It was clear that Grit's new passenger was a stranger in the neighborhood. Had he been a resident of Chester or Portville, the young boatman would have known him. It must be confessed, however, that the appearance of the newcomer was not such as to render any one anxious to make his acquaintance. He was a black-haired, low-browed man, with a cunning, crafty look, and, to sum up, with the general appearance of a tramp.

He seated himself comfortably, and scanned the young boatman critically.

"Where do you live?" he asked abruptly.

"In Chester," answered Grit briefly.

"That's where my friend Brandon lives, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Do you know him?"

"Yes."

Grit felt reluctant to admit that any tie existed between himself and the returned convict.

"Brandon's wife is living, isn't she?"

"Yes."

"There's a kid, isn't there?"

"Mrs. Brandon has a son, if that's what you mean," said Grit.

"Of course, that's what I mean. Mrs. Brandon got any property?"

Grit was getting provoked. He did not fancy discussing his mother's affairs with a man of this stamp.

"You seem to feel considerable interest in the family," he could not help saying.

"S'pose I do! That's my business, isn't it?"

"I suppose so," answered Grit.

"Well, why don't you answer my question?" demanded the passenger impatiently.

"I haven't agreed to answer your questions; I have engaged to row you across the river, and I am doing it."

"Look here, boy!" said the passenger, bending his brows, "I don't want you to talk back to me—do you hear?"

"Yes, I hear; but if you ask me questions I shall answer as I please."

"You will, hey? I've a great mind to throw you into the river."

"That wouldn't do you any good. You wouldn't get over any quicker, and, besides, you would find yourself under arrest before night."

"And you would drown."

"Not if I could help it. I can swim across the river easily."

"You're a cool hand. Then you are not willing to answer my questions?"

"I will, if you will answer mine."

"Go ahead. I'll see about it."

"Where did you meet Mr. Brandon?"

"Where? Well, let that pass."

It so happened that the two had first met as fellow prisoners—a confession the passenger did not care to make. Grit inferred this from the reluctance displayed in giving the answer.

"What is your name?"

"Thomas Travers," answered the passenger, rather slowly. "What is yours?"

"Harry Morris."

This answer revealed nothing, since Travers did not know the name of Brandon's wife before marriage.

"Do you make much, ferrying passengers across the river?"

"I do pretty well."

"What is your fare?"

"Ten cents."

"Pretty good. I'd do it for that myself."

"There's a chance to run opposition to me," said Grit, smiling.

"I've got more important business on hand. So you know Brandon, do you?"

"Yes, I know him."

"Do you know his wife?"

"Yes."

"Has she property?"

"She owns the small cottage she lives in."

"Good!" said Travers, nodding. "That's luck for Brandon."

"How is it?" asked Grit, desirous of drawing out Travers, as he probably knew Mr. Brandon's intentions, and it was important that these should be understood.

"It's a good thing to have property in the family. My friend Brandon is short of funds, and he can sell the house, or raise money on it."

"Without his wife's consent?"

"Oh, she'll have to give in," said Travers nonchalantly.

"We'll see about that," said Grit to himself, but he did not utter his thoughts aloud.

By this time they had reached the opposite shore of the river, and Travers stepped out of the boat.

He felt in his vest pocket, as a matter of form, but did not succeed in finding anything there.

"I've got no change, boy," he said. "I'll get some from Brandon, and pay you to-morrow."

"Mr. Brandon's credit isn't good with me," said Grit.

"Ha, does he owe you money?"

"I refused to take him across the river this morning," answered Grit.

"Look here, young fellow, that isn't the way to carry on business. When you insult my friend Brandon, you insult me. I've a great mind never to ride across on your boat again."

"I don't mind losing your patronage," repeated Grit. "It doesn't pay."

"We'll discuss that another time. Where does my friend Brandon live?"

"You can inquire," returned Grit, by no means anxious to point out the way to his mother's house to this objectionable stranger.

"You're the most impudent boy I've met lately," said Travers angrily. "I'll settle you yet."

"Better settle with me first, Mr. Travers," said Grit coolly, and he pushed his boat back into the stream.

"I wonder who he is," thought Travers, as he walked away from the boat landing. "I must ask Brandon. I wish I could meet him. I'm precious short of funds, and I depend on him to take care of me for a few days."

Thomas Travers passed by the little cottage on the bluff, quite unaware that it was the house he was in search of. He kept on his way toward the village, not meeting any one of whom he could ask the proper direction.

At length, greatly to his relief, he espied in the distance the familiar figure of Brandon, walking, or, more properly, reeling, toward him.

"That's he—that's my friend Brandon!" he exclaimed joyfully. "Now I'm all right. Say, old fellow, how are you?"

"Is it you, Travers?" said Brandon, trying to steady himself.

"Yes, it's I—Tom Travers."

"When did you get out?"

"Sh! Don't speak too loud!" said Travers, looking about him cautiously. "I got out two days after you."

"What are you doing here?"

"Just come. Come to see you, old boy. I can stay with you, can't I?"

Brandon looked dubious.

"I don't know what Mrs. B. will say," he answered slowly.

"You're boss in your own house, ain't you?"

"Well, that's where it is! It isn't my own house. It belongs to Mrs. B."

"Same thing, I take it."

"No, it isn't. The old lady's bound to keep it in her own hands."

"Can't you sell or mortgage it?"

"She won't let me."

"Bah! Can't you control a woman?" returned Travers disdainfully.

"I might, but for the cub."

"The boy?"

"Yes. He's the most obstinate, perverse, independent young kid you ever saw."

"You don't say so!"

"Fact! It's pretty hard on me."

"Then he'll make a pretty good match for the boy I met this morning."

"Where?"

"The boy that ferried me across the river. He's as sassy a young kid as I ever saw."

"Why, that's him—that's Grit."

"Grit! He told me his name was Harry Morris."

"So it is, and his mother was Mrs. Morris before I married her."

"You don't mean to say that boy is your stepson?"

"Yes, he is."

"Whew!" whistled Travers. "Well, he doesn't seem to admire you very much," continued the visitor.

"No, doesn't treat me with any respect. If it wasn't for him, I could manage his mother. He sets her against me, and gets her to stand out against anything I propose. It's hard, Travers," continued Brandon, showing an inclination to indulge in maudlin tears.

"Then why do you submit to it, Brandon? Ain't you a match for a boy like that? Why, you ain't half the man I thought you was."

"Ain't I? I was too much for Grit this morning, anyway," said Brandon, with a cunning smile.

"What did you do?"

"I sold his boat before he was up, and he had to borrow another."

"Good!" exclaimed Travers, delighted. "You're a trump. Have you got any of the money left?"

"A little."

"Then steer for the tavern, old fellow. I'm awfully thirsty."

The next hour was spent in the barroom, and then the worthy and well-matched pair bent their steps toward the little cottage, Travers supporting his friend Brandon as well as he could.