So the two boys walked about in the lower part of the city, Dick pointing out hotels, public buildings, and prominent streets. Frank had a retentive memory, and stored away the information carefully. Penniless as he was, he was excited and exhilarated by the scene of activity in which he was moving, and was glad he was going to live in it, or to attempt doing so.
"When I am used to it I shall like it much better than the country," he said to Dick. "Don't you?"
"I don't know about that," was the reply. "Sometimes I think I'll go West;—a lot of boys that I know have gone there."
"Won't it take a good deal of money to go?" asked Frank.
"Oh, there's a society that pays boys' expenses, and finds 'em nice homes with the farmers. Tom Harrison, one of my friends, went out six weeks ago, and he writes me that it's bully. He's gone to some town in Kansas."
"That's a good way off."
"I wouldn't mind that. I'd like ridin' in the cars."
"It would be something new to you; but I've lived in the country all my life, I'd rather stay here awhile."
"It's just the way a feller feels," said Dick philosophically. "I've bummed around so much I'd like a good, stiddy home, with three square meals a day and a good bed to sleep on."
"Can't you get that here?" asked Frank.