Grit returned to his old business, but I am obliged to confess that he was not as well contented with it as he had been a week previous. The incidents of the past four days had broadened his views, and given him thoughts of a career which would suit him better. He earned a dollar and a quarter during the day, and this made a very good average. Multiply it by six, and it stood for an income of seven dollars and a half per week. This, to be sure, was not a large sum, but it was quite sufficient to maintain the little household in a degree of comfort which left nothing to be desired.

"It's all very well now," thought Grit, "but it won't lead to anything. I'm so old now"—he was not quite sixteen—"that I ought to be getting hold of some business that I can follow when I am a man. I don't mean to be a boatman when I am twenty-five years old."

There was something in this, no doubt. Still Grit need not have felt in such a hurry. He was young enough to wait. Waiting, however, is a very bad thing for boys of his age. I only want to show how his mind was affected, in order that the reader may understand how it happened that he fell unsuspiciously into a trap which Colonel Johnson prepared for him.

After supper—it was two days later—Grit prepared to go to the village. He had a little errand of his own, and besides, his mother wanted a few articles at the grocery-store. Our hero, unlike some boys that I know, was always ready to do any errands for his mother, so that she was spared the trouble of exacting unwilling service.

Grit had done all his business, when he chanced to meet his friend Jesse Burns, who, as I have already said, was the son of the postmaster.

"How are you, Jesse?" said Grit.

"All right, Grit. Have you got your letter?"

"My letter!" returned Grit, in surprise.

"Yes; there's a letter for you in the post-office."

"I wonder who it can be from?"

"Perhaps it's from your affectionate stepfather," suggested Jesse, smiling.

"I hope not, I don't want to see or hear from him."

"Well, you can easily solve the problem. You have only to take the letter out."

"That's good advice, Jesse. I'll follow it."

Grit called for his letter, and noticed, with some surprise, that it was addressed to him, not under his real name, but under that familiar name by which we know him.

"Grit Morris," said Jesse, scanning the envelope. "Who can it be from?"

The letter was postmarked Boston, and was addressed in a bold, business hand.

Grit opened the envelope, read it through hastily, and with a look of evident pleasure.

"What's it all about, Grit?" asked Jesse.

"Read it for yourself, Jesse," said the young boatman, handing the letter to his friend.

This was the letter:

"Dear Sir: I need a young person on whom I can rely to travel for me at the West. I don't know you personally, but you have been recommended to me as likely to suit my purpose. I am willing to pay twelve dollars per week and traveling expenses. If this will suit your views, come to Boston at once, and call upon me at my private residence, No. ——, Essex Street.

"Yours truly,
"Solomon Weaver."

"What are you going to do about it, Grit?" asked Jesse, when he had finished reading the letter.

"I shall go to Boston to-morrow morning," answered Grit promptly.