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[Illustration: LARRY FORCED THE MAN AGAINST THE WALL.--_Page 198_
_Larry Dexter and the Stolen Boy._]
LARRY DEXTER AND THE STOLEN BOY
OR
A YOUNG REPORTER ON THE LAKES
BY
HOWARD R. GARIS
AUTHOR OF “LARRY DEXTER’S GREAT SEARCH,” “LARRY DEXTER,
REPORTER,” “DICK HAMILTON’S FORTUNE,” “DICK HAMILTON’S
CADET DAYS,” “DICK HAMILTON’S FOOTBALL TEAM,” ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED_
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
BOOKS FOR BOYS
BY HOWARD R. GARIS
THE DICK HAMILTON SERIES
DICK HAMILTON’S FORTUNE
Or The Stirring Doings of a Millionaire’s Son.
DICK HAMILTON’S CADET DAYS
Or The Handicap of a Millionaire’s Son
DICK HAMILTON’S STEAM YACHT
Or A Young Millionaire and the Kidnappers
DICK HAMILTON’S FOOTBALL TEAM
Or A Young Millionaire on the Gridiron
(Other volumes in preparation)
_12mo. Cloth. Illustrated._
_Price, Per volume, 60 cents, postpaid._
THE YOUNG REPORTER SERIES
FROM OFFICE BOY TO REPORTER
Or The First Step In Journalism
LARRY DEXTER, THE YOUNG REPORTER
Or Strange Adventures in a Great City
LARRY DEXTER’S GREAT SEARCH
Or The Hunt for a Missing Millionaire
LARRY DEXTER AND THE BANK MYSTERY
Or A Young Reporter in Wall Street
LARRY DEXTER AND THE STOLEN BOY
Or A Young Reporter on the Lakes
_12mo. Cloth. Illustrated._
_Price, per volume, 40 cents, postpaid._
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Copyright, 1912, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP
_Larry Dexter and the Stolen Boy_
PREFACE
MY DEAR BOYS:
Most unexpected things happen to newspaper reporters. That is one
reason why, in spite of the hard work attached to the profession, so
many bright young lads like it. It was that way with Larry Dexter. It
was the unexpected that he was always looking for, and nearly always he
found it.
In this, the fifth book of “The Young Reporter Series,” I have related
for you something that happened when Larry unexpectedly went to a
concert. Before he knew it he was involved in a mystery that had to do
with a stolen boy.
How he promised the stricken mother to find her son for her, how he
picked up slender clews and followed them, how, seemingly beaten and
baffled, he still kept to the trail--all this I have set down for you
in this book as well as I knew how.
I hope it is not presuming too much to say that I trust you will like
this volume as well as you have my other books. Larry is a character to
be proud of, and I have tried to do him justice.
Yours sincerely,
HOWARD R. GARIS.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A FRIGHTENED SINGER 1
II. LARRY SCENTS A MYSTERY 12
III. A STOLEN BOY 19
IV. LARRY’S NEW ASSIGNMENT 27
V. SCOOPING THE “SCORCHER” 36
VI. A VISIT TO SEÑOR PARLOTI 43
VII. LARRY SEEKS CLEWS 52
VIII. A THREATENING LETTER 58
IX. A SUDDEN DISAPPEARANCE 70
X. THE TORN NOTE 79
XI. LARRY MEETS A FARMER 85
XII. THE LONELY HOUSE 92
XIII. THE RAID 100
XIV. WHAT HAPPENED 107
XV. A NEW CLEW 116
XVI. OFF FOR THE WEST 122
XVII. ON THE LAKES 129
XVIII. THE DESERTED ROOM 137
XIX. CRUISING ABOUT 146
XX. CUT ADRIFT 156
XXI. IN THE GRIP OF THE STORM 162
XXII. ANOTHER ACCIDENT 169
XXIII. “MOTORBOAT AHOY!” 177
XXIV. THE CHASE 182
XXV. A HAPPY MOTHER--CONCLUSION 193
LARRY DEXTER AND THE STOLEN BOY
CHAPTER I
A FRIGHTENED SINGER
“Hello, Larry, just the chap I want to see!” greeted Paul Rosberg,
one of the oldest reporters on the New York _Leader_, as a tall,
good-looking young fellow came into the city room one September
afternoon. “I’ve been hoping you’d show up.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Larry Dexter, the “star” man on the
_Leader_, when it came to solving strange cases and mysteries. “Do
you want the loan of five dollars, or has your typewriter gone out of
commission?”
“Neither,” replied Paul Rosberg, with a smile, though he knew Larry
would oblige him were it necessary. For Larry Dexter had a natural
talent for machinery, and often adjusted the “balky” typewriters
of his fellow reporters. Also, he would lend them cash when they
were temporarily embarrassed, not to say broke. For Larry had made
considerable money of late, especially in solving the big bank mystery,
and he was always willing and ready to lend to his less fortunate
brethren.
“Then, if it isn’t either one of those things, I can’t imagine what it
is,” went on the young reporter, as he sat down at his desk. The city
room was nearly vacant, all the other reporters having gone home. For
the last edition of the _Leader_ was off the presses, and work for the
day was over, the sheet being an afternoon one.
“I want you to do me a favor,” went on Mr. Rosberg, who was
considerably older than Larry, and, as he spoke the man began reaching
in his various pockets as if searching for something. “You haven’t
anything on for to-night, have you?”
“No, I’ve been out on a Sunday special story, and I’ve cleaned it up.
It didn’t take me as long as I expected, so I thought I’d come back to
the office to see if Mr. Emberg had anything else for me.”
“You’re too conscientious Larry; altogether too fussy,” spoke his
companion. “But I’m tickled to pieces that you did come in. I was
hoping you, or some of the other obliging lads would, for I’m stuck
on a night assignment that I don’t want, and it comes at a bad time.
There, cover that for me, will you?”
He handed Larry two slips of pasteboard, theater tickets, as was
evident at first glance.
“Hum!” mused Larry as he looked at them. “Farewell appearance of Madame
Androletti, eh? I wonder how many ‘farewell’ appearances she’s had?
This must be about the forty-ninth. She’ll soon finish up at this
rate. ‘Grand concert and musicale,’” he went on reading. “Musicale
with a final ‘e’ no less. In the new Music Hall, to-night, too. I say,
Mr. Rosberg, what does it mean, anyhow? Do you want me to go to this
concert with you?”
“No, Larry, I want you to cover it for me. Report it, if you like
that better. Say, look here, old man” (Larry was not an old man by
any means, but the term was used as a friendly one), “this is my
wedding anniversary to-night, and I promised my little lady that I’d
come home early to a supper celebration she’s gotten up. Then, at
the last minute, the editor wants me to cover this concert. Seems as
though Madame Androletti has some pull with the paper, and wants a
representative at her concert, though I don’t see why the morning paper
reporters wouldn’t do as well.
“But, as you know, I’ve been doing theatricals and musicales for this
sheet for some time, and they want me to cover this. Not that I need
to do it personally, but they expect me to look after it. Now, I don’t
want to go, and that’s why I’m asking you to cover it for me.”
“But look here!” cried Larry, lamely accepting the tickets which the
other held out. “I don’t know anything about music. That is, not enough
to report a concert. I like it, and all that, but I don’t know how
to grind out that stuff about high notes, coloratura work, placement,
ensemble, vocal range, and all that sort of thing, that I see in your
accounts of musical doings every once in a while. I’d make a mess of
it.”
“That’s all right, Larry,” spoke the musical critic. “I’ve thought
of that. I’ll do all the fancy ‘word-slinging.’ I’ll write the story
to-morrow morning. All I want you to do is to go there and bring me
back a program. You can ask the leader of the orchestra if it was
carried out. He’ll jot down the names of any extra numbers the madame
may have sung as encores. Then it will be up to me. I know nearly all
the concert pieces anyhow, and I can fix up an account.
“Just you keep your eyes open, size up the crowd, watch how the lady
sings, get me a few notes about her bouquets and all that, and I’ll
do the rest. It won’t be the first time I’ve written about a concert
without being there.”
“But,” objected Larry, “I won’t know whether she’s singing good, bad or
indifferent.”
“No trouble about that,” spoke the other. “Madame Androletti always
sings well. I’ve heard her.”
“But won’t Mr. Emberg object?” asked Larry, naming the city editor.
“No, I’ve fixed it with him. I asked him if I couldn’t get some one to
cover the concert for me, on account of my celebration to-night, and
he said it was up to me. So I’ve drawn you. Pshaw, Larry, it’s easy!
Anybody who can solve a million-dollar bank mystery the way you did,
can surely cover a simple concert.”
“But it’s so different,” objected the young reporter.
“Not at all. It just needs common sense. Go ahead now, cover it for
me,” and with this Mr. Rosberg hurried out of the room, leaving Larry
standing there, holding the two concert tickets.
“Take some one with you--your best girl,” the older reporter called
back, and he caught the elevator, and rapidly descended to the street.
“Well, I guess I’m in for it,” mused Larry, as he looked at the tickets
in his hand. They were choice seats, he noted, and, had he been obliged
to buy them, they would have cost five dollars. That was one advantage
of being a reporter.
“Take my girl with me,” went on the young reporter. “Well, why not? I
wonder if Molly Mason wouldn’t like to go?” and Larry’s thoughts went
to the pretty department-store clerk, who had helped him solve the
million-dollar bank mystery. “I’ll call her on the ’phone. She can’t
have left the store yet,” he went on. A few minutes later he listened
to her rapturous acceptance.
“Oh, Larry!” she exclaimed, “of course I’ll be _delighted_ to go. I’ve
just got a new dress, and, oh, it’s awfully nice of you to ask me, I’m
sure.”
“I’m being nice to myself,” answered Larry. “All right; I’ll call for
you about eight.”
And so that was how, a few hours afterward, Larry rolled up to the
modest apartment house where Molly Mason lived, the young reporter
arriving in a taxicab.
“Oh, what luxurious extravagance!” exclaimed Molly, as she sank down on
the cushions. “Why did you do it?”
“Oh, as long as I’m going to report a swell concert I might as well do
it in style,” replied Larry. “I hope you’ll like it.”
“Oh, I know I shall!” she exclaimed.
An usher showed them to their seats. The hall was beginning to fill,
and Larry and his companion looked around curiously, not that Larry was
not used to the members of “swell” society, for his duties had often
taken him among them, and he had come to have rather a common regard
for that class of persons.
But to Miss Mason it was a dream of delight, as, on her slender wages,
she seldom got a chance to attend expensive amusements, for she had to
help support her family. The audience was a rich as well as cultivated
one, as Larry soon saw.
“There, I forgot to get programs!” he exclaimed, after he and Molly
were comfortably seated. “I’ll go back and get a couple. I won’t be a
minute.”
She nodded brightly, and resumed her gaze about the rapidly-filling
theater. From the depths back of, and under the stage, could be heard
the mysterious, and always thrilling, sounds of the orchestra tuning
up.
As Larry picked up two programs from the table in the lobby he saw a
tall, large man, conspicuous in a dress suit, with some sort of ribbon
decoration pinned to the lapel of his coat, enter the rear of the
auditorium. The man stood gazing down over the heads of the audience
with sharp and piercing eyes, that seemed to take in every detail. He
looked to be a foreigner, an Italian, most likely.
“Some count or marquis,” thought Larry as he looked at the man’s
decoration, noting that it was a foreign one. “It’s queer how they like
to tog themselves out in ribbons and such things.”
The young reporter was about to return to his seat with the programs
when he noticed two young Italians in one of the rear rows of the hall.
They had turned, and were gazing at the large man in the dress suit.
Most of the men in the audience were similarly attired, but the two
Italians in the rear, though well dressed, did not have on the clothes
that fashion has decreed for such affairs.
It was, therefore, somewhat to Larry’s surprise, that he saw the
evidently titled and cultured foreigner make an unmistakable signal to
the two men. The big man raised his right hand to his right cheek,
with the fingers and thumb spread out. He held it there a moment,
and, taking it away, brought it back again, as though to indicate the
numeral ten.
As Larry watched, he saw the taller of the two men hold up one finger.
Apparently satisfied, the big man turned aside, and approached an usher.
“At what time does Madame Androletti make her appearance to-night?” he
asked, with a foreign accent.
“At nine, first, and then at ten,” was the answer, and Larry was at
once struck with the answer. The singer came on at ten, and ten was the
numeral the big man had signaled to the others. What could it mean?
Larry wondered.
“Very good,” answered the foreigner, as he turned aside, and went out
into the lobby, with a hasty glance toward the two in the rear seats.
Larry saw them both nod their heads.
“Well, I don’t know that it concerns me,” mused the young reporter, as
he returned to his seat. “It looks rather odd, but I guess I’ve got so
that I’m looking for mysteries in everything. I’ve got to get out of
the habit.”
He looked at the program, after handing Molly one, and noted that the
cause for the long wait between the two appearances of the singer
was because of a heavy orchestral number coming in between her first
and second selections. After that she was to sing several songs in
succession.
“I’m going to watch when she comes on at ten,” said Larry to himself.
The concert soon began, with an overture, and Larry found himself
enjoying it, even though he knew little about classical harmony. Molly
was in raptures, for she had a natural taste for music that Larry
lacked, and she had taken a number of piano lessons.
“It’s grand!” she whispered to him.
Madame Androletti came on for her first number, being loudly applauded.
Larry made some notes, that he might give Mr. Rosberg an intelligent
account of the affair, and then gave himself up to the rapture of the
music.
The orchestral number followed, and then, as the hour of ten
approached, Larry found himself wondering what would happen. The
musicians tuned their instruments for what was to be one of the chief
vocal numbers, and there was a hush of expectancy.
The curtains and draperies parted and Madame Androletti came on again,
bowing with pleasure at the applause. Larry found himself watching her
curiously. Then he turned and cast a hasty glance to where the two
strange men had been seated. They had left the hall.
“That’s strange,” mused Larry, and then turned back, for the singer was
beginning her song, her exquisite voice filling the big auditorium.
She had not sung half a dozen words, throwing into them all the
dramatic force of which she was capable, before Larry, who was watching
her closely, saw a strange change come over her.
She stepped back, evidently in fear, and then her hands went up over
her eyes, as though to shut out some terrifying sight. At first the
audience thought it was all part of her acting--though the song did
not call for that sort of stage “business.”
A moment later, however, showed the mistake. For Madame Androletti
ceased singing, and the strains of the orchestra came to an end with a
sudden crash.
The singer cried out something in Italian. What it was Larry did not
know, but he could tell, by her tones, that she was frightened.
An instant later she swayed, and she would have fallen to the stage had
not her maid and her manager sprung from the wings and caught her.
“Curtain!” Larry heard the manager call quickly, and the big sheet of
asbestos slid slowly down. The audience was in an uproar, though a
subdued one, and there was no sign of panic.
“She’s fainted!” was whispered on all sides.
Before the curtain was fully down Larry looked under it, and he had a
glimpse of the eyes of the stricken singer peering out. And there was
fright in them--deadly fright.
Like a flash Larry turned and looked back of him, for it was at some
distant point in the hall that Madame Androletti was gazing.
The young reporter saw, standing at the head of an aisle that led
directly to the center of the stage, the decorated foreigner who had
signaled to the two men the hour of ten. And it was but a little past
that now.
This man stood there in plain view, his eyes fixed on the slowly
falling curtain that was hiding the frightened singer from view, and on
his face was a mocking smile. Then he turned and walked slowly from the
place. No one but Larry seemed to have noted him, as the eyes of all
others were turned on the stage.
“Oh, what was it?” gasped Molly Mason, clinging to Larry’s arm.
“Something has happened! She must be ill!”
“I think she has fainted,” said a lady sitting next to Larry’s
companion. “Singers often do so from stress of emotion, or from the
heat and strain. She has only fainted. She will probably be all right
in a little while.”
The orchestra, in answer to a signal from the conductor had swung into
a gay number. The curtain had fallen, concealing what was going on
behind it.
“It was a faint--just a faint,” every one was saying.
But Larry Dexter thought:
“It was more than a faint. If ever there was deadly fear on a woman’s
face, it was on hers. There’s something going on here that the audience
knows nothing about, and I’m going to have a try at it. That big man,
and those two others are in it, too, I’ll wager. Maybe I’ve stumbled on
something more than just an assignment to cover a concert.”
After events were soon to prove Larry Dexter was right.