"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.