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Ragged Dick

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<h2>CHAPTER XXIII. TRAVIS IS ARRESTED</h2> Jim Travis advanced into the bank with a doubtful step, knowing well that he was on a dishonest errand, and heartily wishing that he were well out of it. After a little hesitation, he approached the paying-teller, and, exhibiting the bank-book, said, “I want to get my money out.” The bank-officer took the book, and, after looking at it a moment, said, “How much do you want?” “The whole of it,” said Travis. “You can draw out any part of it, but to draw out the whole requires a week’s notice.” “Then I’ll take a hundred dollars.” “Are you the person to whom the book belongs?” “Yes, sir,” said Travis, without hesitation. “Your name is—” “Hunter.” The bank-clerk went to a large folio volume, containing the names of depositors, and began to turn over the leaves. While he was doing this, he managed to send out a young man connected with the bank for a policeman. Travis did not perceive this, or did not suspect that it had anything to do with himself. Not being used to savings banks, he supposed the delay only what was usual. After a search, which was only intended to gain time that a policeman might be summoned, the cashier came back, and, sliding out a piece of paper to Travis, said, “It will be necessary for you to write an order for the money.” Travis took a pen, which he found on the ledge outside, and wrote the order, signing his name “Dick Hunter,” having observed that name on the outside of the book. “Your name is Dick Hunter, then?” said the cashier, taking the paper, and looking at the thief over his spectacles. “Yes,” said Travis, promptly. “But,” continued the cashier, “I find Hunter’s age is put down on the bank-book as fourteen. Surely you must be more than that.” Travis would gladly have declared that he was only fourteen; but, being in reality twenty-three, and possessing a luxuriant pair of whiskers, this was not to be thought of. He began to feel uneasy. “Dick Hunter’s my younger brother,” he said. “I’m getting out the money for him.” “I thought you said your own name was Dick Hunter,” said the cashier. “I said my name was Hunter,” said Travis, ingeniously. “I didn’t understand you.” “But you’ve signed the name of Dick Hunter to this order. How is that?” questioned the troublesome cashier. Travis saw that he was getting himself into a tight place; but his self-possession did not desert him. “I thought I must give my brother’s name,” he answered. “What is your own name?” “Henry Hunter.” “Can you bring any one to testify that the statement you are making is correct?” “Yes, a dozen if you like,” said Travis, boldly. “Give me the book, and I’ll come back this afternoon. I didn’t think there’d be such a fuss about getting out a little money.” “Wait a moment. Why don’t your brother come himself?” “Because he’s sick. He’s down with the measles,” said Travis. Here the cashier signed to Dick to rise and show himself. Our hero accordingly did so. “You will be glad to find that he has recovered,” said the cashier, pointing to Dick. With an exclamation of anger and dismay, Travis, who saw the game was up, started for the door, feeling that safety made such a course prudent. But he was too late. He found himself confronted by a burly policeman, who seized him by the arm, saying, “Not so fast, my man. I want you.” “Let me go,” exclaimed Travis, struggling to free himself. “I’m sorry I can’t oblige you,” said the officer. “You’d better not make a fuss, or I may have to hurt you a little.” Travis sullenly resigned himself to his fate, darting a look of rage at Dick, whom he considered the author of his present misfortune. “This is your book,” said the cashier, handing back his rightful property to our hero. “Do you wish to draw out any money?” “Two dollars,” said Dick. “Very well. Write an order for the amount.” Before doing so, Dick, who now that he saw Travis in the power of the law began to pity him, went up to the officer, and said,— “Won’t you let him go? I’ve got my bank-book back, and I don’t want anything done to him.” “Sorry I can’t oblige you,” said the officer; “but I’m not allowed to do it. He’ll have to stand his trial.” “I’m sorry for you, Travis,” said Dick. “I didn’t want you arrested. I only wanted my bank-book back.” “Curse you!” said Travis, scowling vindictively. “Wait till I get free. See if I don’t fix you.” “You needn’t pity him too much,” said the officer. “I know him now. He’s been to the Island before.” “It’s a lie,” said Travis, violently. “Don’t be too noisy, my friend,” said the officer. “If you’ve got no more business here, we’ll be going.” He withdrew with the prisoner in charge, and Dick, having drawn his two dollars, left the bank. Notwithstanding the violent words the prisoner had used towards himself, and his attempted robbery, he could not help feeling sorry that he had been instrumental in causing his arrest. “I’ll keep my book a little safer hereafter,” thought Dick. “Now I must go and see Tom Wilkins.” Before dismissing the subject of Travis and his theft, it may be remarked that he was duly tried, and, his guilt being clear, was sent to Blackwell’s Island for nine months. At the end of that time, on his release, he got a chance to work his passage on a ship to San Francisco, where he probably arrived in due time. At any rate, nothing more has been heard of him, and probably his threat of vengence against Dick will never be carried into effect. Returning to the City Hall Park, Dick soon fell in with Tom Wilkins. “How are you, Tom?” he said. “How’s your mother?” “She’s better, Dick, thank you. She felt worried about bein’ turned out into the street; but I gave her that money from you, and now she feels a good deal easier.” “I’ve got some more for you, Tom,” said Dick, producing a two-dollar bill from his pocket. “I ought not to take it from you, Dick.” “Oh, it’s all right, Tom. Don’t be afraid.” “But you may need it yourself.” “There’s plenty more where that came from.” “Any way, one dollar will be enough. With that we can pay the rent.” “You’ll want the other to buy something to eat.” “You’re very kind, Dick.” “I’d ought to be. I’ve only got myself to take care of.” “Well, I’ll take it for my mother’s sake. When you want anything done just call on Tom Wilkins.” “All right. Next week, if your mother doesn’t get better, I’ll give you some more.” Tom thanked our hero very gratefully, and Dick walked away, feeling the self-approval which always accompanies a generous and disinterested action. He was generous by nature, and, before the period at which he is introduced to the reader’s notice, he frequently treated his friends to cigars and oyster-stews. Sometimes he invited them to accompany him to the theatre at his expense. But he never derived from these acts of liberality the same degree of satisfaction as from this timely gift to Tom Wilkins. He felt that his money was well bestowed, and would save an entire family from privation and discomfort. Five dollars would, to be sure, make something of a difference in the amount of his savings. It was more than he was able to save up in a week. But Dick felt fully repaid for what he had done, and he felt prepared to give as much more, if Tom’s mother should continue to be sick, and should appear to him to need it. Besides all this, Dick felt a justifiable pride in his financial ability to afford so handsome a gift. A year before, however much he might have desired to give, it would have been quite out of his power to give five dollars. His cash balance never reached that amount. It was seldom, indeed, that it equalled one dollar. In more ways than one Dick was beginning to reap the advantage of his self-denial and judicious economy. It will be remembered that when Mr. Whitney at parting with Dick presented him with five dollars, he told him that he might repay it to some other boy who was struggling upward. Dick thought of this, and it occurred to him that after all he was only paying up an old debt. When Fosdick came home in the evening, Dick announced his success in recovering his lost money, and described the manner it had been brought about. “You’re in luck,” said Fosdick. “I guess we’d better not trust the bureau-drawer again.” “I mean to carry my book round with me,” said Dick. “So shall I, as long as we stay at Mrs. Mooney’s. I wish we were in a better place.” “I must go down and tell her she needn’t expect Travis back. Poor chap, I pity him!” Travis was never more seen in Mrs. Mooney’s establishment. He was owing that lady for a fortnight’s rent of his room, which prevented her feeling much compassion for him. The room was soon after let to a more creditable tenant who proved a less troublesome neighbor than his predecessor. <h2>CHAPTER XXIV. DICK RECEIVES A LETTER</h2> It was about a week after Dick’s recovery of his bank-book, that Fosdick brought home with him in the evening a copy of the “Daily Sun.” “Would you like to see your name in print, Dick?” he asked. “Yes,” said Dick, who was busy at the wash-stand, endeavoring to efface the marks which his day’s work had left upon his hands. “They haven’t put me up for mayor, have they? ’Cause if they have, I shan’t accept. It would interfere too much with my private business.” “No,” said Fosdick, “they haven’t put you up for office yet, though that may happen sometime. But if you want to see your name in print, here it is.” Dick was rather incredulous, but, having dried his hands on the towel, took the paper, and following the directions of Fosdick’s finger, observed in the list of advertised letters the name of “RAGGED DICK.” “By gracious, so it is,” said he. “Do you s’pose it means me?” “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.” “Suppose you wear the old clothes you used to a year ago, when Frank first saw you? They won’t have any doubt of your being Ragged Dick then.” “I guess I will. I’ll be sort of ashamed to be seen in ’em though,” said Dick, who had considerable more pride in a neat personal appearance than when we were first introduced to him. “It will be only for one day, or one morning,” said Fosdick. “I’d do more’n that for the sake of gettin’ a letter from Frank. I’d like to see him.” The next morning, in accordance with the suggestion of Fosdick, Dick arrayed himself in the long disused Washington coat and Napoleon pants, which he had carefully preserved, for what reason he could hardly explain. When fairly equipped, Dick surveyed himself in the mirror,—if the little seven-by-nine-inch looking-glass, with which the room was furnished, deserved the name. The result of the survey was not on the whole a pleasing one. To tell the truth, Dick was quite ashamed of his appearance, and, on opening the chamber-door, looked around to see that the coast was clear, not being willing to have any of his fellow-boarders see him in his present attire. He managed to slip out into the street unobserved, and, after attending to two or three regular customers who came down-town early in the morning, he made his way down Nassau Street to the post-office. He passed along until he came to a compartment on which he read ADVERTISED LETTERS, and, stepping up to the little window, said,— “There’s a letter for me. I saw it advertised in the ‘Sun’ yesterday.” “What name?” demanded the clerk. “Ragged Dick,” answered our hero. “That’s a queer name,” said the clerk, surveying him a little curiously. “Are you Ragged Dick?” “If you don’t believe me, look at my clo’es,” said Dick. “That’s pretty good proof, certainly,” said the clerk, laughing. “If that isn’t your name, it deserves to be.” “I believe in dressin’ up to your name,” said Dick. “Do you know any one in Barnton, Connecticut?” asked the clerk, who had by this time found the letter. “Yes,” said Dick. “I know a chap that’s at boardin’-school there.” “It appears to be in a boy’s hand. I think it must be yours.” The letter was handed to Dick through the window. He received it eagerly, and drawing back so as not to be in the way of the throng who were constantly applying for letters, or slipping them into the boxes provided for them, hastily opened it, and began to read. As the reader may be interested in the contents of the letter as well as Dick, we transcribe it below. It was dated Barnton, Conn., and commenced thus,— “DEAR DICK,—You must excuse my addressing this letter to ‘Ragged Dick’; but the fact is, I don’t know what your last name is, nor where you live. I am afraid there is not much chance of your getting this letter; but I hope you will. I have thought of you very often, and wondered how you were getting along, and I should have written to you before if I had known where to direct. “Let me tell you a little about myself. Barnton is a very pretty country town, only about six miles from Hartford. The boarding-school which I attend is under the charge of Ezekiel Munroe, A.M. He is a man of about fifty, a graduate of Yale College, and has always been a teacher. It is a large two-story house, with an addition containing a good many small bed-chambers for the boys. There are about twenty of us, and there is one assistant teacher who teaches the English branches. Mr. Munroe, or Old Zeke, as we call him behind his back, teaches Latin and Greek. I am studying both these languages, because father wants me to go to college. “But you won’t be interested in hearing about our studies. I will tell you how we amuse ourselves. There are about fifty acres of land belonging to Mr. Munroe; so that we have plenty of room for play. About a quarter of a mile from the house there is a good-sized pond. There is a large, round-bottomed boat, which is stout and strong. Every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon, when the weather is good, we go out rowing on the pond. Mr. Barton, the assistant teacher, goes with us, to look after us. In the summer we are allowed to go in bathing. In the winter there is splendid skating on the pond. “Besides this, we play ball a good deal, and we have various other plays. So we have a pretty good time, although we study pretty hard too. I am getting on very well in my studies. Father has not decided yet where he will send me to college. “I wish you were here, Dick. I should enjoy your company, and besides I should like to feel that you were getting an education. I think you are naturally a pretty smart boy; but I suppose, as you have to earn your own living, you don’t get much chance to learn. I only wish I had a few hundred dollars of my own. I would have you come up here, and attend school with us. If I ever have a chance to help you in any way, you may be sure that I will. “I shall have to wind up my letter now, as I have to hand in a composition to-morrow, on the life and character of Washington. I might say that I have a friend who wears a coat that once belonged to the general. But I suppose that coat must be worn out by this time. I don’t much like writing compositions. I would a good deal rather write letters. “I have written a longer letter than I meant to. I hope you will get it, though I am afraid not. If you do, you must be sure to answer it, as soon as possible. You needn’t mind if your writing does look like ‘hens-tracks,’ as you told me once. “Good-by, Dick. You must always think of me, as your very true friend, “FRANK WHITNEY.” Dick read this letter with much satisfaction. It is always pleasant to be remembered, and Dick had so few friends that it was more to him than to boys who are better provided. Again, he felt a new sense of importance in having a letter addressed to him. It was the first letter he had ever received. If it had been sent to him a year before, he would not have been able to read it. But now, thanks to Fosdick’s instructions, he could not only read writing, but he could write a very good hand himself. There was one passage in the letter which pleased Dick. It was where Frank said that if he had the money he would pay for his education himself. “He’s a tip-top feller,” said Dick. “I wish I could see him ag’in.” There were two reasons why Dick would like to have seen Frank. One was, the natural pleasure he would have in meeting a friend; but he felt also that he would like to have Frank witness the improvement he had made in his studies and mode of life. “He’d find me a little more ’spectable than when he first saw me,” thought Dick. Dick had by this time got up to Printing House Square. Standing on Spruce Street, near the “Tribune” office, was his old enemy, Micky Maguire. It has already been said that Micky felt a natural enmity towards those in his own condition in life who wore better clothes than himself. For the last nine months, Dick’s neat appearance had excited the ire of the young Philistine. To appear in neat attire and with a clean face Micky felt was a piece of presumption, and an assumption of superiority on the part of our hero, and he termed it “tryin’ to be a swell.” Now his astonished eyes rested on Dick in his ancient attire, which was very similar to his own. It was a moment of triumph to him. He felt that “pride had had a fall,” and he could not forbear reminding Dick of it. “Them’s nice clo’es you’ve got on,” said he, sarcastically, as Dick came up. “Yes,” said Dick, promptly. “I’ve been employin’ your tailor. If my face was only dirty we’d be taken for twin brothers.” “So you’ve give up tryin’ to be a swell?” “Only for this partic’lar occasion,” said Dick. “I wanted to make a fashionable call, so I put on my regimentals.” “I don’t b’lieve you’ve got any better clo’es,” said Micky. “All right,” said Dick, “I won’t charge you nothin’ for what you believe.” Here a customer presented himself for Micky, and Dick went back to his room to change his clothes, before resuming business. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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