Suddenly his reflections were interrupted.
The proprietor waved a beckoning hand to him.
Dennis hurried to the desk.
“A letter for you,” said the proprietor, as he placed in the young man’s hand an envelope addressed in a handwriting which he recognized at once.
“‘Dennis Muldoon’; yes, that’s mine,” and hastening to an unoccupied seat in a remote portion of the office, Dennis hastily opened the envelope and withdrew a short letter, and—ye gods! was it possible?—a postal order for twenty-five dollars.
Philadelphia.
Dear Dennis:
It’s a hard row you have to hoe, I’m a-think-in’, and it’s a bad spot you have to hoe it in. I know New York of old, and it’s a lonesome place for a poor lad.
I send you the week’s wages due you, and an extry five to come back with in case your dreams don’t come true.
I’ve got over my mad, my boy, and I’ll be glad to see you.