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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 141 pages of information about Ragged Dick, Or, Street Life in New York with the Boot-Blacks.

When Fosdick came home in the evening, Dick announced his success in recovering his lost money, and described the manner it had been brought about.

“You’re in luck,” said Fosdick.  “I guess we’d better not trust the bureau-drawer again.”

“I mean to carry my book round with me,” said Dick.

“So shall I, as long as we stay at Mrs. Mooney’s.  I wish we were in a better place.”

“I must go down and tell her she needn’t expect Travis back.  Poor chap, I pity him!”

Travis was never more seen in Mrs. Mooney’s establishment.  He was owing that lady for a fortnight’s rent of his room, which prevented her feeling much compassion for him.  The room was soon after let to a more creditable tenant who proved a less troublesome neighbor than his predecessor.

CHAPTER XXIV

DICK RECEIVES A LETTER

It was about a week after Dick’s recovery of his bank-book, that Fosdick brought home with him in the evening a copy of the “Daily Sun.”

“Would you like to see your name in print, Dick?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Dick, who was busy at the wash-stand, endeavoring to efface the marks which his day’s work had left upon his hands.  “They haven’t put me up for mayor, have they?  ’Cause if they have, I shan’t accept.  It would interfere too much with my private business.”

“No,” said Fosdick, “they haven’t put you up for office yet, though that may happen sometime.  But if you want to see your name in print, here it is.”

Dick was rather incredulous, but, having dried his hands on the towel, took the paper, and following the directions of Fosdick’s finger, observed in the list of advertised letters the name of “Ragged Dick.”

“By gracious, so it is,” said he.  “Do you s’pose it means me?”

“I don’t know of any other Ragged Dick,—­do you?”

“No,” said Dick, reflectively; “it must be me.  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.

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