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.
"She didn't say anything about it when I came out," said Tom,
entering into the joke.
"Maybe you'd like a tin-dipper for your youngest boy?"
"Maybe I would, if you've got any to give away."
"I see you've cut your eye-teeth. Is there anything else I can do
for you? I'm in for a trade."
"I don't know, unless I sell myself for rags."
"Anything for a trade. I'll give you two cents a pound."
"That's too cheap. I came to ask your help in a trick we boys want
to play on one of our number."
"Sho! you don't say so. That aint exactly in my line."
"I'll tell you all about it. There's a chap at our school--the
Academy, you know--who's awfully stuck up. He's all the time
bragging about belonging to a first family in Boston, and turning up
his nose at poorer boys. We want to mortify him.
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