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

 

"Yes," said Dick, who was busy at the wash-stand, endeavoring to efface¹ 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 interfere² 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 "RAGGED³ 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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