“Yes:  you know the pedler that comes into town about once a month to buy up rags, and sell his tinwares.”

“I have seen him.  Well, what of him?”

“He is coming early next week.  Some of us will see him privately, and post him up as to Fitz’s relations and position, and hire him to come up to school, and inquire for Fitz, representing himself as his cousin.  Of course Fitz will deny it indignantly, but he will persist and show that he knows all about the family.”

“Good!  Splendid!” exclaimed the boys laughing.  “Won’t Fitz be raving?”

“There’s no doubt about that.  Well, boys, I’ll arrange it all, if you’ll authorize me.”

“Go ahead, Tom.  You can draw upon us for the necessary funds.”

Fletcher had retired to his room, angry at the opposition his proposal had received, and without any warning of the humiliation which awaited him.

CHAPTER X.

The tin-pedler.

Those of my readers who live in large cities are probably not familiar with the travelling tin-pedler, who makes his appearance at frequent intervals in the country towns and villages of New England.  His stock of tinware embraces a large variety of articles for culinary purposes, ranging from milk-pans to nutmeg-graters.  These are contained in a wagon of large capacity, in shape like a box, on which he sits enthroned a merchant prince.  Unlike most traders, he receives little money, most of his transactions being in the form of a barter, whereby be exchanges his merchandise for rags, white and colored, which have accumulated in the household, and are gladly traded off for bright tinware.  Behind the cart usually depend two immense bags, one for white, the other for colored rags, which, in time, are sold to paper manufacturers.  It may be that the very paper on which this description is printed, was manufactured from rags so collected.

Abner Bickford was the proprietor of such an establishment as I have described.  No one, at first sight, would have hesitated to class him as a Yankee.  He was long in the limbs, and long in the face, with a shrewd twinkle in the eye, a long nose, and the expression of a man who respected himself and feared nobody.  He was unpolished, in his manners, and knew little of books, but he belonged to the same resolute and hardy type of men who in years past sprang to arms, and fought bravely for an idea.  He was strong in his manhood, and would have stood unabashed before a king.  Such was the man who was to mortify the pride of Fitzgerald Fletcher.

Tom Carver watched for his arrival in Centreville, and walking up to his cart, accosted him.

“Good-morning, Mr. Bickford.”

“Good-mornin’, young man.  You’ve got the advantage of me.  I never saw you before as I know of.”

“I am Tom Carver, at your service.”

“Glad to know you.  Where do you live?  Maybe your wife would like some tinware this mornin’?” said Abner, relaxing his gaunt features into a smile.