When Phil displayed the bill of sale, made out in due form by Brandon, Grit was for the moment taken aback.

"Whose boat is it now?" continued Phil triumphantly.

"It is mine," answered Grit quietly; "for Mr. Brandon had no right to sell it."

"I have nothing to do with that," said Phil. "He is your stepfather—you ought to feel proud of having a jail-bird in the family—and he told me the boat was his."

"I shall not contest your claim at present," said Grit. "As long as it passes out of my hands, you may as well have it as any one."

"I'll sell it back for ten dollars," said Phil, who had a keen scent for a bargain.

"Thank you, I don't care to buy back my own property. Besides, Mr. Brandon would be ready to sell it again to-morrow. As to what you say of him, I shan't undertake to defend him. I am not particularly proud of the relationship."

"What are you going to do for a boat to ferry your passengers?" asked Phil.

"I don't know."

"I'll let you this for fifty cents a day."

"That would be about half of my receipts, and you would get your money back in ten days. I don't care about making such a bargain as that."

"You'll have to give up your business, then," said Phil.

"No, he won't," said Jesse Burns. "I will give him the use of mine, and won't charge him a cent."

"Thank you, Jesse. You are a true friend," said Grit warmly. "You are doing me a great favor."

"And I am glad to do it. Suppose we pull to land? There are three persons at the landing who look as if they wanted to be ferried across."

Grit seized the oars and impelled the boat to land. As Jesse had said, there were three persons waiting, a gentleman and two ladies, who at once engaged the services of the young boatman.

For this service he received thirty cents, and, finding two persons at the other end who wished to come to Chester, the first hour in his new boat brought him fifty cents.

Grit's spirits rose. His misfortune was not irremediable, after all. He had feared that his means of living were taken away, and though he had money enough to buy a new boat, he did not dare to do so, lest Brandon should also sell that.

"I'll give him a piece of my mind," he thought. "It's contemptible to come home and live on us, and then to take away my means of living."

Meanwhile, Brandon had gone to the tavern, which he entered with a swagger, and immediately called for a glass of whisky.

The barkeeper hesitated.

"My orders are not to sell on credit," he said.

"Who wants you to sell on credit?" asked Brandon haughtily.

"You had no money last night."

"I've got some now. What do you say to that?" and he displayed the five-dollar bill he had received from Phil Courtney.

"That alters the case," said the barkeeper complaisantly. "Your money is as good as anybody's."

"I should say so. Give me another."

When Brandon left the barroom, he had spent a dollar, having drunk himself and treated others.

"Wonder if Grit has found out about his boat?" he said to himself, with a waggish smile, as he walked homeward with unsteady steps. "Serves the boy right for treating me so disrespectfully."

It was not much out of his way to go down to the margin of the river, and he did so. It happened that, as he reached it, Grit had just arrived from Portville with a second load of passengers. Fortune, as if to compensate him for his loss of a boat, had brought him an unusual number of passengers, so that he had already earned a dollar.

When Brandon saw Grit engaged in his usual avocation, he opened wide his eyes in surprise.

"Has the boy got his boat back again?" he asked himself.

He was not familiar with the appearance of the boat, and the name had slipped from his recollection. Then, also, Jesse's boat looked very much like Grit's.

When the passengers had walked away Brandon took measures to gratify his curiosity.

"Where did you get that boat, Grit?" he asked.

"Ah, it's you, is it?" said Grit, seeing his stepfather for the first time. "What business had you to sell my boat, Mr. Brandon?"

"Ain't I your stepfather, I'd like to know?" retorted Brandon.

"I am sorry to say you are," answered Grit; "but that doesn't give you any authority to steal and sell my boat."

"Don't you dare to charge me with stealin', you—you young puppy!" exclaimed Brandon, indignantly. "If you had behaved as you ought to me, I wouldn't have meddled with your boat."

"I understand you, Mr. Brandon. Because I wouldn't give you the money that I need to support my mother, you meanly and maliciously plot to take away my means of living."

"You wouldn't give me your money to take care of for you."

"You take care of my money for me!" returned Grit disdainfully. "I know very well how you would take care of it. You've already spent a part of the five dollars you received for stolen property at the tavern, and the result is that you can't walk straight."

"You lie! I can walk as straight as you!" said Brandon, and proceeded to prove it by falling against a tree, and recovering his equilibrium with difficulty.

"I see you can," said Grit sarcastically.

"Of course I can. Where did you get that boat? Is it the same——"

"The same you stole from me? No, it isn't."

"Have you bought it?" inquired Brandon, with a cunning look.

"No, I haven't, and I don't intend to buy another boat for you to sell. I have borrowed it of my friend, Jesse Burns."

Mr. Brandon looked disappointed. He had thought the new boat would prove a second bonanza, and he was already considering whether he could find another purchaser for it.

"Have you made much money this mornin', Grit?" next inquired Brandon, changing the conversation.

"I decline to tell you," answered Grit shortly.

"Grit, you don't seem to reflect that I am your stepfather, and set in authority over you."

"I am not very likely to forget that I have a stepfather I am ashamed of," said Grit.

"This is unkind, Grit," said Brandon, in a voice tremulous with maudlin sentiment. "Because I've been unfortunate, and have been shut out from all enjoyment for five years, you mock and insult me when I get home and pine for domestic happiness."

"If you would behave decently, you wouldn't be reminded of the past," said Grit. "But how is it? You haven't been home but twenty-four hours, and have already borrowed all the money mother had, and have sold my boat, to gratify your taste for rum. There may be more contemptible men in the world, but I never met with one."

"Grit, if you talk to me in that way," said Brandon, with attempted dignity, "I shall be under the necessity of flogging you."

"You'd better not try it, Mr. Brandon. I wouldn't stand still while you were doing it. I promise you that."

Just then two gentlemen came down to Phil's pier, and one asked:

"Can you take us across to Portville?"

"Yes, sir," answered Grit promptly.

The two gentlemen got in, and Grit was about to push off, when Brandon said:

"Stop, Grit; I'll go, too."

"You'll have to wait, Mr. Brandon," said Grit coolly, and a determined push sent the boat out into the stream, and frustrated the design of his stepfather.

"You don't want any more passengers, I see," said one of the gentlemen, smiling.

"Not of that kind," answered Grit.

"You are right. The man had evidently been drinking, and his presence would have been disagreeable to us."

When the boat reached the opposite shore, the gentleman who had engaged him handed Grit half a dollar.

Grit was about to offer change, but the passenger said:

"No, keep the change, my lad. You'll find a use for it, I make no doubt."

"After all," thought Grit, who did not forget to thank his liberal patron, "this isn't going to be so bad a day for me."

Five minutes later a man with a heavy black beard and rather shabbily attired presented himself as a passenger.

"I say, boy," said he, "do you know a man named Brandon that has recently gone to Chester?"

"Yes," answered Grit.

"All right. When we get over on the other side, you can just point out to me where he lives."