wouldn't mind at all myself," he added, it suddenly occurring to him
that Abner's feelings might be hurt.

"Good!" said Abner, "I see you aint one of the stuck-up kind.  I've
got some relations in Boston myself, that are rich and stuck up.  I
never go near 'em.  What's the name of this chap you're talkin'
about?"

"Fletcher--Fitzgerald Fletcher."

"Fletcher!" repeated Abner.  "Whew! well, that's a joke!"

"What's a joke?" asked Tom, rather surprised.

"Why, he _is_ my relation--a sort of second cousin.  Why, my mother
and his father are own cousins.  So, don't you see we're second
cousins?"

"That's splendid!" exclaimed Tom.  "I can hardly believe it."

"It's so.  My mother's name was Fletcher--Roxanna Fletcher--afore she
married.  Jim Fletcher--this boy's father--used to work in my
grandfather's store, up to Hampton, but he got kinder discontented,
and went off to Boston, where he's been lucky, and they do say he's
mighty rich now.  I never go nigh him, 'cause I know he looks down on
his country cousins, and I don't believe in pokin' my nose in where I
aint wanted."

"Then you are really and truly Fitz's cousin?"

"If that's the boy's name.  Seems to me it's a kinder queer one.  I
s'pose it's a fust-claas name.  Sounds rather stuck up."

"Won't the boys roar when they hear about it!  Are you willing to
enter into our plan?"

"Well," said Abner, "I'll do it.  I can't abide folks that's stuck
up.  I'd rather own a cousin like you."

"Thank you, Mr. Bickford."

"When do you want me to come round?"

"How long do you stay in town?"

"Well, I expect to stop overnight at the tavern; I can't get through
in one day."

"Then come round to the Academy to-morrow morning, about half-past
eight.  School don't begin till nine, but the boys will be playing
ball alongside.  Then we'll give you an introduction to your cousin."

"That'll suit me well enough.  I'll come."

Tom Carver returned in triumph, and communicated to the other boys
the arrangement be had made with Mr. Bickford, and his unexpected
discovery of the genuine relationship that existed between Fitz and
the tin-pedler.  His communication was listened to with great
delight, and no little hilarity, and the boys discussed the probable
effect of the projected meeting.

"Fitz will be perfectly raving," said Henry Fairbanks.  "There's
nothing that will take down his pride so much."

"He'll deny the relationship, probably," said Oscar.

"How can he?"

"He'll do it.  See if he don't.  It would be death to all his
aristocratic claims to admit it."

"Suppose it were yourself, Oscar?"

"I'd say, 'How are you, cousin?  How's the the business?'" answered
Oscar, promptly.

"I believe you would, Oscar.  There's nothing of the snob about you."

"I hope not."

"Yet your family stands as high as Fletcher's."

"That's a point I leave to others to discuss," said Oscar.  "My
father is universally respected, I am sure, but he rose from the
ranks.  He was once a printer's devil, like my friend Harry Walton.
Wouldn't it be ridiculous in me to turn up my nose at Walton, just
because be stands now where my father did thirty years ago?  It would
be the same thing as sneering at father."

"Give us your hand, Oscar," said Henry Fairbanks.  "You've got no
nonsense about you--I like you."

"I'm not sure whether your compliment is deserved, Henry," said
Oscar, "but if I have any nonsense it isn't of that kind."

"Do you believe Fitz has any suspicion that he has a cousin in the
tin business?"

"No; I don't believe he has.  He must know he has poor relations,
living in the country, but he probably thinks as little as possible
about them.  As long as they don't intrude themselves upon his
greatness, I suppose he is satisfied."

"And as long as no one suspects that he has any connection with such
plebeians."

"Of course."

"What sort of a man is this tin-pedler, Tom?" asked Oscar.

"He's a pretty sharp fellow--not educated, or polished, you know, but
he seems to have some sensible ideas.  He said he had never seen the
Fletchers; because he didn't want to poke his nose in where he wasn't
wanted.  He showed his good sense also by saying that he had rather
have me for a cousin than Fitz."

"That isn't a very high compliment--I'd say the same myself."

"Thank you, Oscar.  Your compliment exalts me.  You won't mind my
strutting a little."

And Tom humorously threw back his head, and strutted about with mock
pride.

"To be sure," said Oscar, "you don't belong to one of the first
families of Boston, like our friend, Fitz."

"No, I belong to one of the second families.  You can't blame me, for
I can't help it."

"No, I won't blame you, but of course I consider you low."

"I am afraid, Tom, I haven't got any cousins in the tin trade, like
Fitz."

"Poor Fitz! he little dreams of his impending trial.  If he did, I am
afraid he wouldn't sleep a wink to-night."

"I wish I thought as much of myself as Fitz does," said Henry
Fairbanks.  "You can see by his dignified pace, and the way he tosses
his head, how well satisfied he is with being Fitzgerald Fletcher,
Esq."

"I'll bet five cents he won't strut round so much to-morrow
afternoon," said Tom, "after his interview with his new cousin.  But
hush, boys!  Not a word more of this.  There's Fitz coming up the
hill.  I wouldn't have him suspect what's going on, or he might
defeat our plans by staying away."




CHAPTER XI.

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.




CHAPTER XII.

HARRY JOINS THE CLIONIAN SOCIETY.

A week later Harry Walton received the following note:--

"Centreville, May 16th, 18--,
"Dear Sir: At the last meeting of the Clionian
Society you were elected a member.  The next meeting
will be held on Thursday evening, in the Academy
building.
"Yours truly,
"GEORGE SANBORN,
"Secretary.
"MR. HARRY WALTON."

Our hero read this letter with satisfaction.  It would be pleasant
for him to become acquainted with the Academy students, but he
thought most of the advantages which his membership would afford him
in the way of writing and speaking.  He had never attempted to
debate, and dreaded attempting it for the first time; but he knew
that nothing desirable would be accomplished without effort, and he
was willing to make that effort.

"What have you there, Walton?" asked Clapp, noticing the letter which
he held in his hand.

"You can read it if you like," said Harry.

"Humph!" said Clapp; "so you are getting in with the Academy boys?"

"Why shouldn't he?" said Ferguson.

"Oh, they're a stuck-up set."

"I don't find them so--that is, with one exception," said Harry.

"They are mostly the sones of rich men, and look down on those who
have to work for a living."

Clapp was of a jealous and envious disposition, and he was always
fancying slights where they were not intended.

"If I thought so," said Harry, "I would not join the Society, but as
they have elected me, I shall become a member, and see how things
turn out."

"It is a good plan, Harry," said Ferguson.  "It will be a great
advantage to you."

"I wish I had a chance to attend the Academy for a couple of years,"
said our hero, thoughtfully.

"I don't," said Clapp.  "What's the good of studying Latin and Greek,
and all that rigmarole?  It won't bring you money, will it?"

"Yes," said Ferguson.  "Education will make a man more competent to
earn money, at any rate in many cases.  I have a cousin, who used to
go to school with me, but his father was able to send him to college.
He is now a lawyer in Boston, making four or five times my income.
But it isn't for the money alone that an education is worth having.
There is a pleasure in being educated."

"So I think," said Harry.

"I don't see it," said Clapp.  "I wouldn't be a bookworm for anybody.
There's Walton learning French.  What good is it ever going to do
him?"

"I can tell you better by and by, when I know a little more," said
Harry.  "I am only a beginner now."

"Dr. Franklin would never have become distinguished if he had been
satisfied with what he knew as an apprentice," said Ferguson.

"Oh, if you're going to bring up Franklin again, I've got through,"
said Clapp with a sneer.  "I forgot that Walton was trying to be a
second Franklin."

"I don't see much chance of it," said Harry, good-humoredly.  "I
should like to be if I could."

Clapp seemed to be in an ill-humor, and the conversation was not
continued.  He had been up late the night before with Luke Harrison,
and both had drank more than was good for them.  In consequence,
Clapp had a severe headache, and this did not improve his temper.


"Come round Thursday evening, Harry," said Oscar Vincent, "and go to
the Society with me.  I will introduce you to the fellows.  It will
be less awkward, you know."

"Thank you, Oscar.  I shall be glad to accept your escort."

When Thursday evening came, Oscar and Harry entered the Society hall
arm in arm.  Oscar led his companion up to the Secretary and
introduced him.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Walton," said he.  "Will you sign your
name to the Constitution?  That is all the formality we require."

"Except a slight pecuniary disbursement," added Oscar.

"How much is the entrance fee?" asked Harry.

"One dollar.  You win pay that to the Treasurer."

Oscar next introduced our hero to the President, and some of the
leading members, all of whom welcomed him cordially.

"Good-evening, Mr. Fletcher," said Harry, observing that young
gentleman near him.

"Good-evening, sir," said Fletcher stiffly, and turned on his heel
without offering his hand.

"Fletcher don't feel well," whispered Oscar.  "He had a visit from a
poor relation the other day--a tin-pedler--and it gave such a shock
to his sensitive system that he hasn't recovered from it yet."

"I didn't imagine Mr. Fletcher had such a plebeian relative," said
Harry.

"Nor did any of us.  The interview was rich.  It amused us all, but
what was sport to us was death to poor Fitz.  You have only to make
the most distant allusion to a tin-pedler in his hearing, and he will
become furious."

"Then I will be careful."

"Oh, it won't do any harm.  The fact was, the boy was getting too
overbearing, and putting on altogether too many airs.  The lesson
will do him good, or ought to."

Here the Society was called to order, and Oscar and Harry took their
seats.

The exercises proceeded in regular order until the President
announced a declamation by Fitzgerald Fletcher.

"Mr. President," said Fletcher, rising, "I must ask to be excused.  I
have not had time to prepare a declamation."

"Mr. President," said Tom Carver, "under the circumstances I hope you
will excuse Mr. Fletcher, as during the last week he has had an
addition to his family."

There was a chorus of laughter, loud and long, at this sally.  All
were amused except Fletcher himself, who looked flushed and provoked.

"Mr. Fletcher is excused," said the President, unable to refrain from
smiling.  "Will any member volunteer to speak in his place?  It will
be a pity to have our exercises incomplete."

Fletcher was angry, and wanted to be revenged on somebody.  A bright
idea came to him.  He would place the "printer's devil," whose
admission to the Society he resented, in an awkward position.  He
rose with a malicious smile upon his face.

"Mr. President," he said, "doubtless Mr. Walton, the new member who
has done us the _honor_ to join our society, will be willing to
supply my place."

"We shall certainly be glad to hear a declamation from Mr. Walton,
though it is hardly fair to call upon him at such short notice."

"Can't you speak something, Harry?" whispered Oscar.  "Don't do it,
unless you are sure you can get through."

Harry started in surprise when his name was first mentioned, but he
quickly resolved to accept his duty.  He had a high reputation at
home for speaking, and he had recently learned a spirited poem,
familiar, no doubt, to many of my young readers, called "Shamus
O'Brien."  It is the story of an Irish volunteer, who was arrested
for participating in the Irish rebellion of '98, and is by turns
spirited and pathetic.  Harry had rehearsed it to himself only the
night before, and he had confidence in a strong and retentive memory.
At the President's invitation he rose to his feet, and said, "Mr.
President, I will do as well as I can, but I hope the members of the
Society will make allowance for me, as I have had no time for special
preparation."

All eyes were fixed with interest upon our hero, as he advanced to
the platform, and, bowing composedly, commenced his declamation.  It
was not long before that interest increased, as Harry proceeded in
his recitation.  He lost all diffidence, forgot the audience, and
entered thoroughly into the spirit of the piece.  Especially when, in
the trial scene, Shamus is called upon to plead guilty or not guilty,
Harry surpassed himself, and spoke with a spirit and fire which
brought down the house.  This is the passage:--

"My lord, if you ask me, if in my life-time
I thought any treason, or did any crime,
That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,
The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear,
Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow,
Before God and the world I would answer you, no!
But if you would ask me, as I think it like,
If in the rebellion I carried a pike,
An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close,
An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes,
I answer you, _yes_; and I tell you again,
Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then
In her cause I was willing my veins should run dhry,
An' that now for her sake I am ready to die."

After the applause had subsided, Harry proceeded, and at the
conclusion of the declamation, when he bowed modestly and left the
platform, the hall fairly shook with the stamping, in which all
joined except Fletcher, who sat scowling with dissatisfaction at a
result so different from his hopes.  He had expected to bring
discomfiture to our hero.  Instead, he had given him an opportunity
to achieve a memorable triumph.