Risen from the Ranks: Harry Walton's Success

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.

“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.”

“Just so!” said Abner, nodding.  “Drive ahead!”

“Well, we thought if you’d call at the school and ask after him, and pretend he was a cousin of yours, and all that, it would make him mad.”

“Oh, I see,” said Abner, nodding, “he wouldn’t like to own a tin-pedler for his cousin.”

“No,” said Tom; “he wants us to think all his relations are rich.  I 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.”