One day he told the others his scheme for his holiday.  He was not going fishing or hunting this time—­no, he had thought out a better plan.  Out of his $40 a month he had saved enough for his purpose, in an economical way, and he was going to have a look at New York.

It was a great and surprising idea.  It meant travel immense travel—­in those days it meant seeing the world; it was the equivalent of a voyage around it in ours.  At first the other youths thought his mind was affected, but when they found that he was in earnest, the next thing to be thought of was, what sort of opportunity this venture might afford for a practical joke.

The young men studied over the matter, then held a secret consultation and made a plan.  The idea was, that one of the conspirators should offer Ed a letter of introduction to Commodore Vanderbilt, and trick him into delivering it.  It would be easy to do this.  But what would Ed do when he got back to Memphis?  That was a serious matter.  He was good-hearted, and had always taken the jokes patiently; but they had been jokes which did not humiliate him, did not bring him to shame; whereas, this would be a cruel one in that way, and to play it was to meddle with fire; for with all his good nature, Ed was a Southerner—­and the English of that was, that when he came back he would kill as many of the conspirators as he could before falling himself.  However, the chances must be taken—­it wouldn’t do to waste such a joke as that.

So the letter was prepared with great care and elaboration.  It was signed Alfred Fairchild, and was written in an easy and friendly spirit.  It stated that the bearer was the bosom friend of the writer’s son, and was of good parts and sterling character, and it begged the Commodore to be kind to the young stranger for the writer’s sake.  It went on to say, “You may have forgotten me, in this long stretch of time, but you will easily call me back out of your boyhood memories when I remind you of how we robbed old Stevenson’s orchard that night; and how, while he was chasing down the road after us, we cut across the field and doubled back and sold his own apples to his own cook for a hat-full of doughnuts; and the time that we——­” and so forth and so on, bringing in names of imaginary comrades, and detailing all sorts of wild and absurd and, of course, wholly imaginary schoolboy pranks and adventures, but putting them into lively and telling shape.

With all gravity Ed was asked if he would like to have a letter to Commodore Vanderbilt, the great millionaire.  It was expected that the question would astonish Ed, and it did.

“What?  Do you know that extraordinary man?”

“No; but my father does.  They were schoolboys together.  And if you like, I’ll write and ask father.  I know he’ll be glad to give it to you for my sake.”

Ed could not find words capable of expressing his gratitude and delight.  The three days passed, and the letter was put into his bands.  He started on his trip, still pouring out his thanks while he shook good-bye all around.  And when he was out of sight his comrades let fly their laughter in a storm of happy satisfaction—­and then quieted down, and were less happy, less satisfied.  For the old doubts as to the wisdom of this deception began to intrude again.