Part 44 (1/2)

It was now noon, and Ralph felt hungry. He walked along until he came to a clean-looking restaurant, which he entered, and called for the regular dinner, at thirty cents. He ate all that was placed before him, with keen relish.

While at the table he reflected upon his situation, and came to the conclusion that his duty was to write to his mother, telling her of all that had happened. He would also ask her to see Bill Franchard and pay him the money due for boat hire, and tell him all, so that he might start on a search for his missing boat.

”Then I'll wait till I see Mr. Kelsey and get his advice as to what to do next,” he thought. ”Perhaps he'll see through his mystery, even if I do not.”

Close to the restaurant Ralph found a stationery store, at which he purchased a sheet of paper and an envelope.

”Will you kindly allow me to write a letter here?” he asked.

”Certainly,” replied the clerk. ”You will find pen and ink at the desk in the rear.”

It took Ralph some little time to compose his letter--he had so much to say--and when he had finished, the sheet was crowded from the first page to the last. He sent his love to his mother, and told her to address him at the general post office.

Ralph's next move was to take his letter to the post office and stamp and mail it. This took nearly half an hour, but the boy enjoyed the trip to the big Government building, and was astonished to note on what a large scale the metropolitan post-office business was conducted.

”This beats the Westville post office all to bits,” he murmured to himself.

”Mr. Hooker would cut a mighty small figure here, no matter how important he is at home.”

The letter mailed, Ralph felt better. It would relieve his mother of much anxiety, and clear up the mystery concerning his strange disappearance.

”s.h.i.+ne yer shoes, boss?”

It was the inquiry of a ragged bootblack standing just outside of the post office building.

”What's that?” asked Ralph.

”s.h.i.+ne yer shoes? Make 'em look like a lookin'-gla.s.s, boss.”

Ralph glanced down at his shoes, and saw that they were decidedly in need of brus.h.i.+ng up.

”What do you charge?” he asked.

”Five fer a regular, an' ten fer an oil finish.”

”I cannot afford more than five. Go ahead and do the best you can for that.”

”All right, boss, I'll give yer a good one.”

The boy dropped on his knees in an angle of the building, and put out his little box before him. In a second he was hard at work with a well-worn whiskbroom, brus.h.i.+ng the dirt from the bottom of Ralph's trousers.

”How do you like s.h.i.+ning shoes?” questioned Ralph, curiously.

”Don't like it, boss,” was the truthful reply. ”No, sir. But a feller has got ter do somethin' fer a livin'--or starve.”

”And you can't get anything else to do?”

”Nixy. I've tried a hundred times, but it wasn't no go--all the stores and shops is so crowded.”

”That is too bad.”