The man who had been the first to give information then spoke up.
“Sir,” he said, “I have a fairly good motorboat at the McGregor landing. It will be a pleasure for me to do anything I can to help you.”
“Thank you a thousand times. Let’s get off at once. My name is Charles Esmond.”
“And mine,” returned the other, “is John Dolan.” The two, as they made their way to the motorboat, shook hands.
“This is awfully kind of you,” continued Mr. Esmond, as he seated himself in the prow.
“It’s a pleasure, I assure you. I’ve really nothing to do at this season, and so I pass most of my time on the river.”
As he spoke these words, the boat shot out into the water.
“Now,” continued Mr. Dolan, “as a working hypothesis, we may take it for granted that those boys went to Pictured Rocks; everybody goes there. So we’ll make for that place and reach it, I dare say, in six or seven minutes.”
“I hope nothing has happened,” said the father. “This morning my wife had a bad sick headache, and Clarence was overflowing with animal spirits. We had promised him, the night before, a ride on the river and a swim. He had never been on the Mississippi, and he was all eagerness. To make matters worse, I got a telegram this morning to send on a report on a Mexican mine—it’s my business, by the way, to study mines here, in Mexico, and, in fact, almost anywhere. That report meant two or three hours of hard work. So I told Clarence to run out and get some good boatman, if he could, and go rowing. I cautioned him to be careful about where he went swimming and not to go in alone. He promised me faithfully to be back at twelve. Now I have no reason to think the boy would break his word. In fact, I had an idea that he was truthful.”
“You talk of your boy,” observed Mr. Dolan, “as though you didn’t know him very well.”