DICK WRITES HIS FIRST LETTER
When Fosdick reached home in the evening, Dick displayed his letter
with some pride.
“It’s a nice letter,” said Fosdick, after reading it. “I should like to
know Frank.”
“I’ll bet you would,” said Dick. “He’s a trump.”
“When are you going to answer it?”
“I don’t know,” said Dick, dubiously. “I never writ a letter.”
“That’s no reason why you shouldn’t. There’s always a first time, you
know.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Dick.
“Get some paper and sit down to it, and you’ll find enough to say. You
can do that this evening instead of studying.”
“If you’ll look it over afterwards, and shine it up a little.”
“Yes, if it needs it; but I rather think Frank would like it best just
as you wrote it.”
Dick decided to adopt Fosdick’s suggestion. He had very serious doubts
as to his ability to write a letter. Like a good many other boys, he
looked upon it as a very serious job, not reflecting that, after all,
letter-writing is nothing but talking upon paper. Still, in spite of
his misgivings, he felt that the letter ought to be answered, and he
wished Frank to hear from him. After various preparations, he at last
got settled down to his task, and, before the evening was over, a
letter was written. As the first letter which Dick had ever produced,
and because it was characteristic of him, my readers may like to read
it.
Here it is,—
“DEAR FRANK,—I got your letter this mornin’, and was very glad to hear
you hadn’t forgotten Ragged Dick. I aint so ragged as I was. Openwork
coats and trowsers has gone out of fashion. I put on the Washington
coat and Napoleon pants to go to the post-office, for fear they
wouldn’t think I was the boy that was meant. On my way back I received
the congratulations of my intimate friend, Micky Maguire, on my
improved appearance.
“I’ve give up sleepin’ in boxes, and old wagons, findin’ it didn’t
agree with my constitution. I’ve hired a room in Mott Street, and have
got a private tooter, who rooms with me and looks after my studies in
the evenin’. Mott Street aint very fashionable; but my manshun on Fifth
Avenoo isn’t finished yet, and I’m afraid it won’t be till I’m a
gray-haired veteran. I’ve got a hundred dollars towards it, which I’ve
saved up from my earnin’s. I haven’t forgot what you and your uncle
said to me, and I’m tryin’ to grow up ’spectable. I haven’t been to
Tony Pastor’s, or the Old Bowery, for ever so long. I’d rather save up
my money to support me in my old age. When my hair gets gray, I’m goin’
to knock off blackin’ boots, and go into some light, genteel
employment, such as keepin’ an apple-stand, or disseminatin’ pea-nuts
among the people.
“I’ve got so as to read pretty well, so my tooter says. I’ve been
studyin’ geography and grammar also. I’ve made such astonishin’
progress that I can tell a noun from a conjunction as far away as I can
see ’em. Tell Mr. Munroe that if he wants an accomplished teacher in
his school, he can send for me, and I’ll come on by the very next
train. Or, if he wants to sell out for a hundred dollars, I’ll buy the
whole concern, and agree to teach the scholars all I know myself in
less than six months. Is teachin’ as good business, generally speakin’,
as blackin’ boots? My private tooter combines both, and is makin’ a
fortun’ with great rapidity. He’ll be as rich as Astor some time, _if
he only lives long enough._
“I should think you’d have a bully time at your school. I should like
to go out in the boat, or play ball with you. When are you comin’ to
the city? I wish you’d write and let me know when you do, and I’ll call
and see you. I’ll leave my business in the hands of my numerous clerks,
and go round with you. There’s lots of things you didn’t see when you
was here before. They’re getting on fast at the Central Park. It looks
better than it did a year ago.
“I aint much used to writin’ letters. As this is the first one I ever
wrote, I hope you’ll excuse the mistakes. I hope you’ll write to me
again soon. I can’t write so good a letter as you; but, I’ll do my
best, as the man said when he was asked if he could swim over to
Brooklyn backwards. Good-by, Frank. Thank you for all your kindness.
Direct your next letter to No. — Mott Street.
“Your true friend,
“DICK HUNTER.”
When Dick had written the last word, he leaned back in his chair, and
surveyed the letter with much satisfaction.
“I didn’t think I could have wrote such a long letter, Fosdick,” said
he.
“Written would be more grammatical, Dick,” suggested his friend.
“I guess there’s plenty of mistakes in it,” said Dick. “Just look at
it, and see.”
Fosdick took the letter, and read it over carefully.
“Yes, there are some mistakes,” he said; “but it sounds so much like
you that I think it would be better to let it go just as it is. It will
be more likely to remind Frank of what you were when he first saw you.”
“Is it good enough to send?” asked Dick, anxiously.
“Yes; it seems to me to be quite a good letter. It is written just as
you talk. Nobody but you could have written such a letter, Dick. I
think Frank will be amused at your proposal to come up there as
teacher.”
“P’r’aps it would be a good idea for us to open a seleck school here in
Mott Street,” said Dick, humorously. “We could call it ‘Professor
Fosdick and Hunter’s Mott Street Seminary.’ Boot-blackin’ taught by
Professor Hunter.”
The evening was so far advanced that Dick decided to postpone copying
his letter till the next evening. By this time he had come to have a
very fair handwriting, so that when the letter was complete it really
looked quite creditable, and no one would have suspected that it was
Dick’s first attempt in this line. Our hero surveyed it with no little
complacency. In fact, he felt rather proud of it, since it reminded him
of the great progress he had made. He carried it down to the
post-office, and deposited it with his own hands in the proper box.
Just on the steps of the building, as he was coming out, he met Johnny
Nolan, who had been sent on an errand to Wall Street by some gentleman,
and was just returning.
“What are you doin’ down here, Dick?” asked Johnny.
“I’ve been mailin’ a letter.”
“Who sent you?”
“Nobody.”
“I mean, who writ the letter?”
“I wrote it myself.”
“Can you write letters?” asked Johnny, in amazement.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“I didn’t know you could write. I can’t.”
“Then you ought to learn.”
“I went to school once; but it was too hard work, so I give it up.”
“You’re lazy, Johnny,—that’s what’s the matter. How’d you ever expect
to know anything, if you don’t try?”
“I can’t learn.”
“You can, if you want to.”
Johnny Nolan was evidently of a different opinion. He was a
good-natured boy, large of his age, with nothing particularly bad about
him, but utterly lacking in that energy, ambition, and natural
sharpness, for which Dick was distinguished. He was not adapted to
succeed in the life which circumstances had forced upon him; for in the
street-life of the metropolis a boy needs to be on the alert, and have
all his wits about him, or he will find himself wholly distanced by his
more enterprising competitors for popular favor. To succeed in his
profession, humble as it is, a boot-black must depend upon the same
qualities which gain success in higher walks in life. It was easy to
see that Johnny, unless very much favored by circumstances, would never
rise much above his present level. For Dick, we cannot help hoping much
better things.