OFF FOR THE WEST
Larry was fairly scrambling into his coat, which he seldom wore around
the office. He caught up his hat, and jabbed a bunch of copy paper, for
notes, into his pocket.
“A letter from the stolen boy,” repeated the city editor.
“That’s what Madame Androletti says. It just came, by mail, and she
called me up at once. Say, it may be a good clew, and it may pan out to
be nothing; but it’s a story, anyhow!”
“That’s so,” agreed Mr. Emberg. “Get right after it, Larry, and
telephone in, to catch the last edition.”
“I will!” cried the young reporter as he hurried from the city room.
All the way up in the subway to Madame Androletti’s house, Larry was
thinking of what might be the outcome of the new clew. He had not asked
many questions over the wire for two reasons: One was that he wanted to
have a personal talk with the singer as soon as possible, and the other
was the fear that some listening ear on the maze of telephone wires
might catch the secret, and “tip off” some newspaper. Larry was very
cautious when it came to exclusive stories.
Goegi, the maid, admitted him to the apartments of the singer. Larry
found Madame Androletti much excited.
“Oh, I am so glad you are here!” she cried, shaking hands with the
young reporter. “It seems an age since I telephoned you. I think we are
on the right track at last.”
“Have you really a letter from your son?” asked Larry. “Are you sure it
is from him? Is it not some terrible joke?”
“It is the handwriting of Lorenzo,” said the singer with a happy smile
on her face, as she held out a scrap of paper. “I would know his
writing among a thousand, and, besides, he uses a pet name for me that
no one else would ever think of. Oh, it is from dear Lorenzo, surely
enough. And now to find him. Where do you think he is?”
“I haven’t the least idea,” said Larry.
“Away out West. Among the cowboys and Indians!”
“Cowboys and Indians!” exclaimed the reporter.
“Yes, I’m sure there must be buffaloes out there, too, for I have
looked up the place on a map, and there is a city called Buffalo, not
far from where my dear, lost boy posted this letter. Oh, I have read of
your terrible Indians; and your cowboys, the brave fellows! If they
have my son he is sure to be safe.”
“But in what part of the West is he?” asked Larry. “There are not many
Indians left in this country. Of course there are plenty of cowboys,
but the buffaloes are about exterminated. Where is Lorenzo?”
“Here is the letter!” exclaimed the anxious mother. “The postmark on
the envelope is Detroit.”
“Detroit! In Michigan!” cried Larry. “Near the dividing point between
Lake Huron and Lake Erie. So they have taken him out to the Great
Lakes’ region. Well, it is something to know where to start to look for
him.”
“The lakes! The lakes!” murmured the singer. “Do you think they took
him there to----”
She did not finish.
“Now don’t worry!” exclaimed Larry heartily. “He is in no danger from
those lakes, any more than he would be from the waters around New York.”
“But the Indians! The buffaloes! Will the cowboys be able to save him
from them?”
“All the Indians and cowboys in Detroit are in the theaters, or
moving-picture plays,” said Larry, with a laugh. “As for the buffaloes,
there aren’t any. But let me read the letter.”
Quickly he took it from the envelope. It was but a single sheet of
paper, evidently torn from some parcel, for it was creased and worn.
It began:
“Dear Andyetti:”
“That’s his pet name for me,” said the fond mother. “It’s a sort of
mannish name, and when--when his dear father died, I had to be both
parents to him. That’s how we made up the name.”
“I see,” spoke Larry softly.
Then he went on with the letter.
“Oh, how I miss you. A bad man took me away. We came far in the
train. He got me in the theater. I tried many times to write to
you, but they stopped me. Now I am in a big city, in a little
room. It is not in a nice place. From my window I can see big
chimneys, and not much else. I do not like the things they give
me to eat. They are bad to me. Oh, when will you come for me? I
am writing this with a little bit of pencil I have saved for a
long time. I am going to throw it out of the window, and I hope
some good person will pick it up and mail it to you.
“I have no money, not even a postage stamp. I will make an
envelope of some of this wrapping paper, and stick it together
with paste made from some bread crumbs.
“Oh, Andyetti, how I want you! Come and get me!”
“Your LORENZO.”
Larry’s eyes were moist as he finished reading the childish letter. And
yet it was not so childish, either. It was as full of grief as if a man
had penciled it, for the boy was wise beyond his years, having had a
good education, and being naturally bright.
“Well, what do you think?” cried Madame Androletti, as Larry finished
reading the letter.
“I think it is from your boy,” he said slowly, “and that he is held
captive in Detroit.”
“Can you find him?”
“That’s another question. I’m going to make a big try. I’ll start West
at once.”
“But is not Detroit a big city? How can you find him in a big place?”
“By searching. I’ll go down in the tenement district, and look for a
place where I can see big chimneys. Probably there are a number of such
locations--factory districts--but by keeping at it I will find him.”
“Unless they take him away again. They have evidently been traveling
with him about the country.”
“Yes,” admitted Larry. “Well, I’ll get on the trail as soon as I can.
Where is the envelope in which this came?”
The singer handed it to him. It was rudely made, and yet with a certain
childish skill. Folded from a piece of the same paper on which the
pleading note was written! Pasted together with water and bread
crumbs! The postmark was clearly Detroit.
“How do you imagine he mailed it?” asked the mother.
“He must have simply addressed it, and tossed it out of the window,”
spoke Larry. “Some one picked it up, and kindly placed a stamp on it,
for it is clear that your son had none.”
“That is so. Oh, if I but knew who mailed it I would reward them!”
“I may find out when I go West,” said the young reporter. “How did you
get the letter?”
“It came to me with much other mail, that had been forwarded from the
music hall. That was my last business address. Lorenzo remembered it,
brave little chap!”
“And a good thing he did, though I guess if a letter had been marked
merely with your name it would have reached you, since you are quite a
celebrity since this--this happened.”
“Yes, unfortunately. Oh, but if I can get Lorenzo back, I will never
let him out of my sight again!”
Once more Larry read the letter and looked at the envelope. He could
see, in fancy, what had happened. The stolen boy, in his lonely room,
a captive, had managed to get hold of a stump of pencil and a scrap of
paper. Then he had written his tearful message, and dropped it out of a
window, hoping against hope he must have been that it would be picked
up and mailed.
“And I wonder where he is now?” thought Larry. “Have they kept him in
Detroit, or have they crossed the lakes, and gone into Canada with him?
Oh, if I could only locate and rescue him!”
“You say you will go West?” asked Madame Androletti eagerly.
“At once!” exclaimed Larry. “I’ll leave for Detroit to-night, and I’ll
do all I can to find your son, and the men who have him.”
“Never mind those men! Get me back Lorenzo!” she pleaded.
Larry began to make hasty plans. First of all he must telephone in the
story. This he did from a ’phone in the room of the singer, describing
the letter, and dictating it over the wire.
“Another ‘beat,’” mused Larry, as he hung up the receiver of the
instrument. “They are coming thick and fast. I only hope I don’t fall
down on the big one--when I get the stolen boy!”
The clew he had to work on was slender indeed. Merely that the stolen
boy was in Detroit, and Detroit was no small city in which to search.
“But I’ll find him!” cried Larry. “I’ll find him if it takes a year of
searching!”
“Well,” asked the city editor, as the young reporter again entered the
office of the _Leader_, “what do you think of it?”
“Lots; I’m going West at once. I think I’m on the right trail at last.
I’ll get that boy--or help the police to do the trick!”