“I guess you and all the policemen in New York must be, to have such goings-on,” said Mr. Randall. “This boy is kidnapped, I tell you.”
“Kidnapped, is it?” murmured the officer; “wait a minute, I have some sort of a report about a kidnapped lad.”
From his helmet the policeman drew out a paper. He began reading over a description of a number of missing persons whom the police had been asked, by their relatives, to help locate. Larry’s case having been reported by Mr. Newton, had, in the course of the routine, been related to every officer in the city, from their different station houses.
“Here we are,” the policeman exclaimed. “Fox terrier, answers to the name—no, that’s about a lost dog. Oh, this is it—Larry Dexter, fifteen years old, rather tall, blue eyes, brown hair, etc.”
“That’s me!” cried Larry. “How can I get home quickest?”
“Come with me,” the officer said.
He led the way through a number of streets, until they came to a lonely trolley car that had reached the end of its route. Into this the officer, Larry, and the old gentleman got, and soon they were under full speed.
“I’ll take you to the station house, so I can make a report of you having been found,” said the officer, “and then you can go home. Well, this is a good piece of work.”
“You don’t think I’m a burglar now, do you?” asked Larry of Mr. Randall.
“No, no,” said the old man hastily. “That was all a mistake.”