“Sure I have, and I want you to read it,” with which Lanky produced a long slip of paper, about three columns of newspaper matter.
Frank let his eye run along it hastily; but he had a faculty for gleaning all the points of a story almost at a glance. Some of the boys declared that Frank Allen would make a great reporter; but then there were many other positions in life in which he could make his mark, if half they said of him were true.
“Well, it’s an interesting story, I see,” he remarked; “and I hope that the poor mother, Mrs. Elverson, has found her little Effie long ago. For I notice that this is cut from a paper that’s two months and more old, Lanky.”
“That’s right, Frank,” the other answered, promptly.
“This account tells of how the nurse took the little girl out walking and never turned up again,” Frank went on to say.
“Just what it does, Frank, and I know what you’ve got on your mind.”
“They traced her to the train, and she set out for another city not far away, where the detectives lost the trail; and although a week had gone by when this account was printed, not a single thing had they learned. The nurse had disappeared just as if the ground had opened and swallowed her up, this reporter says.”
“His words, just like you say, Frank,” admitted Lanky, nodding his head encouragingly.
“But, Lanky, from start to finish of this story there isn’t a single mention of gypsies,” Frank continued.
“Huh, not a peep, sure’s you’re born, Frank.”