“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.”