He felt
ill-used, angry; it seemed to him that he was being cheated out of a good
time that he expected to have. He sat down on the edge of an old
sugar-barrel and thought about it a while; then finally, with his hands
in his pockets, and whistling "Yankee Doodle" in honour of the day, he
sauntered along the street in search of something to take up his time.
Hurrying towards him, with hands not in his pockets, but full of
packages, came Mr. Mintum, the owner of the grand white house on the
hill.
To Tip's surprise, the gentleman halted suddenly before him, and, eyeing
him closely, asked, "Whose boy are you?"
"John Lewis's."
"Where do you live?"
"T'other side of the pond, by the mill."
"Oh, your father is the carpenter, I suppose,--I know him. What's
your name?"
"Tip."
"Tip! What kind of a name is that? is it all the one you own?"
"Well," said Tip, "I suppose my name was Edward when I was a little
shaver; but nobody knows it now; I don't myself."
"Well, Tip, then, I'll call you that, for I want you to know yourself
to-night.
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