GRIT RECEIVES A BUSINESS LETTER.
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.