"No," he answered, almost as if apologizing for a discreditable fact; "I am from the country."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed the other, in apparent surprise. "I thought, from your appearance, that you were from the city. How do you go from Pittsburg?"
"By river to Cincinnati."
"Do you really? I am glad to hear it; I am going there myself. We shall be fellow passengers. That will be pleasant."
Tom thought it would. His companion seemed very pleasant and social, and he had been feeling lonely, as was only natural.
"Yes, it will," he said.
"By the way, as we may be thrown together, more or less, we ought to know each other. My name is Milton Graham. My father is a rich merchant in New York. I am traveling partly on business for my father's firm, and partly for pleasure."
"My name is Thomas Nelson; most people call me Tom," said our hero.
"Then I will call you Tom," said Graham. "I like the name. I have a favorite cousin named Tom. Poor boy!—he is an orphan. His father died two years ago, leaving him two hundred thousand dollars. My father is his guardian. He is about your age; only not quite so good-looking."
Tom blushed. He had not thought much of his own looks, but he was human, and no one is displeased at being considered good-looking. Mr. Graham spoke meditatively, as if he was not intending to pay a compliment, only mentioning a fact, and Tom did not feel called upon to thank him for this flattering remark.