"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.
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