It will be remembered that Dodger, feeling that the name by which he had hitherto been known was hardly likely to recommend him, adopted the one given him by Curtis Waring.
“I think I shall like it ever so much,” answered Dodger. “Everybody seems to be wideawake.”
“Do you think you will like it better than New York?”
“I think a poor boy will have more of a chance of making a living here. In New York I was too well known. If I got a place anywhere some one would recognize me as Tim Bolton’s boy—accustomed to tend bar—or some gentleman would remember that he had bought papers of me. Here nobody knows me, and I can start fair.”
“There is a great deal in what you say,” returned Leslie. “What do you think of trying to do?”
“First of all I will write a letter to Florence, and tell her I am all right. How long does it take a letter to go from here to New York?”
“About seven days.”
“And it took us over four months! That seems wonderful.”
“Yes; there is a great difference between coming by sea around Cape Horn and speeding across the country on an express train.”
“If I could only know how Florence is getting along,” Dodger said, anxiously. “I suppose she thinks I am dead.”