Grit. It seems a harsh thing to do."

"But consider the circumstances, mother. We can't allow him to continue annoying us as he has done."

"Do as you think best, Grit."

"Then I will go over to Mrs. Sprague's and ask if she will take us for a few days. That will probably be sufficient."

Going down-stairs, Grit saw his stepfather still lying on the floor. Grit's step aroused him, and he lifted his head.

"'S'that you Grit?" he asked, in thick accents.

"Yes, sir."

"Where's my frien' Travers?"

"He's gone."

"Where's he gone?"

"To the tavern. He said he would meet you there at four o'clock."

"What time is it?" asked Brandon, trying to get up.

"Two o'clock."

"I'll be there. You tell him so, Grit."

"I will if I see him."

Grit went on his way to Mrs. Sprague's, and had no difficulty in making the arrangement he desired for his mother and himself, when she learned that Mr. Brandon was not to come, too.

"I feel for your mother, Grit," she said. "If I can help her in this trial, I certainly will."

"Thank you, Mrs. Sprague. I will return and tell her. Perhaps she may come over by the middle of the afternoon. I don't like to leave her alone in the house with Mr. Brandon."

"She will be welcome whenever she comes, Grit."

"You had better go over at once, mother," said Grit, on his return. "A drunken man is not fit company for you."

Mrs. Brandon was easily persuaded to take the step recommended, and her husband was left in the house alone.

Meanwhile, Travers went on his way to the tavern. It was rather a serious thing for him to be turned out of his friend's house, for he had but a scanty supply of money, and his appearance was not likely to give him credit.

"Confound that boy!" he muttered. "He's just reckless enough to shoot me, if I don't give up to him. I pity Brandon, having such a son as that."

It would have been more in order to pity Grit for having such a stepfather, but Travers looked upon the matter from his own point of view, which, it is needless to say, was influenced by his own interests.

"Will they take me at the tavern?" he thought to himself. "If they won't, I shall have to sleep out, and that would be hard for a gentleman like me."

When we are in a tight place, help often comes from unexpected quarters, and this to those who hardly deserve such a favor. So it happened in the case of Travers.

As he was walking slowly along, his face wrinkled with perplexity, he attracted the attention of a tall man, dressed in black, who might readily have passed for a clergyman, so far as his externals went. He crossed the street, and accosted Travers.

"My friend," he said, "you appear to be in trouble."

"So I am," answered Travers readily.

"Of what nature?"

"I've just been turned out of the house of the only friend I have in the village, and I don't know where to go."

"Go to the tavern."

"So I would if I had money enough to pay my score. You haven't got five dollars to spare, have you?"

Travers had no expectation of being answered in the affirmative, and he was surprised, as well as gratified, when the stranger drew out his wallet, and, taking therefrom a five-dollar bill, put it into his hand.

"There," said he.

"Well!" exclaimed the astonished Travers, "you're a gentleman if ever there was one. May I know the name of such an—an ornament to his species?"

The stranger smiled.

"I am glad you appreciate my little favor," he said. "As to my name, you may call me Colonel Johnson."

"Proud to know you, colonel," said Travers, clasping the hand of his new acquaintance warmly.

"What is your name?" asked Johnson.

"Thomas Travers."

"I am glad to know you, Mr. Travers," said the colonel. "Let me drop you a hint. There's more money where that came from."

"You couldn't lend me any more, could you?" asked Travers eagerly.

"Well, not exactly lend, Mr. Travers, but perhaps we can enter into a little business arrangement."

"All right, colonel," said Travers briskly. "I'm out of business. Fact is, I've been in seclusion lately—confined to the house in fact, and haven't been able to earn anything."

"Just so. Suppose we take a walk in yonder field, and I will tell you what I have in view."

They got over a fence, and walked slowly along a path that led a quarter of a mile farther on into the woods.

Here they sat down under a tree, and Colonel Johnson, producing a couple of cigars and a match, said:

"I can always talk better when I am smoking. Have one, Travers."

"You're a man after my own heart, colonel," said Travers enthusiastically. "Now, if I only had a nip I should be in clover."

"Take one, then," said the colonel, producing a pocket-flask of brandy.

Travers was by no means bashful in accepting this invitation.