“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.