"It's a nice letter," said Fosdick, after reading it. "I should like to know Frank."

 

"I'll bet you would," said Dick. "He's a trump¹."

 

"When are you going to answer it?"

 

"I don't know," said Dick, dubiously². "I never writ³ a letter."

 

"That's no reason why you shouldn't. There's always a first time, you know."

 

"I don't know what to say," said Dick.

 

"Get some paper and sit down to it, and you'll find enough to say. You can do that this evening instead of studying."

 

"If you'll look it over afterwards, and shine it up a little."

 

"Yes, if it needs it; but I rather think Frank would like it best just as you wrote it."

 

Dick decided⁴ to adopt Fosdick's suggestion. He had very serious doubts as to his ability to write a letter. Like a good many other boys, he looked upon it as a very serious job, not reflecting that, after all, letter-writing is nothing but talking upon paper. Still, in spite of his misgivings⁵, he felt that the letter ought to be answered, and he wished Frank to hear from him. After various preparations, he at last got settled down to his task, and, before the evening was over, a letter was written. As the first letter which Dick had ever produced, and because it was characteristic of him, my readers may like to read it.

 

Here it is,—

 

"DEAR FRANK,—I got your letter this mornin', and was very glad to hear you hadn't forgotten Ragged⁶ Dick. I aint so ragged as I was. Openwork coats and trowsers has gone out of fashion. I put on the Washington coat and Napoleon pants to go to the post-office, for fear they wouldn't think I was the boy that was meant. On my way back I received the congratulations of my intimate friend, Micky Maguire, on my improved appearance.

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