A STORMY TIME.
"What does this mean?" demanded Grit, in a stern voice. "What have these
men been doing?"
"Oh, Grit, I am glad you are here!" said his mother. "Mr. Brandon has
brought this man here against my will, and he has treated me rudely."
Travers looked round and saw the boy.
"Hello, my young friend!" he said. "You didn't tell me that my friend
Brandon was your stepfather."
"Because I was ashamed of it," answered Grit promptly.
"D'ye hear that, Brandon?" said Travers. "The boy says he is ashamed of
you."
"I'll settle with him when I feel better," said Brandon, who realized
that he was not in a condition even to deal with a boy. "He's a
bad-mannered cub, an' deserves a floggin'."
"You won't give it to me!" said Grit contemptuously. "What is the name
of this man you have brought into the house?"
"He's my frien' Travers," answered Brandon. "My frien' Travers is a
gen'l'man."
"A gentleman isn't insolent to ladies," retorted Grit. "Mr. Travers, if
that is your name, my mother wishes you to leave the house."
"Couldn't do it," said Travers, leering. "My frien' Brandon wants me to
stay--don't you, Brandon?"
"Certainly, Travers. This is my house, an' I'm master of the house.
Don't you mind what Mrs. B. or this cub says. Just stay where you are,
and stand by me."
"I'll do it with pleasure," said Travers. "My friend Brandon is the
master of this house, and what he says I will do."
"Mr. Travers," said Grit firmly, "you shall not stay here. This house
belongs to my mother, and she wishes you to go. I suppose you can
understand that?"
"My dear boy, you may as well shut up. I shan't go."
"You won't!" said Grit menacingly.
"Oh, Grit, don't get into any difficulty," said his mother, becoming
alarmed.
Travers puffed away at his pipe, surveying Grit with an insulting smile.
"Listen to your mother, boy!" he said. "She talks sense."
"Mother," said Grit quietly, "will you be kind enough to go up-stairs
for five minutes? I will deal with these men."
"I will go if you think it best, Grit; but do be cautious. I am sure Mr.
Travers will see the impropriety of his remaining here against my
wishes."
"I may see it in a few days," said Travers insolently. "Don't trouble
yourself, ma'am. The law is on my side, and I am the guest of my friend
Brandon. Isn't that so, Brandon?"
"To be sure, Travers," said Brandon, in a drowsy tone.
"Mr. Brandon's friends are not welcome here," said Grit, "nor is he
himself welcome."
"That's an unkind thing for your own boy to say," said Brandon, in a
tone which he tried to make pathetic. "Because I've been unfortunate, my
own family turn against me."
"If you had behaved decently, Mr. Brandon, we would have tolerated your
presence," said Grit; "but during the short time you have been here, you
have annoyed and robbed my mother and myself, and spent the money you
stole at the tavern. We have had enough of you!"
"Do you hear that, Travers?" asked Brandon, by a ludicrous transition
shedding maudlin tears. "Do you hear that ungrateful boy?"
Meanwhile, Mrs. Brandon, in accordance with Grit's request, had left the
room.
Grit felt that the time had come for decisive measures. He was not a
quarrelsome boy, nor was he given to fighting, but he had plenty of
spirit, and he was deeply moved and provoked by the insolence of
Travers.
Some consideration he perhaps owed to his mother's husband; but to his
disreputable companion, none whatever.
"Mr. Travers," he said, with cool determination, turning toward the
intruder, "did you hear me say that my mother desired you to leave the
house?"
"I don't care that for your mother!" said Travers, snapping his fingers.
"My friend Brandon----"
He did not complete the sentence. Grit could not restrain himself when
he heard this insolent defiance of his mother, and, without a moment's
hesitation, he approached Travers, with one sweep of his arm dashed the
pipe he was smoking into a hundred pieces, and, seizing the astonished
visitor by the shoulders, pushed him forcibly to the door and thrust
him out.
Travers was so astonished that he was quite unable to resist, nor indeed
was he a match for the strong and muscular boy in his present condition.
"Well, that beats all I ever heard of!" he muttered, as he stumbled into
a sitting position on the door-step.
Brandon stared at Grit and his summary proceeding in a dazed manner.
"Wha--what's all this, Grit?" he asked, trying to rise from his chair.
"How dare you treat my friend Travers so rudely?"
Grit's blood was up. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes sparkled with
resentment.
"Mr. Brandon," he said, "we have borne with you, my mother and I, but
this has got to stop. When you bring one of your disreputable friends
here to insult my mother, you've got me to deal with. Don't you dare
bring that man here again!"
This was, I admit, rather a singular tone for a boy of Grit's age to
assume, but it must be considered what provocation he had. Circumstances
had made him feel older than he really was. For nearly five years he had
been his mother's adviser, protector, and dependence, and he felt
indignant through and through at the mean and dastardly course of his
stepfather.
"Don't be sassy, Grit," said Brandon, slipping back into his chair. "I'm
the master of this house."
"That is where you are mistaken, Mr. Brandon," said Grit.
"Perhaps you are," retorted Brandon, with mild sarcasm.
"This house has no master. My mother is the mistress and owner," said
Grit.
"I'm goin' to flog you, Grit, when I feel better."
"I'm willing to wait," said Grit calmly.
Here there was an interruption. The ejected guest rose from his sitting
posture on the steps, and essayed to lift the latch and gain fresh
admittance.
He failed, for Grit, foreseeing the attempt, had bolted the door.
Finding he could not open the door, Travers rattled the latch and called
out:
"Open the door, Brandon, and let me in!"
"Open the door, Grit," said his stepfather, not finding it convenient to
rise.
"I refuse to do so, Mr. Brandon," said Grit, in a firm tone.
"Why don't you let me in?" was heard from the outside, as Travers
rattled the latch once more.
"I'll have to open it myself," said Brandon, half rising and trying to
steady himself.
The attempt was vain, for he had already drunk more than was good for
him when he met Travers, and had drunk several glasses on top of that.
Instead of going to the door, he sank helpless and miserable on the
floor.
"That disposes of him," said Grit, eying the prostrate form with a
glance of disgust and contempt. "I shall be able to manage the other one
now with less trouble."
"Let me in, Brandon!" repeated Travers, beginning to pound on the door.
Grit went to a window on a line with the door, and, raising it, looked
out at the besieging force.
"Mr. Travers," he said, "you may as well go away; you won't get back
into the house."
"My friend Brandon will let me in. You're only a boy. My friend Brandon
is the master of the house. He will let me in."
"Your friend Brandon is lying on the floor, drunk, and doesn't hear
you," said Grit.
"Then I'll let myself in!" said Travers, with an oath.
He picked up a rock, and began to pound the door, to the imminent danger
of breaking the panels. "There's more than one way to get in. When I get
in, I'll mash you!"
The time had come for decisive action. Drunk as he was, Travers would
sooner or later break down the door, and then there would be trouble.
Grit seized an old pistol which lay on the mantel-piece. It had long
been disused, and was so rusty that it was very doubtful whether any use
could have been made of it. Still it presented a formidable appearance,
as the young boatman pointed it at Travers.
"Stop pounding that door, or I fire!" Grit exclaimed, in a commanding
tone.
Travers turned quickly at the word, and as he saw the rusty weapon
pointed at him, his small stock of courage left him, and he turned pale,
for he was a coward at heart.
"For the Lord's sake, don't fire!" he cried hastily.