FITZ AND HIS COUSIN.
The next morning at eight the boys began to gather in the field
beside the Seminary. They began to play ball, but took little
interest in the game, compared with the "tragedy in real life," as
Tom jocosely called it, which was expected soon to come off.
Fitz appeared upon the scene early. In fact one of the boys called
for him, and induced him to come round to school earlier than usual.
Significant glances were exchanged when he made his appearance, but
Fitz suspected nothing, and was quite unaware that he was attracting
more attention than usual.
Punctually at half-past eight, Abner Bickford with his tin-cart
appeared in the street, and with a twitch of the rein began to ascend
the Academy Hill.
"Look there," said Tom Carver, "the tin-pedler's coming up the hill.
Wonder if he expects to sell any of his wares to us boys. Do you
know him, Fitz?"
"I!" answered Fitzgerald with a scornful look, "what should I know of
a tin-pedler?"
Tom's mouth twitched, and his eyes danced with the anticipation of
fun.
By this time Mr. Bickford had brought his horse to a halt, and
jumping from his box, approached the group of boys, who suspended
their game.
"We don't want any tinware," said one of the boys, who was not in the
secret.
"Want to know! Perhaps you haven't got tin enough to pay for it.
Never mind, I'll buy you for old rags, at two cents a pound."
"He has you there, Harvey," said Tom Carver. "Can I do anything for
you, sir?"
"Is your name Fletcher?" asked Abner, not appearing to recognize Tom.
"Why, he wants you, Fitz!" said Harvey, in surprise.
"This gentleman's name is Fletcher," said Tom, placing his hand on
the shoulder of the astonished Fitzgerald.
"Not Fitz Fletcher?" said Abner, interrogatively.
"My name is Fitzgerald Fletcher," said the young Bostonian,
haughtily, "but I am at a loss to understand why you should desire to
see me."
Abner advanced with hand extended, his face lighted up with an
expansive grin.
"Why, Cousin Fitz," he said heartily, "do you mean to say you don't
know me?"
"Sir," said Fitzgerald, drawing back, "you are entirely mistaken in
the person. I don't know you."
"I guess it's you that are mistaken, Fitz," said the pedler,
familiarly; "why, don't you remember Cousin Abner, that used to trot
you on his knee when you was a baby? Give us your hand, in memory of
old times."
"You must be crazy," said Fitzgerald, his cheeks red with
indignation, and all the more exasperated because he saw significant
smiles on the faces of his school-companions.
"I s'pose you was too young to remember me," said Abner. "I haint
seen you for ten years."
"Sir," said Fitz, wrathfully, "you are trying to impose upon me. I
am a native of Boston."
"Of course you be," said the imperturbable pedler. "Cousin
Jim--that's your father--went to Boston when he was a boy, and they
do say he's worked his way up to be a mighty rich man. Your father
is rich, aint he?"
"My father is wealthy, and always was," said Fitzgerald.
"No he wasn't, Cousin Fitz," said Abner. "When he was a boy, he used
to work in grandfather's store up to Hampton; but he got sort of
discontented and went to Boston. Did you ever hear him tell of his
cousin Roxanna? That's my mother."
"I see that you mean to insult me, fellow," said Fitz, pale with
passion. "I don't know what your object is, in pretending that I am
your relation. If you want any pecuniary help--"
"Hear the boy talk!" said the pedler, bursting into a horse laugh.
"Abner Bickford don't want no pecuniary help, as you call it. My
tin-cart'll keep me, I guess."
"You needn't claim relationship with me," said Fitzgerald,
scornfully; "I haven't any low relations."
"That's so," said Abner, emphatically; "but I aint sure whether I can
say that for myself."
"Do you mean to insult me?"
"How can I? I was talkin' of my relations. You say you aint one of
'em."
"I am not."
"Then you needn't go for to put on the coat. But you're out of your
reckoning, I guess. I remember your mother very well. She was Susan
Baker."
"Is that true, Fitz?"
"Ye--es," answered Fitz, reluctantly.
"I told you so," said the pedler, triumphantly.
"Perhaps he is your cousin, after all," said Henry Fairbanks.
"I tell you he isn't," said Fletcher, impetuously.
"How should he know your mother's name, then, Fitz?" asked Tom.
"Some of you fellows told him," said Fitzgerald.
"I can say, for one, that I never knew it," said Tom.
"Nor I."
"Nor I."
"We used to call her Sukey Baker," said Abner. "She used to go to
the deestrict school along of Mother. They was in the same class. I
haven't seen your mother since you was a baby. How many children has
she got?"
"I must decline answering your impertinent questions." said
Fitzgerald, desperately. He began to entertain, for the first time,
the horrible suspicion that the pedler's story might be true--that he
might after all be his cousin. But he resolved that he never would
admit it--NEVER! Where would be his pretentious claims to
aristocracy--where his pride--if this humiliating discovery were
made? Judging of his school-fellows and himself, he feared that they
would look down upon him.
"You seem kind o' riled to find that I am your cousin," said Abner.
"Now, Fitz, that's foolish. I aint rich, to be sure, but I'm
respectable. I don't drink nor chew, and I've got five hundred
dollars laid away in the bank."
"You're welcome to your five hundred dollars," said Fitz, in what was
meant to be a tone of withering sarcasm.
"Am I? Well, I'd orter be, considerin' I earned it by hard work.
Seems to me you've got high notions, Fitz. Your mother was kind of
flighty, and I've heard mine say Cousin Jim--that's your father--was
mighty sot up by gettin' rich. But seems to me you ought not to deny
your own flesh and blood."
"I don't know who you refer to, sir."
"Why, you don't seem to want to own me as your cousin."
"Of course not. You're only a common tin-pedler."
"Well, I know I'm a tin-pedler, but that don't change my bein' your
cousin."
"I wish my father was here to expose your falsehood."
"Hold on there!" said Abner. "You're goin' a leetle too far. I
don't let no man, nor boy neither, charge me with lyin', if he is my
cousin, I don't stand that, nohow."
There was something in Abner's tone which convinced Fitzgerald that
he was in earnest, and that he himself must take care not to go too
far.
"I don't wish to have anything more to say to you," said Fitz."
"I say, boys," said Abner, turning to the crowd who had now formed a
circle around the cousins, "I leave it to you if it aint mean for
Fitz to treat me in that way. If he was to come to my house, that
aint the way I'd treat him."
"Come, Fitz," said Tom, "you are not behaving right. I would not
treat my cousin that way."
"He isn't my cousin, and you know it," said Fitz, stamping with rage.
"I wish I wasn't," said Abner. "If I could have my pick, I'd rather
have him," indicating Tom. "But blood can't be wiped out. We're
cousins, even if we don't like it."
"Are you quite sure you are right about this relationship?" asked
Henry Fairbanks, gravely. "Fitz, here, says he belongs to one of the
first families of Boston."
"Well, I belong to one of the first families of Hampton," said Abner,
with a grin. "Nobody don't look down on me, I guess."
"You hear that, Fitz," said Oscar. "Be sensible, and shake hands
with your cousin."
"Yes, shake hands with your cousin!" echoed the boys.
"You all seem to want to insult me," said Fitz, sullenly.
"Not I," said Oscar, "and I'll prove it--will you shake hands with
me, sir?"
"That I will," said Abner, heartily. "I can see that you're a young
gentleman, and I wish I could say as much for my cousin, Fitz."
Oscar's example was followed by the rest of the boys, who advanced in
turn, and shook hands with the tin-pedler.
"Now Fitz, it's your turn," said Tom.
"I decline," said Fitz, holding his hands behind his back.
"How much he looks like his marm did when she was young," said Abner.
"Well, boys, I can't stop no longer. I didn't think Cousin Fitz
would be so stuck up, just because his father's made some money.
Good-mornin'!"
"Three cheers for Fitz's cousin!" shouted Tom.
They were given with a will, and Mr. Bickford made acknowledgment by
a nod and a grin.
"Remember me to your mother when you write, Cousin Fitz," he said at
parting.
Fitz was too angry to reply. He walked off sullenly, deeply
mortified and humiliated, and for weeks afterward nothing would more
surely throw him into a rage than any allusion to his cousin the
tin-pedler. One good effect, however, followed. He did not venture
to allude to the social position of his family in presence of his
school-mates, and found it politic to lay aside some of his airs of
superiority.