"You ain't afraid I won't pay you?" said Brandon, in a tone of affected indignation.
"I don't know whether you would or not, but our terms are cash."
"Oh, well, if you're so strict as that, take it out of this quarter," said Brandon, throwing his sole remaining coin on the counter.
Fifteen cents were returned to him, and in half an hour that sum was also expended at the bar.
It might have been supposed that Brandon would be satisfied, but he was not. He made an attempt to obtain another drink on credit, but the barkeeper proved obdurate.
Then he engaged in a game of cards, and about half-past nine set out to go home, in a better condition than if he had had more money to spend.
"This will never do!" he muttered, in a discontented tone; "I can't be kept so short as this. It is humiliating to think of me, a grown man, going round without a cent in my pocket, while my stepson is reveling in money. I won't have it, and I'll let him understand it."
A few feet in front of Brandon two boys were walking. One of them was Phil Courtney, and the other Dick Graham, a poor boy, who, by proper subserviency, had earned a position as chief favorite with his companion.
Brandon could not help hearing their conversation. He heard Grit's name mentioned, and this made him listen attentively.
"I can't understand where Grit got his money," Phil was saying.