But I don't know of
anybody that would be likely to write to me."
"Perhaps it is Frank Whitney," suggested Fosdick, after a little
reflection. "Didn't he promise to write to you?"
"Yes," said Dick, "and he wanted me to write to him."
"Where is he now?"
"He was going to a boarding-school in Connecticut, he said. The name
of the town was Barnton."
"Very likely the letter is from him."
"I hope it is. Frank was a tip-top boy, and he was the first that
made me ashamed of bein' so ignorant and dirty."
"You had better go to the post-office to-morrow morning, and ask for
the letter."
"P'r'aps they won't give it to me."
"Suppose you wear the old clothes you used to a year ago, when Frank
first saw you? They won't have any doubt of your being Ragged Dick
then."
"I guess I will. I'll be sort of ashamed to be seen in 'em though,"
said Dick, who had considerable more pride in a neat personal
appearance than when we were first introduced to him.
"It will be only for one day, or one morning," said Fosdick.
"I'd do more'n that for the sake of gettin' a letter from Frank. I'd
like to see him."
The next morning, in accordance with the suggestion of Fosdick, Dick
arrayed himself in the long disused Washington coat and Napoleon
pants, which he had carefully preserved, for what reason he could
hardly explain.
When fairly equipped, Dick surveyed himself in the mirror,--if the
little seven-by-nine-inch looking-glass, with which the room was
furnished, deserved the name.
Pages:
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175