"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.